Life in the slowest lane.

I Think We're Alone Now.

2012-02-12T21:01:00.003-07:00

I often find true tales of obsession much more unsettling than larger-than-life horror films, which is why nightly, since watching this film last weekend, I have been checking in my closet and under my bed for creepy middle-aged men that don't blink enough.

~sarah p.

The "Breakfast Belt": An Unwarranted Rant.

2012-02-05T15:04:00.014-07:00

"Just give me all of the bacon and eggs you have. Wait, wait, I worry what you just heard was, ‘Give me a lot of bacon and eggs.’ What I said was, ‘Give me ALL the bacon and eggs you have.’ Do you understand?”- Ron Swanson, Parks & Recreation (Thursdays on NBC!)

Call me cynical, but I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that the tiny, dirty neighbourhood where I grew up, on the not-so-nice side of downtown, is now overrun by trendy breakfast joints. Now, I am not a morning person, nor a person that eats breakfast on a regular basis, but I do believe that you need some solid first-hand experience in order to be a good complainer. Thus, I have tried most of these establishments at some point, and I have yet to taste something that merits the massive lineups out the door (even on the occasional weekday?), or the general pretentiousness of the whole experience. Tell me, what was so wrong with Denny's in the first place? Actually, never mind. Don't even bother answering that question.

Also, don't even get me started on the new trend between these places- breakfast poutine.
If my daily caloric intake allowed it, I would eat a diet entirely composed of penny candy and toaster pastries, and even I am a little disgusted at the excessiveness of poutine as a morning dish.

Give me eggs. Give me bacon. But give them to me after 11AM, without a lineup and an attitude.
...Also, fresh coffee. That would be a nice touch.

~sarah p.

Day Off.

2012-01-30T11:20:00.010-07:00

Instead of waking up early and trudging up to work today, I took the day off. I have not been handling stress very well lately, as displayed by my never-ending head colds and desperate need to come home from work every Friday night and hibernate in a fort of blankets and sadness until Monday morning. I really needed an extra day to relax and get my head on straight.

On a normal Monday, I pick up a coffee about halfway to work, and drink it in a hurry so that I'm alert and ready to hit the ground running upon my arrival. This morning, I made coffee at 11-ish, a full hour after I woke up, and drank the whole pot slowly while I watched a show about killer jellyfish (they exist?!).

At this time on a usual weekday, I am trying to juggle paperwork and conversations with homeless kids about how to get rid of scabies. Today, rather, I gave the dog a bath.

Also, I took some time and got lost in the vast world of celebrity gossip on the internet. Here are a few things I learned this morning:

1) Those of us who enjoy sad-ish Will Ferrell movies have already watched 'Everything Must Go', but did you know that the fat, nerdy kid in that movie was Christopher "Biggie" Wallace's eldest son? It's true! This flick was alright, but I'm more of a "Will Ferrel making bad career choices" fan... I always make an effort to catch 'Kicking and Screaming' when it's on YTV, because there's something magical about watching Will Ferrell in a soccer movie about trying to coach a team of misfit assholes that can't play soccer at all. Of course he's not a good coach. Come on, you guys.
2) Elvis was a natural blonde.
3) "I'd take out a joint and light it. First, just faking it. Then I started lighting live joints, passing them around to the band, you know. I was great, it relieved all my tensions. And I ended up with the greatest supply of grass ever. Other acts up and down the Strip heard about what I was doing - Little Anthony and the Imperials, people like that - and started sending me the best dope in the world. I never ran out." -Barbra fucking Streisand
4) Steely Dan was once called 'Leather Canary' (grrrreat band name), and Chevy Chase was their drummer.
5) Aerosmith's 'Dude Looks Like A Lady' was written about Vince Neil. Ha!

It's back to the grind tomorrow, but today I will try to make pumpkin pancakes later in the afternoon. Or french toast... I'm not typically a fan of eating in the mornings, and today I'm not bound by the regular weekday mealtimes.
Fuck it. I'm on vacation for another eighteen hours. I might not even clean up the kitchen until tomorrow.

(Just kidding, I'm totally OCD about a clean kitchen. That shit will be tidy to-night).

xo

Your pal,

~sarah p.

30.

2012-01-20T18:53:00.010-07:00

For my 30th birthday, I ate a candy apple (the red kind) fresh from Banff, and twelve assorted oysters. Like the great majority of Caucasians nowadays, I typically rigorously photograph all of my meal choices, but there was no chance with the platter of oysters- they were inhaled the moment they were placed in front of me. I took a fair amount of Ativan. I received the most wonderful spotted calf hair ankle boots. I ate fried chicken, and had my best friend over for a pity party.
My worst nightmare came true, and it was much less traumatizing than I could've ever imagined.
I am thirty years old. Try and stop me, world.

~sarah p.

p.s. Dylan says that the only type of music I enjoy is wuss music, and so be it. I spent most of my birthday iTunes cash on Blood Orange tracks. Not only is Devonté Hynes basically the most attractive human being ever (right along side DeVante Swing of Jodeci fame, circa 1994... What is it about that name?), but I have been very active in working on my own relaxation as of late, and songs that sound like Prince taking a surf holiday can really aid in the process. That, and baths. Lots and lots of baths.

Year Of The Hot Dog.

2012-01-16T21:07:00.006-07:00

I feel like 2012 is going to be the year that I'm going to enjoy hot dogs at least as much, if not more, than I enjoy tacos. Why does everyone giggle like a school girl when I say that?
Grow up, you guys.

~sarah p.

Resolution.

2012-01-09T20:32:00.011-07:00

This year I did something I have never been able to achieve in the past: I made a New Year's Resolution, and I stuck to it. Not only did I stick to it, I completed it only six days into the new year.

For 2012, I told myself, I wanted to get a dog.

This is Reggie. He lives at our house now. He's seven years old, and he has made himself right at home along side our senior cat, Louise.

We are running a small animal retirement home, and it's totally awesome.

I turn thirty on Saturday. I hope I get hit by a bus before then.

~sarah p.

p.s. Just kidding about the bus thing (but only kind-of). I hope I get some awesome magazine subscriptions, along with a little peace and quiet, for my birthday. Wish me luck.

p.p.s. Today, I got up at 8AM, happily, to take little Reggie for a walk. Before Reggie, I could hardly drag my ass out of bed at 9AM because I HATE MORNINGS SO MUCH. This little guy must be magical or something, because, despite my early rise, I was hardly even a horrible jerk today. It's supposed to snow tomorrow, so I can't say I'll be as chipper when I wake, but still... Progress!

Make It Last Forever.

2012-01-02T20:49:00.007-07:00

Man, I would not be upset if the last couple of days never, ever ended.
The reckless consumption of lobster, the time spent with my delightful nephews, and the long, magically-scented baths where I listened to 'Cruel Summer' over and over and over until I wrinkled into a lazy little prune... I could go on this way forever.

Tomorrow I am back at work, and it is going to be a rough day.
Happy 2012.

xo

~sarah p.

p.s. As a child, I came across a mix of Larry Levan's in a box in a dusty record store, and my entire view on music changed. The above track was one of the most unique I had ever come across, and the songs on the album looped into one another in beautiful ways I had never heard. I fell in love with nasty bass lines, disco jumpsuits, and dudes with Jheri Curls at the age of nine, and never I looked back.

White Christmas? No Thanks.

2011-12-25T11:40:00.008-07:00

As a true Calgarian, there is nothing I love more in the entire world than a brown Christmas. It's supposed to be +8C this afternoon! There is something so wonderful about looking out the window and seeing melted, dirty remnants of snow with dead grass underneath. It is a very special gift to be able to forget, even if just for one day, that we still have five months of horrible, depressing winter weather left... Santa must've really been looking out for me this year.

Now I'm off to my mom's house to hammer down thirty shortbread cookies and half a gallon of eggnog. Have a good holiday, guys.
xoxo

~sarah p.

p.s. On last night's brand new episode of Lockup: Raw (Christmas Eve Edition?), the inmates were wearing all-red jumpsuits with big white buttons. I'm not sure if MSNBC played that particular episode on purpose or not, but it was just adorable to see prisoners dressed up like little criminal Santas nonetheless.

Sundance.

2011-12-18T19:36:00.014-07:00

At this time of year, my work is very busy, and my lunches, if they exist at all, are minuscule and rushed. Wednesday's lunch hour, I had to run off to Safeway, where I bought a pre-packaged lunch of hummus, crackers, trail mix, and some sort of couscous salad... I buy these packages once in a while, mostly when I need a break from my usual "cookies and donuts" lunch, in an attempt to feel healthy, or when need to feel a little smug about my diet. I distinctly recall the couscous salad tasting a little too vinegary, but I had no time to dwell on the details... I had to get back to work! I should also note that, despite the smart lunch, the (less than sanitary) teens at my work baked cookies and I probably ate seven throughout the afternoon.

On Wednesday night, I came home from work and had a bath. Halfway through the bath, I started to feel hungry and full at the same time, hot and cold at the same time, and totally, totally unwell. At first I thought I recognized the feeling as being way, way too hungry- a feeling that had a certain familiarity from my tragic teenager days where I would skip lunch in an attempt to impress the cool, eating-disordery girls that hung out in the smoke pit. After half a carton of blackberries, I knew I wasn't famished- it was food poisoning. I don't know if it was the couscous, or the cookies, but I was about to go on a unstoppable psychotropic journey of illness.

After throwing up for about six hours straight, I was attempting to get up off the floor when I started feeling tingly. Next thing I knew, I woke up on the bathroom floor, my head narrowly missing both the claw-foot tub and porcelain sink. I had never passed out before. It was weird.
Dylan was in Vancouver, so I was all alone, so I did the most un-independent thing I have done since I moved out of the house at the age of seventeen: I picked up the phone at 3AM and called my mom to come over and help me. I was too weak to lift a spoon, so she fed me ice chips and helped me off the floor of the bathroom several more times, well into the early hours of the morning. Mother of the year, that woman.

I took the next two days off of work. The first day, I floated from the couch to my bed. I ate three popsicles and drank a bottle of water, took several tabs of Gravol, and generally prayed for the sweet release of death. The second day, I was back in my sick day groove. I read magazines, ate freeze pops, attempted (fairly unsuccessfully) to introduce solid food back into my diet, and, of course, took more Gravol. I watched several episodes of Maury, and tried to count how many times a guest called him "Murray" by accident (at least three). I was feeling better, but I was still weak.

Now, I'm not one of those preachy anti-pharmaceutical people. If I'm sick, drug me up. Hell, double-drug me up. Whatever gets me through. Sometimes, this slightly backfires on me, and after two straight days of regular doses, I was a bit of a mildly-hallucinating zombie.... A non-nauseous zombie, that is.
I laid down, in a Gravol-induced stupor, in the late afternoon. I fell asleep with the TV on softly in the background. I drifted in and out of consciousness, wrapped in blankets on the sofa, and had filthy dreams of being spanked by James Spader. I awoke to the credits of 'Secretary' scrolling across the TV screen.
I fell back asleep, and dreamed of a man comprised of the combined body mass recently lost by Seth Rogan and Jonah Hill (Jeth Hogan?). He was a pretty cool guy. I woke again, as 'Funny People' was in it's closing scenes.

Point is, we have been getting Sundance Channel for free all month, and it took me until December 15th, and a very violent stomach bug, to figure it out... They should really advertise these things better.

~sarah p.

p.s. This little incident has also had the unfortunate consequence of turning me completely off of cookies, and this is the absolute worst time of year to be nauseated at the thought of baked goods.

Waking Up To Exotic Animals.

2011-12-11T00:33:00.003-07:00

I don't know why this guy's wife is being so difficult- he sounds like he'd be a good guy to hang out with. Like, chill out. It's just a bunch of old dead zoo animals and fake cavemen. And teepees. No big deal.

~sarah p.

Fur Coat.

2011-12-02T22:06:00.007-07:00

When I become a millionaire, I am going to walk around wearing nothing but expensive lingerie and a really obnoxious fur coat. Until I become a millionaire, I'll just have to settle for the fur coat.

~sarah p.

p.s. Is vintage fur evil? Considering that it's just second-hand murder? I don't have "new fur" money anyway. I work in non-profit, and I'm the breadwinner of the house. I barely have fake fur money, and fake fur is horrrrrrrible.

p.p.s. Every time I'm downtown at The Bay, I walk past the fur storage to try to catch a peek at a real, live rich person wearing beautiful, envious amounts of fur. I haven't seen one yet, but it really give me something to look forward to.

p.p.p.s. Am I evil? I feel a little evil.

Ginger Ale.

2011-11-25T23:23:00.009-07:00

When I was 20, I worked at a small restaurant in Victoria, where the owner told me, on the first day, that their ginger ale was just Sprite mixed with a little bit of Coke.
I had mixed feelings about obtaining this knowledge.
On one hand, I was privy to some sorts of super soda secret, but on the other hand, what else in my life is a total fallacy?

~sarah p.

So, there was a point in the early 90's where this happened:

2011-11-21T15:53:00.008-07:00

Learn about why Marky Mark hates to perform (besides the obvious!), sneak a peek at one of Kris Kross' moms (it doesn't matter which one), and the secret behind TLC's condom-hats.

~sarah p.

p.s. Also, I am (almost) tattoo twins with a guy I saw on COPS last weekend!

Montana.

2011-11-13T21:13:00.010-07:00

This weekend I bought four of the same t-shirt and learned about the surprisingly intoxicating effects of "herbal incense", which we bought from a strange hippie guy that tie-dyed Members Only jackets for a living.

I waded through several bizarre Montana thrift stores, and rode around in the car for hours and hours with Dylan and my sister... Poor Dylan.

I learned how to play Keno (and lost a total of $3 while doing so), and ate a steak that was so rich it almost killed me.

I brought back approximately three pounds of American candy (note the imperial conversion for my American friends), and genuinely remembered why I love my wonderful family so much...
It was a good weekend.

~sarah p.

p.s. I think I figured out something over the last few days: it will be easy for me to evade the natural aging process, so long as I continue to act like an immature asshole for the rest of my natural life.
It's fool-proof!

2007.

2011-11-05T18:12:00.008-06:00

I found a large stack of magazines from 2007 this weekend.
2007 does not seem like a very long time ago, and, save for a few failed beauty products, the pages were very similar to every other magazine that I've read in the past month. I guess only thing that really stood out was the distinct lack of open-toed boots...
Man, I miss the good old days. The days where boots had toes, no question.

~sarah p.

p.s. I've been enjoying the odd karaoke evening over the last little while. I have also recently rekindled my love of rap. In fact, there are many places in the world where the two combine into some sorts of hip hop karaoke night. The catch, however, is that most of these rap karaoke nights have a stipulation where the N-word can't be used. Now, I am by no means an advocate for casual racism, but what is left to sing? Backpack rap, LL Cool J, Big Willie Style, and songs made before 1987? Noooo thanks, guys.

p.p.s. I am leaving in a few days to go down to the US for Fruit-Stripe-Gum-a-palooza 2011... I know a place in Kalispell that sells it by the case. My breath will be delightfully fruity, and my arms will be covered in sassy zebra tattoos, for months to come. Can't wait.

Tonight.

2011-11-04T20:59:00.003-06:00

Tonight I'm feeling this album:
Lush. by Karmessiah

Tonight I'm reading FFWD on the floor and thinking about picking out a new pair of boots. Tonight I'm staying in to protest the snow.

~sarah p.

Cloner Brothers.

2011-10-30T11:31:00.006-06:00

Does it unnerve anyone else to know that, despite decades of heavily-funded scientific research by the world's top geneticists, the fucking Wayans brothers were the first dudes to be able to hammer out the fine details of human cloning?

~sarah p.

p.s. I went on a pretty major (think I might be diabetic, one last hurrah before I drag my dizzy ass to a doctor) Halloween candy binge, all while watching the Problem Child Tantrum Pack (Problem Childs 1 and 2, in one convenient DVD), and I'm still not sure which one of the two actions should make me feel guiltier. On one hand, I'm not feeling well and could cause more damage to my health with a heavy dose of sugar right now, but on the other hand, I sat through two Gilbert Gottfried movies in a single afternoon... Both seem kinda shameful at this point.

Dogs In Costumes: "Yo! It's Halloween!" Costume Ideas

2011-10-24T20:46:00.006-06:00

~sarah p.

p.s. After last year's costume incident, I think I will be playing it safe in a skeleton costume. I found one for an eight-year-old boy that fits me very, very well (if not a little comically snug), and the bones glow in the fucking dark. I'm going to be super spooky, and also try not to piss anyone off this year.

Jerky.

2011-10-13T22:47:00.006-06:00

I thought I might've bought dog jerky in the pet aisle by accident, but I've checked the package twice now and nope... Just terrible jerky.

~sarah p.

p.s. If I could go to sleep and wake up anywhere in the world, at any point in history, I would wake up here for sure:

True fact! This is my second favorite song of all time (the first, of course, being Rockwell's 'Somebody's Watching Me'), and whenever I can't get motivated to have a good time, I will play it on repeat until I leave the house in hopes of hearing it somewhere that is not my bathroom... There is always a chance, no matter how small.

Thankful.

2011-10-10T18:55:00.006-06:00

The turkey has been picked-over, I've taken my traditional post-meal three-hour nap on the couch, and it's time to reflect over the last year, and give thanks for all of the things that I am so grateful to have. Plus, it's a good distraction from the whole "raping and pillaging the Native Americans" part of the holiday. Here's my list for 2011:

I am thankful for my talents in putting on liquid eyeliner.

I am thankful for PBS, particularly Antiques Roadshow and Nature (but only the episodes where all animals involved stay alive through the duration of the program).

I am thankful for Fresca (also, gin mixes with Fresca very, very well for some reason).

I am thankful for my patience during pants-shopping. I tried on probably thirty pairs yesterday, and walked away with two. I'm also thankful that I am able to overlook my regular clothing overspending on my bank statements.

I am thankful for the delightful Jeffrey Steingarten, who is the sole reason that Iron Chef America is a watchable show.

I am thankful for mini-meatballs, apple pancakes, and butter pecan ice cream. Not together.

I am thankful for my wonderful little cat, who just puked up a bunch of grass all over the hardwood floor.

I am thankful for the fifteen perfect red lipsticks I own... It takes your look from "unkempt hungover mess" to "arty french intellectual" in no time flat!

I am thankful for the ten pounds I just gained so that I'll be warm walking to work when the temperature hits the -30C mark. No amount of goose feathers could ever offer as much protection from the elements as a hefty amount of donut-and-Slurpee weight.

I am thankful that I have a partner who does not seem to question (or care) that I regularly lock myself in the bathroom for hours on end to listen to disco, paint my face, and curl my hair.

I am thankful I have a family that thinks that it's funny to feed me scotch and Drambuie until I black out (hence the three-hour nap part of my day)...

I am, most of all, thankful that I start work at 10AM, so that I feel like I am sleeping in every single day. I am a much better person for this reason alone!

What are you guys thankful for? New episodes of South Park? Chicken pot pie? Non-surly cab drivers? Oh, there is so many wonderful things in the world!

~sarah p.

p.s. Also, I'm obviously super thankful for Prince. And loose-fitting lounge pants. And liquid foundation. And gummi worms- can't forget those guys.

Old Habits Die Hard.

2011-10-04T21:03:00.018-06:00

I'm going to admit, the closer I get to thirty, the more I catch myself mildly freaking the fuck out. I think it has something (everything) to do with the fact that every single person over thirty finds out that I'm twenty-nine-and-nine-months old, and looks at me like I'm on my way to my own funeral. They look sad and disgusted, and tell me that everything goes downhill from here... "Good luck", they say.
Like I'm going to need it.
Listen here, geezers. I've got a pattern of keeping it real since the day I was born. I am essentially the same person I was thirty years ago- I even have the same habits! I'm still the same ol' G, and if you need more proof, here's the evidence:
I've been addicted to gossip since the day I was born. We were probably talking shit about Elmo or Grover here.

For a special treat, my parents would give us candy. It wasn't so much a special treat for us, but rather for them. It meant that our mouths were shut for a few minutes, and the adults could enjoy the sweet release of a silent house... You're welcome, mom and dad.
To this day, I still can't say no to a box of Rainbow Nerds. I'm not made of stone over here.

I still make strange noises whenever I see strange animals on the sidewalk, even if I am entirely alone. I love animals! Sometimes it borders on creepy!

From day one, and for the rest of my life, I promise I will always have a penchant for dressing for the occasion... Even when I was two, and the occasion was "underpants day", I've got the perfect thing to wear. No problem.

I loved UV rays then, and I love UV rays now. I was probably wearing negative thirty-five SPF in this photo. I have since learned that the true secret to the perfect tan was something I was already using back then, without a clue to it's benefit: baby oil... No wonder I was such a babe.

Thanks to my genetics, along with a heavy Diet Coke habit from the age of three, I did not ever reach the five-foot mark on the height chart in our hallway. Thanks, aspartame. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I mean it... Thanks for the years of deliciousness that I enjoy on an almost-daily basis. Your lack of calories makes me feel falsely entitled to include more actual sugar into my diet, and if that means using a step-stool the rest of my life and growing a gigantic tumor, so be it.

Check me out here. This photo was taken at the wedding of Paul Hackman, deceased guitarist for Helix. I guess that makes me Canadian metal royalty or something... And you know what? I still know how to rock a party with ease.

See? I'm not worried about getting older. I'm mostly just worried about winter coming soon. And poisonous spiders. And people yelling at me. And running out of Fruit Stripe Gum... My supply is getting low, you guys.

~sarah p.

p.s. Bonus Parsons family photo!
My dad's power-mullet and argyle sweater, my mom's unintentional hipster glasses, our upset cat, my sister's fixation on our homosexual dog, and me, holding it all together (while wearing lace tights). This was the only photo I could find of us all together (no wonder my parents got d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d?), and I think it was part of a school project that I didn't want to do.
These people made me who I am, and I love these A-holes like crazy, no matter how old I get.

Mini.

2011-09-26T19:35:00.006-06:00

This weekend I went to a wedding in the mountains and made close friends with a crazed brown mini horse. No big deal.

~sarah p.

In case you're inquiring.

2011-09-19T19:54:00.015-06:00

Wednesday, while at work, I had to talk one of our kids down from digging up her father's grave, while the police drove around the graveyard attempting to locate her. Thursday, my credit card number was stolen. Friday, I was late for work because our deaf and senile cat escaped and went on a "catventure" (don't worry, she's home and safe).

...With a week like last, I was so thrilled to meet up with Lebbert on Saturday. We had fancy cocktails at Milk Tiger, and she brought me Lemon Heads and Fruit Stripe gum from the States. We got into deep conversation about eyebrow pencils, walked all over downtown, caught up on all the gossip, danced to all of the good songs, and made fun of sloppy pickup attempts at the bar.
Going out for breakfast on Sunday mornings with Lebbert is an instant hangover cure. One time, we had a mixtape contest. I can always count on her to split a bottle of wine fair and square. We have a faux DJ troop called "Pals and Gals". She wears pretty shoes, and inspires me to wear prettier shoes. We have, together, mastered the art of subtlety. We both hate potlucks.

Great friends like Lebbert are basically priceless, but in case you're inquiring, the going rate is $89,000,000 firm (while still allowing me full visitation rights and weekly catch-up phone calls). Hell of a deal for a BFF for life. She's the best. Really. Call me.

~sarah p.

p.s. MY CREDIT CARD NUMBER WAS STOLEN. Did you read that part? Holy fuck. Metal wallet, here I come.

Positive Steps.

2011-09-14T21:46:00.015-06:00

I recently read a statistic that 25% of people are directly, and 100% are indirectly, affected by mental illness. After Colin's post tugged at my lil' heart-strings this morning, I thought I would also share my story.

I tried my first medication for a "mood disorder" when I was seven years old, and days away from starting the third grade. The chemicals in my brain were not working in my favor. I was a sad kid. I had great parents, and did okay in school, and nothing made me happy. Not birthday parties, not cartoons, not even Wacky Wafers. I distinctly recall feeling like everyone else in the world lived their lives like they were in DeBarge's Rhythm of The Night video, and I was stuck behind some invisible fence and couldn't join the fiesta. I would listen to my dad's BeeGees records, Stayin' Alive on repeat, and used to think, "yeah, we'll see about that". At ten years old, I was already positive that I did not want to make it to my eighteenth birthday.

I went on and off of medication through the rest of elementary and junior high. Different kinds of medications. Different combinations of medications. The hurt didn't go away, but sometimes it manifested itself in different ways. Stupid ways. I couldn't get up in the morning. I would burn myself to a crisp in the sun, hoping for skin cancer. I would hit and cut myself. My hair was messy and I wore plaid and stripes together, because I couldn't stand to look in the mirror. It didn't get better when I got into high school. I thought the change of pace would be good, but I just felt inadequate and shy and unhappy every day. I didn't get much of an education throughout those years. I just got more and more scared of myself.

In twelfth grade, I graduated high school. Early. Despite everything that was going on in my head at the time, I finished my classes and got enough credits. In my eyes, I was still a complete failure.
I wanted to leave high school early so that I could be alone. Away from everyone. I thought it would make it easier to disappear in the future. I thought that if I at least graduated from high school, it wouldn't be as hard on my parents when I was gone. At least they would be proud of me for something. Then one day, enough was enough. I was exhausted and couldn't go on any longer. I checked myself into hospital, got new meds, and started a heavy counselling regime. I wanted to snap out of it. I was ready to feel better.

I ran away to France at the age of seventeen, and felt wonderful for a while. I took myself off of medication while I was there, my language skills were not strong enough to go get prescription refills anyway. I turned eighteen by myself on the fourth floor patio of the villa where I was staying. I wrapped myself in a blanket and drank a bottle of wine, smoked a pack of Pink Elephant cigarettes, and dangled my feet over the edge. Part of me was really disheartened. This should've been a monumental occasion, but I felt I shouldn't have made it to this point. I had made a promise to myself. I thought about ending it all that night, but instead I went inside and set a new deadline for myself: I did not want to see my thirtieth birthday. Despite my morbid coming-of-age, I convinced myself I would never have to worry again... I wasn't taking pills. I was still alive... For now. I was "cured".

After I returned to Canada, I moved around a lot. I moved back to Calgary, then Victoria, then Vancouver, and, after a bad breakup, back to Calgary. I was in a bad relationship on the west coast with someone who was also depressed, and I wasn't feeling so great when I got back to town, so I started back on medication. Two weeks later, I was told that my ex-partner had been on a self-prescribed drug holiday, and had thrown himself off the Lion's Gate Bridge in Vancouver. It was a real wake-up call for me. His mom still secretly checks this blog on a regular basis, and it breaks my heart.

I stopped meds again about six years ago by choice, and have been off ever since. At the current moment, I feel like the skills that I have obtained from years of counselling sessions have given me the ability to want to wake up in the morning, and eat a couple of meals a day, and laugh when something is funny. Like all human beings, I am still a work in progress. I still have my "off days", but I know what I need to do when I feel myself slipping. I take a lot of baths. Speaking to an understanding friend helps a lot. Quiet walks by myself help me organize my thoughts. Sometimes, all I need to feel better is a bag of Tropical Skittles. However, if one day the Skittles cease to work, you can bet I'll be back at the doctor, begging him to drug me up. No need to be bashful. My life is at stake here.

I was worried when, five years ago, I started working with mentally ill youth. I thought that it would, somehow, trigger some of those feelings I'd worked so hard to control. It didn't take long, however, to learn that this was certainly not the case. As I hand a kid a pack of tablets for the first time, I always give them the same speech: "If you had hypertension, you'd take a pill without question. If you were diabetic, you'd take your insulin with no problem..." Mostly, I want to alleviate some of the shame that comes with the diagnosis. There should be no shame involved. It's a medical diagnosis like any other. Working with these kids gave me a purpose I didn't know I had. I am no longer standing here today as Sarah, the saddest girl in the world. I am just regular Sarah. I love music and candy and animals and writing. It can get better, with effort. I'm proof.

It is of note that I work in a fantastic environment where we are encouraged to speak of our own experiences with depression, manic depression, borderline personality disorder, and other mental illnesses. I can't tell you how many times in a week I'm able to nod and let one of the kids know I've been there... Trust me, I've been there.
The only way to overcome society's deep-rooted stigma of mental illness is to talk openly and honestly about it... Open a few minds. If not you, it could be your mother or brother or best friend or neighbour. Mental illness does not discriminate, and nobody should feel alone or hopeless. I'll be thirty years old this year, and I'm not worried about making it to sixty-five. No deadline. No problem. I've got this.

When one person gets up the courage to admit to struggles with emotional disorders, it allows others to feel like it is also okay to share their story. This is how we make progress. Way to be brave, Colin.

~sarah p.

Cleaning Out My Closet/Red Pants

2011-09-12T20:50:00.015-06:00

I'm not going to lie, I have not worn pants much over the last few months.
It has been a summer full of cutoffs and tailored shorts. It has nothing to do with the warm weather. I guess are shorts are more socially acceptable in the summer, but I'll take any excuse I can get. No, my dear friends, the truth is that shorts make your legs look longer, and, as we all know, I need all the help I can get in that department. I tell most people that I am five feet tall. I am lying to those people. I am almost five feet tall.
Also, recently, I obtained the ability to cut off shorts to the perfect length. After years of accidentally cutting beautiful pairs of pants into the tiniest, ass-bearingest hot shorts, the kind only suitable for 2 Live Crew videos, I have finally gotten to the point where I can wield a pair of sewing scissors with confidence. There is no bigger bummer than looking down at the floor at a pile of shorn fabric that could've been an amazing pair of shorts, if you'd just cut a little straighter, and with less reckless abandon. These moments were so traumatic that I had to learn how to do it the right way. Finally... Fifty pair of pants later.

Right now, my closet is full of a million great pairs of cutoffs, loose tanks, and deck shoes. Jumpers, adorable bathing suits, and leather sandals. By this time of year, I have a full summer wardrobe, ready to go. This would be a dream come true, if it weren't for the fact that we are exactly ten days away from the beginning of fall. I'm saying this through gritted teeth, but it's time for me to clean out my closet, and put on some fucking pants.

I try to start every season with a good closet cleaning. 'Try' being the key word, because I have a really hard time letting go of clothes. I am so anal about avoiding clutter in every other aspect of my life that I have thrown out my healthcare card mid-cleanup three times, and yet check out my closet- it's full of a bunch of old Cosby sweaters from when I was going through a "wacky phase" about five years ago. Any hint of common sense would be telling me to get rid of the sweaters. Give them back to the thrift store from whence they came. They'll never come back into style....
Or would they? I still think they look totally fabulous with high-tops and a thick gold chain around around my neck (truth be told, if I wore this out somewhere, I'm sure my ass would get laughed back to 2005). Who knows, in a year or two I might want to rock the Cos' again. Things come back into style. Sometimes I force things to come back into style. I do what I want.
This is where my resistance to tossing of old clothing grows it's strongest, because it never fails: two weeks after I get rid of a piece of clothing, I am apt to figure out a fine way to wear such piece. Then, I spend an hour scavenging through the house, hoping and praying and wishing that I did not donate donate said piece to charity. It's always too late. I always learn the hard way.

On the positive side, it should be noted that cleaning out a closet is an excellent time to ditch all of the shirts that are stained and full of holes. Normally, I save these clothes for "work shirts", but I think I'm starting to blend in a little too well with the street kids. Mostly, though, I am making room for my new fall wardrobe! Let the shopping begin, fools.

Last weekend, I tried on one million pairs of pants. Maybe one trillion. You see, my body is of the "hard to fit" type. My inseam and waist are roughly the same size. True story. 27 inches. Every pair was too long or too tight or gave me a "pants boner" when I sat down. I was getting pretty upset about the whole thing, and that's when they appeared. Like a mirage in the dessert, a pair of red slacks rose from the racks and saran-wrapped themselves around my legs. I thought they may not be real; perhaps I was dreaming. I wasn't sure a perfect pair of pants existed in the world, but here they were, making me look ten pounds thinner and three inches taller. With heels, I might be able to pull off 5'3"!

At first I was wary; I'm not normally comfortable with the attention that crimson trousers may attract. Painfully shy people should be mindful of bright clothing. It may not surprise you guys to know that I am a bit of a lone wolf... I often show up to things by myself so that I can disappear into the crowd. Hide. Fade away. However, I feel different in these pants. Bolder. Louder. Stronger, I guess. Ready to take on another autumn, no matter how much I wish it was still July. Man, I wish it was still July.

~sarah p.

p.s. Yesterday, I considered, briefly, writing a post with some sort of reference to 9/11 programming "hyjacking" the airwaves. It was cute, it was clever, it was a terrible joke that I feel sort-of bad about ever cultivating in my awful brain. I left it alone, and got a little mad at myself. I guess this new found restraint is some sort of proof that, after almost thirty years, I have acquired some sort of maturity, however minimal. Maybe I should go buy some reading glasses, eat some oatmeal, go to bed at 9PM, read The Financial Post, and stop buying penny candies while I'm still on a roll...

The last to know.

2011-09-05T22:48:00.003-06:00

I guess you could say I feel like a total idiot. I'm always the last to know things. For example, I'm pretty sure I'm the last person on the entire planet to learn that Mike Tyson is an avid pigeon enthusiast. I feel like an even bigger dick, because I didn't realize that Spike Lee would be directing a reality television program regarding said fact... It seems so fantastically absurd that it should, somehow, be plainly obvious.

Even more impressive is the courage it takes to be one of Mike Tyson's pigeons. You'd be constantly on edge, worried that ol' Iron Mike was going to fly off the handle and "Holyfield" one of your delicate little wings. The fear of seeing your filthy pigeon feathers sticking out of the mouth of one of boxing's greatest legends would have you wearing little bird diapers and tiptoeing around the coop and keeping the gentle coo-ing to a minimum.
You'd go to bed every night wishing you could be one of those pigeons that hangs out at the subway station and eats cracker crumbs off the sidewalk and does not think twice about shitting on a prominent statue or someone's shoulder.
Instead, you've got Spike Lee yelling in one pigeon ear that your acting is not "believable", and Mike Tyson licking his lips in your other pigeon ear, and you just had to sign the contract to be part of the new Spike Lee joint. Tough break. Tough pigeon break.

~sarah p.

p.s. Is this real? Please let this be real. If this is some kind of joke, I'm going to be very upset.

Success.

2011-08-29T00:13:00.002-06:00

Well, I did it. I took a vacation. It's been almost a year-and-a-half, but I packed a suitcase, hopped on a plane, and stayed far, far away from my home, my work, and my daily responsibilities for a whole week.

The first couple of days in Ontario I had to try to keep work out of my thoughts. I considered signing into my e-mail every fifteen minutes... Thoughts like "maybe I should call work" crossed my mind. I sat on the plane on the way to my destination, and thought "I might just see if I can come home a few days early", because I'm a crazy person. Then, I hit the beach and forgot all about the fact that I even had a home in Calgary, let alone a job. I was "Beach Sarah". I was tanned and sleepy from the sun. My hair had bleached out, and I hadn't even put on even a hint of mascara. I hadn't brushed my hair in two days. I'd had a few Caesars with dinner, of which was plentiful and fattening. I couldn't use my brain if I tried.

From then on, it was easy to relax. I drank a million beers on the beach, and laid in the sand every day, and stayed with my dad in his tiny place near Lake Huron. After I left him, I went to Toronto and went on long walking adventures when got horribly lost getting to (1) the museum, and (2) the market. I went to two movies (A Tribe Called Quest: Beats, Rhymes, and Life, and Terri), and ordered room service every night in my 18th floor suite (4 1/2 star for $124 a night- Hotwire, baby). One night I just had a bottle of wine for dinner. I bought tiny little (Sarah-sized) dresses in Chinatown. I took the longest baths in the jetted tub, and read two books and every current issue of every magazine in rotation. Sounds nice, right?

Not to say that the past week did not have it's downfalls; I tore up every layer of the skin on my feet wearing cutesy sandals on a 6-hour walk in 32C weather. I re-sprained my ankle. I probably gained 5 pounds. The really bronzy parts of my tan started to peel. I got eaten alive by bugs at the lake, so badly that I had to wear pants for the rest of the trip. A 7-foot tall Nigerian wearing braces tried kicking game on me in a Sears. The Toronto Streets have turned my white canvas sneakers to a greige tone that will not fade, no matter how much bleach I use.
However, it's easy to overlook those things now that my shoulders have resided to their normal position (under my ears, not beside), my heart rate is back to normal, and nobody has given me a "you need to manage your stress and take care of yourself" talk in over a week! Success!

Holiday. Celebrate. Probably won't do it again for a very long time.

xoxo
~sarah p.

Bon Voyage.

2011-08-07T23:21:00.004-06:00

Hello, Ontario. So long, responsibilities.
See you guys in a couple of weeks.

xoxo

~sarah p.

Dogs in costumes! (Life Aquatic Edition)

2011-08-01T22:54:00.004-06:00

~sarah p.

p.s. I am eight full work days away from my first vacation in a year and a half. Consider me, officially, in pre-vacation slacker mode. For the next two weeks, I will be taking my full lunch hour, leaving at 7PM sharp, and stealing half as many pens from the office in preparation of my upcoming (well-deserved) break. I can't wait!

Bac-O

2011-07-25T20:21:00.004-06:00

I really overdid it with the Bac-O bits this weekend. Not bacon bits. Bac-O. You know what I'm talking about. Those little scraps of cardboard that they paint with a pork-flavored reddish food coloring. The little spongy bits that come in a can and have never touched a fatty slice of bacon in their (surprisingly long) shelf lives.
What started with a small amount sprinkled on a baked potato at dinner time progressed into generous handfuls later in the evening. By the time I was shaking the last few out of the bottom of the container, and letting the last salty bits dissolve on my tongue, the love affair was over. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I do not think that I will ever be able to handle anything "bac-o"-flavored again... Trips to the salad bar will never be the same.

~sarah p.

p.s.
This:

Reminds me of this:
The big difference? The second is a fictional product on The Simpsons, and the first is a real product I bought at the store the other week that smells THE WORST. Nuts and lemon? Come on now.

Bundy-style.

2011-07-18T18:42:00.010-06:00

After hours of baking in the sun (sorry, epidermis!), I've finally obtained a decent tan, which also means that my hair has had enough time to bleach itself to a light blonde that is one shade away from mega-slutty... This is the look that I wait ten months of every year to obtain. It is a look that takes ten pounds off of my tiny frame, all while I hammer down brisket and ice cream like it's going out of style. It is a temporary facade that shocks me a little, I hardly recognize myself when I catch my reflection in the window (where did my pale, sallow face go?).
A wonderful tan is not obtainable without some serious effort. After hours and hours on the lawn in a (probably too) tiny bathing suit, reading magazines, drinking diet sodas, laying on a towel on the ground (the ground!), and being mindful of tan lines, I deserve to look a little bronze! I earned that shit.
It means that wearing tights with my jean cutoffs becomes elective instead of necessary, I don't have to cake on the makeup with the same gusto, and, for the next couple of months, there's nothing wrong with using Kelly Bundy as a style icon. Bring on the crop tops and tube skirts. Summer's here.

~sarah p.

p.s. Guess who used to have a thing for Bud Bundy? Leave it up to me to have the lamest childhood crush in history.
p.p.s. Where does a gal get a cross necklace nowadays? Somewhere without the, you know, relentless preachiness that often comes with said purchase?

Tell me what you want from me.

2011-07-11T21:11:00.019-06:00

Two weeks into summer! Here's what's been going down so far:

*Ain't it true, though?

*I just watched the Blockbuster by my house shut it's doors for the last time, and local music stores are closing down at an alarming rate, but I swear to god, if "the digital age" steals the precious, simple joys of thumbing through a magazine away from me, I will throw myself off a bridge.

*They are selling Luther Burgers at the Stampede this year, and, as we already know, anything Luther has touched is fine by me.

*I am in love with this song, and the House Party franchise in general. If only my parents would go out of town, so I could throw a wild party full of hip-hop hijinks with my best friend, who, according to the movie, should be a shorter, blacker version of myself:

*Bieber! Kind of!

*This week, on an old episode of Shaq Vs., I learned that Shaq hates pickles, hasn't done dishes in 25 years, and is single-handedly wiping out homophobic crimes in the community.

*This dog is on a mission. A mission to find life-ruining parasitic insects. Working with the homeless, I could desperately use a bug sniffin' beagle in my home. Donations welcome. I am in a perpetual bed bug scare, fueled mostly my own paranoia, along with regularly hugging street folks. So, you know, get me the dog, or some really intense muscle relaxants to take the edge off. Either one.

*This guy (swoon. I think I'm in love.):

*These guys:

*You can get a mini-donut milkshake from Boogie's Burgers. Better hurry, though. Limited time offer.

*They let you put your own syrup on your shaved ice, so, naturally, I got all of the flavors:

*I mean it! Thanks for reading! I love you guys!

~sarah p.

Bonus summer jams:

All I Do Is Win.

2011-06-29T20:59:00.006-06:00

Do I even need to point out the blaring irony of the recent ads for Kevin James' new movie, The Zookeeper, set to DJ Khaled's 'All I Do Is Win' ?

Really, Kevin? Did you really aspire, as a fresh-faced, promising stand-up comedian, to become a perpetual dumb fat character that gets tricked into doing things by sassy CGI zoo animals?

No, Kev-Bo. Nobody wins in this situation.

~sarah p.

p.s. Jim Carey, I am also nodding in your direction.
(Penguins? Seriously, dude? You thought you could win us back with penguins?)

p.p.s. Anything prefaced by the term "from the makers of Paul Blart, Mall Cop" would, typically, have your average actor putting the script down before reading the first page. Apparently, "The King of Queens" is not your average actor.

On second thought.

2011-06-27T21:04:00.012-06:00

For someone like me, who is a tad obsessed with cleanliness, it may not be a good idea to own white canvas sneakers after all. It's been two weeks, and I already feel like there is no amount of Javex in the entire world that could save these shoes from a dirty, grass-stainy fate. I've just run them through the washer for the second time, and they still look like I've been gallivanting around in the sewers (which, for the record, I have not).
Guess I better pull out the ol' crimson Keds again... At least they hide blood stains.

~sarah p.

p.s. Say hello to my wonderful deaf cat, Louise! I take her outside every evening when I get home from work. She eats one million stalks of catnip, and some grass, then comes inside and promptly pukes it all over the carpet. It must be amazing to have that kind of self control.

p.p.s. If it's all the same to you guys, I think I'm going to fuck off for the entire summer with this crew. Look at their little popsicle skis, with their strange red sticks with blue marshmallows on the end... Totally something I could hang with. Also, just look at the shit-eating grin on that apple... He just screams summer hijinks. Plus, they probably have a sweet hookup on other types of ice pops, fancy types of ice pops, which, as illustrated by the photos of my freezer below, is by no means a necessity to friendship, but rather a gigantic, raging asset.

Dream Gang

2011-06-20T21:24:00.015-06:00

Since we moved into this neighbourhood a couple of years ago, I have been seeing this gang of pre-teen boys, riding around on their skateboards and getting into general mischief. A skate gang, if you will. As with any group of twelve-year-old boys, some are tiny and fragile, and look like they just snuck out of the third grade, and some are starting to sprout pubey little moustaches and look like they could drive a car. Some wear helmets and knee-pads (mom's orders), and some were clever enough to ditch the safety gear in the bushes down the street from their parent's house (just like I used to do with my bike helmet). Yet, somehow, they all amalgamate into this wonderful little gang, and they are so cute, and look like they are having so much fun, that I'm starting to get a little jealous.

Instead of sitting around the house pouting, like I would normally do, I have decided to jump into action. I got out some paper and roughly outlined what I thought gang life would look like. I didn't want to form a skate gang because, duh, I can't skateboard. I would look like a total dick. I guess my gang will just walk around instead. Also, I wanted my gang to have a good range of ages. There should be babies and old people, because I don't think it's really fair to exclude anyone (including animals and fictional characters- unlike some people, I am NOT bound by reality). Plus, some senior citizens are sooo funny, and can basically get away with murder, because they're going to die soon anyway.
You know, I'm totally tired of going to work every day, so I think we will probably have to figure out how to make money. Perhaps a lemonade stand with a petty crime business being run from behind the counter? Something easy-going like that. Something with minimal gang warfare, and maximum profits.
Upon breaching the subject of forming a street gang with some of my real friends, I was met with resistance and disbelief. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy. No bitch, you're the one that's crazy, saying 'no' to my gang. So, you know what? Forget about it. I went online, and picked out my dream gang. Consider it like a fantasy football team, but with organized crime affiliations!

Without further ado, here they are. Meet my dream gang:

Thuuuuuug life! These guys are incredible! This is going to be the best summer ever!

Watch out, Bloods and Crips. There's a new gang in town.

...A girl can dream, right? Right? Riiiiiight?
Guys?

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. Right? Can't wait to hang out with Tray-Mo.

Top Ten Hot Tips For Summer 2011!

2011-06-14T21:45:00.009-06:00

It's no secret: summer is my favorite time of year. Probably my favorite thing in the world. As a matter of fact, I hate every other season (so much!). I should probably try to move to Jamaica or somewhere else hot, but (1) Canada's unbeatable health care system, and (2) it really ups my chances of getting raped. So, instead, I spend each and every day without sunshine counting down the days until it's time to pull out the coconut oil and start the building the perfect tan. It's my twenty-ninth summer on the planet, and this one is special because I'm pretty positive it's the last year that I'm allowed to wear two-piece bathing suits. My friends in their thirties have assured me that it's all downhill from here. Better enjoy it while it lasts. Good news is, I've had a whole twenty-nine years to figure out this whole "summer fun" thing. Here's a few pointers for summer 2011 (coming soon!):

10. Gentlemen: unless you've got your deodorant game on straight lockdown, leave the athletic grey t-shirts for the other ten months of the year. Uncontrollable sweat-stains will not award you any summer lovin'. Try a linen blazer instead, it could be the hottest day of the year, and there you'd be, cool and fresh and crisp. Not a drop of sweat. So long as you kept your deodorant game locked in tight. I told you keep an eye on that, already.... Next!

9.If you're anything like me, and miss out on 99% of the nice days due to steady employment, you have to do your best to maximize your sun exposure. Skin cancer? Blah, blah, blah. It's a fact: a tan makes you look thinner, healthier, and significantly less Caucasian. Quit whining, grease yourself up anytime the temperature is over 21C, and get out in the yard, why don't you. Leave the sunscreen at home. That is, unless you work outside. In that case, unless you like the leather-faced, Crocodile Dundee look, cover that shit up.

8.Ladies. Maximize your wardrobe. Cut all of your terrible old winter shirts into crop-tops. Don't think about it! Go get your scissors! Do it now, thank me later. Or don't... If you didn't cut them the right way.

7.Don't even try to fight with the dandelions in your yard. For the first couple of years that we owned our place, I would come home from a ten hour day and spend two hours trying to rip those little bastards out by the roots (which, by the way, are standardly the size of my arm, no matter how small the flower), and I was doing it unpaid. Then, one day, I just gave up the fight. I finally realized that, hey, I don't own these dandelions, they own me. Also, dandelion spray is like $20 a bottle, and as a bonus, also kills ants (and everything else in the yard!).

6.Stop cooking inside, stupid! It's summer! Turn on your BBQ! The best part about barbecuing anything is that you don't have to worry about doing as many dishes, because you can just get throw anything into a bunch of tinfoil, and you're good to go. What's that? Excessive tinfoil use is bad for the environment? We'll discuss it during the great tinfoil shortage of 2046. Until then, tinfoil! Hell, yeah.

5.You are never too manly, or too heterosexual, to drink a white wine spritzer. People always cruise into autumn all bloated and chunky, because they've just spent two months slamming the brewskis. When I see a dude at a summer party walking around with a dainty wine glass, or a clear cocktail in hand, I always secretly applaud his commitment to keeping his bathing suit body.

4.The unisex footwear choice for summer is a clean, tidy white canvas sneaker. Just make sure you know your way around a bottle of bleach, and steer clear from large fields of grass and muddy alleyways. A dirty white sneaker is a clear sign of defeat.

3.The correct hours to go to the outdoor pool are 10AM-1PM. Anytime after, and you're stuck sharing the water with young Asian boys that wear (very thin) underpants as bathing suits, and families that bring along their fourteen kids to take advantage of the "family discount" at the front desk. Let me break it to you this way: urine city.

2.It is 100% okay to smell of coconuts 100% of the time. As a matter of fact, it is often favored to the stale cigarette, cheap beer, and sweat smell that tends to get a jillion times stronger when it's warm. Oh! And you shouldn't smoke very much, but it is okay if you are by a campfire, or you can have one cigarette (and only one) if it's really hot and you're at the beach or walking from one bar to another. Just bring gum. Preferably coconut gum.

1.Although not well supported by the nutritionist community, it is a true fact that the four food groups in the summer switch from meat and meat alternatives, dairy, fruits and vegetables, and grains, to Slurpees and Slurpee alternatives, watermelon, steaks and burgers, and popsicles. Try to eat at least two servings of each a day!

Summer 2011- can't wait!

~sarah p.

p.s. Coming this August: Toronto, and a jaunt out to cottage country. By myself.

The "hippo story".

2011-06-06T20:42:00.003-06:00

The series of events leading up to this particular situation are probably so fantastically entertaining that it would ruin my whole life to hear the story. I would never think that anything was funny or cute or nice again, because the "hippo story" would top them all. You know what? It's better if I just picture a boring scenario, where the hippo and the man, both ultra-lonely, met on Craigslist for a cup of coffee, and one thing lead to another, and, well... Hippo in the bed.
Yawn.

~sarah p.

This week in Korean BBQ news:

2011-05-30T22:10:00.003-06:00

This happened!
Cute!

~sarah p.

p.s. The cutest show on TV right now (that is, until I get my pilot, 'The All Kitten and Puppy Revue', off the ground), is Chimp Mommy on CMT. It is about a crazy lady that is raising a chimp named Eli and trying to find online love... At the same time! Now that's talent.

Like Babies and Pacifiers.

2011-05-25T20:17:00.007-06:00

My favorite thought of the week (as per Nick Cannon):

Mariah Carey, laid out on the operating table, having two small children surgically removed from her abdomen, while Nick Cannon sits patiently with his finger on the play button, ready to cue up a 'Live at Madison Square Garden' version of 'Fantasy' for the twins' arrival. Mariah's request. She also took over an entire wing of a hospital while in labor. Not that she's high-maintenance or anything.

The true winner in this situation, however, was probably ODB, who, shining down from rapper heaven (or, more likely, looking up from rapper hell), was not only able to witness the debut of his dear friend's first two babies, but also got a really decent view of Mariah's bare ladybits for a prolonged period of time.
Baby baby come on baby come on baby come onnnnn.

~sarah p.

The end of the world.

2011-05-16T21:28:00.008-06:00

Oh, did you hear? The world is ending in five days.
Yep, in five days a magical ghost that has been hiding for over 2000 years is going to rise from his grave and everyone is going to parish in a fiery, horrible death.... Everyone, that is, except for those that believe in magical ghosts.
You heard it here, folks: Jesus is back in 2011... With a vengeance.

I try to have an open mind. I really do. However, anyone who knows me well knows that I have a classic, textbook case of of skepticism. If I don't see visible, audible, or scent-based proof of something, it doesn't exist to me.
I have been seeing these bus ads lately proclaiming that the world is ending ASAP, and you know what? They might not be wrong. The world will end one day, that is for sure... I just don't think that there is any way of proving that it will be exactly five days from now.

As a through-and-through skeptic, I struggle with religion a lot. I just can't trust that the same mystical being that causes grown-ass adults to act like this and this on Sunday mornings is the same dude that is orchestrating the end of the world. Not buying it.
Plus, if there really was a 'supreme being' out there that created each and every one of us, then why are we, as humans, so full of design flaws? Check it out:
Donuts are the tastiest food in the world, and yet if you eat too many, you get diabetes. Design flaw.
Murderers. Design flaw.
The older/more pregnant (and therefore slower) you get, the smaller your bladder gets. Design flaw.
Warts. Design flaw.
If God 'made us in his image', then he was slacking pretty hard that day, and where I come from, we do not celebrate a half-ass job.

...And even if the world was ending, and you could save yourself and live forever by believing in the magical ghost, think about it: in the past seven days, I have had both strep throat and a head cold. Do I really want to live forever? Do I really want to see how many more seasons of 'Survivor' CBS is going to try to get away with? No thanks. If Jesus is going to be such a jerk, and burn everything down, then why would I want to hang out with him forever anyway? There are very few people I would ever choose to spend forever with, and most of them are close family members, or Shaq.

As any atheist probably has in the back of their head, I often have 'what if' moments... 'What if' I'm wrong, and 'What if' the end of the world is really five days away???
Well, I'd be sad that I didn't ever die my hair a wacky color when I was young and stupid enough to get away with it. I'd be regretful that I never got the chance to go to Asia, where I might just get the chance to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with a crowd for once. I'd wish I'd spent more time baking in the sun, and writing, and drinking full-sugar colas, and less time keeping tabs on Lohan. Then, Jesus would burn my face off, and I'd rot in hell with the rest of the non-believers. Standard stuff.

I can respect, and am often a little jealous, that other people are open-minded enough to have a little faith in the unseen. I've always been a 'whatever gets you through the night' kind of gal. If you go to church, and it enriches your life, good on you... I just heard that this Sunday, the temperature is going to hit 21C, and I, for one, am not letting the Apocalypse ruin my long weekend. Screw that.

~sarah p.

p.s. Plus, when did I ever listen to anything that bus ads tell me anyway? I still haven't applied to The Career Institute, gotten a payday loan from Instaloans, or taken myself to get checked for colorectal cancer, and some of those things seem like they might even be of benefit to me. Up to this point, I've decided that the best way to deal with the "joys" of Calgary Transit is to ignore every little bit of the transit experience, including those that may enrich my life. One time, an older Asian gentleman spit on the ground right beside me on the bus. I chose to turn the other cheek, even if the droplets of saliva and tobacco from his mouth may have carried the secret to the creation of the universe... My loss, I guess.

On drinking and getting old(er)...

2011-05-09T21:49:00.018-06:00

Today I woke up with a flu. My throat is sore and I am achy from head to toe. Yesterday, however, I woke up feeling even worse than I do today. Why? I had been out on Saturday night. I had consumed at total of six drinks over the entire evening, and had been home and in bed by 3:30AM. This used to be a responsible Tuesday for me back in the day. I would've gotten up and sauntered into work. Yet here I was on a Sunday morning, barely able to move.

I've often said that if I ever woke up after a night where I had not been drinking, and had the same symptoms of my standard hangover, I would take myself to the hospital. I've grown fearful of hangovers since my first, where I had to drag myself to school at the age of sixteen in an over-sized Letterman Show t-shirt (with no pants) to pick up my book-deposit cheque, or my second hangover ever, where I went skinny dipping in a lake and slept on a trampoline in Bragg Creek and woke up and puked thirteen times in a row. Since that time, I have learned that it is easier to avoid absolute disaster in the AM by not mixing peach schnapps with Sprite in a two-litre bottle. I was able, for years, to keep my hangovers in check by being careful with what I drink, but it's not really working for me anymore. Nowadays, if I mix one glass of wine into a three-cocktail evening, I'm screwed, and you know why? I am a real sucker for a glass of wine! I can't say no! Also, it's because I'm getting old(er).

I recognize that being almost thirty does not make me old, but less that five years ago, I used to have six drinks in me by 11PM on any regular Friday evening. I would drink triples all night long and then stay up drinking a case of imports in the abandoned penthouse in the Barron Building downtown and watch the sunrise. I would walk home and crawl into bed at 6AM, and still be able to keep my lunch plans for the next day. Now, if I've been drinking, I can barely stomach food in the morning (unless it's pizza or Dim Sum), and my head hurts all day long. I'm lucky if I can stay up past 8PM on days like these, and mostly spend them in front of the TV or eating tacos at the mall. Also, quite frankly, when I am hungover, I am a whiny jerk.

I guess at some point, your body just gives up the ability to process the events of the night before. Don't get me wrong: for a little folk, I have the alcohol tolerance of Andre The Giant. Go ahead, feed me tequila shots all night long. I can handle it. I can count on one hand the number of times I've gotten sick during an evening on the town. Just understand that I can't join you for breakfast the next day, as I will be on the couch all day in misery. I hate Sundays, and mostly for this reason alone. Also, that awful "gonna have to go to work tomorrow" feeling that looms around the entire day. Terrible.

I've been working on moderation, and it has not been as hard as I thought. Did you know that if someone offers you a glass of rum punch, you don't have to drink it? Especially if rum makes you feel the way it makes me feel: the worst. I've paired down from triples to singles (in a tall glass). I try to throw a glass of water or two in the mix. If a shot has any of the following, you are wise to stay away: Jagermeister, Alize, or Hypnotiq. Don't even touch drinks that have dirty names that involve the words "muff", "panty", or "slippery". Good rule of thumb. I've started giving myself a weekend or two a month hangover-free. It's a worthy sacrifice.

That's not to say that this Saturday night, when I was twirling and stumbling around the dance floor at 2:30AM in my shortest shorts to The Whispers' And The Beat Goes On by myself, I wasn't having the time of my life. I was assuming the risk.
It's times like these where I wake up after a wild evening, and it's easy remember, as I nurse my aching head, that last night was pretty fucking fun.

~sarah p.

That time of year again.

2011-05-03T21:28:00.009-06:00

As a native Calgarian, I don't even bother using the word 'spring'. There may be little spots of green appearing in the lawn, and sad little flowers pushing through the dirt, but I don't even put my snow shovel away until June. It's not rare for me to have to pull out my winter coat in May. I keep a pair of mitts in my bag 'just in case'. It is, however, the time of year when I can feel the days grow longer and the nights grow warmer. The birds are back from their vacation down south, and Slurpees grow progressively more appetizing. You guessed it: it's the time of year to start picking out the perfect summer jam.

Usually, the main concern during such task is party-ability. Meaning, the perfect summer jam must be able to start any BBQ or beach party with proper authority... Songs that make you forget that it's +30C outside and let you dance, no matter how sweaty you may be, the night away.
Not this year, however. Due to some recently acquired maturity (so to speak), combined with four years of a high-stress job, I'm far more concerned with finding the perfect 'lay in the sun in the yard with a wine spritzer' songs. I want tracks that make me remember why it's important to take a little time to relax when the temperature is rising... Beyond the threat of heat stroke, the body's natural inclination is to recline and take it easy in the summer, so why fight the urge?
Bike rides and dance parties? No thanks, I'm too busy (bizzy?) listening to Bone Thugs-n-Harmony this year.

Bone Thugs-n-Harmony is my top pick for this summer, my 29th on the earth. It should be noted that they were also my top pick in my 14th summer. These guys are the most relaxed people in the world. Trust me. Check out these stills from one of their finest tracks, 1st of Tha Month:

If these guys were any more laid-back, they'd be dead. They look like they just rolled out of bed, even if it's the middle of the day, and I bet they take forever to get anything done. It would take them hours to cash a cheque and grab a quick lunch. These are guys that take their time. As someone who has recently dedicated their entire life to the art of relaxation outside of work-hours, I appreciate how half of their songs sound like they made them up on the spot. I can respect that. Why put in more effort than needed to get the point across, right? 'Specially if it's hot as hell outside.

Also, not that I need to even say this, but sprinkle a little Bone Thugs on any random R&B track, and it *poof* - instant summer jam. For example, I love me some Mariah, but Butterfly would be a weak effort if it weren't for Krayzie Bone and Wish Bone getting stoned and showing up at the studio at the right time. Bizzy Bone showed up on Immature's 1997 album The Journey, and dropped a flawless summery track on an otherwise bizarre, washed-up boy band's last-ditch effort for success. Maybe don't venture into any of the Bone Thugs solo albums. Even I'm not that brave. Let's not get too crazy (krayzie?) here.

Where will you be this summer? Me, I'll be in the sun, letting Bone Thugs-n-Harmony keep me calm and collected. Maybe I'll buy myself a kiddie-pool. And sip blender drinks. And get a magazine subscription. We'll see. It's going to be perrrrrrrfect. Can't wait.

Pray for warmth. We deserve it this year.

xoxo
~sarah p.

The Holy Grail of Thrifting

2011-04-25T19:36:00.016-06:00

The holy grail of thrift stores exists in the deep, deep south... Past the Anderson train station, which was the farthest that you could go on public transit when I was a kid (and, as far as I'm aware, the farthest you'd ever need to go into the south anyway). Past that weird Russian grocery store. Past Fish Creek Park and that creepy little church. Past the hardware store where they give you free popcorn. On the edge of the city, hidden in behind a dirty strip mall, the Shawnessy Value Village is like a magical cave of treasures.
This weekend, I took the trip to the other side of the city, where I discovered a brand new Corona bathing suit; the exact bathing suit that I have been coveting since last May's trip to Mexico.
Beyond the several amazing clothing purchases that were found throughout the trip, the knickknack selections is truly out of control in this place.
There were all kinds of 80's hair gadgets:

A neckline slimmer, which probably totally works:
You want teen fad merchandise? You got it:

How about folksy pieces of advice? Done:

Racial stereotype figurines? Got that too:

Creepy clowns? Check:
My dream-phone in 1990? Yes, please:
Years ago, while saving to buy our house, we lived out in the direction of this store. We spent hours browsing the aisles for rare finds (and spending a bizarre amount of time hanging out in Superstore). Nowadays, it's totally worth the trip once a year. If not for the whimsy alone!

~sarah p.

p.s. It was also Easter, which meant one thing: side-by-side Easter candy comparison taste tests.

I'll give you guys a sneak peek of the results: the bunny with the red collar is significantly cuter, and the brand-name Creme Egg is the far more refined of the two.
Now, for the love of god, go grab yourself some discount Easter candy posthaste! The Peeps are getting stale already!

p.p.s. Next Saturday is both Stars & Muscles 11 and Araab Muzik @ Hifi. Holy shit. This is a conundrum that is going to require a scheme of Fred Flinstone proportions. Stay tuned!

Five Totally True Facts You Should Know About Phil Collins (including bonus "Phil's Greatest Hits" photo montage!)

2011-04-19T20:33:00.004-06:00

1. Originally from the dirty streets of Atlanta, urban artist Phillip Cawlins was told to shorten his name to Phil Collins and adopt a British accent to up his appeal with the "adult contemporary" crowd.

2. Fact: 'Sussudio' makes a great ring tone.
Fact: Phil Collins' preferred ring tone is Soulja Boy's 'Turn My Swag On'.

3. It is common knowledge that Phil Collins informed his wife of his desire to get a divorce via fax. What you may not know is that he divorced his third wife by way of birthday cake, and his first wife by dancing on her grave.

4. Phil Collins keeps a sledgehammer in the closet in case Peter Gabriel ever stops by.

5. At the age of thirteen, Phil Collins got his big break by playing the Artful Dodger in a London production of 'Oliver!'; a role that prepared him for the world of show business by teaching him how to steal both wallets and hearts.

~sarah p.

p.s. As promised, here are some of the finest Phil photos known to man:

p.p.s. That last one has nothing to do with Phil Collins, but look how cute he is with his little top hat and tie! Aw!

Beefy.

2011-04-11T21:10:00.006-06:00

Hey Calgary! Let's get fat!
Correction: Let's get fat-TER than usual.

~sarah p.

p.s. Hey Lard-O, why don't you wash it all down with a Fat Elvis milkshake from Boogie's? Peanut butter and bacon, with a side of defibrillator. We Calgarians are risk-takers when it comes to our cholesterol levels.
Cardiac unit at the Foothills holla back. Cardiologists drive Bentleys in this town.

This is real. (The Sarah Parsons Factor)

2011-04-05T21:56:00.013-06:00

(click to enlarge)

Noooo kidding. This is a printout of an e-mail I honestly received. Some of the names have been altered (by way of Liquid Paper and fine-tip Sharpie), but this is real.
After last week's post, I'm sure you all understand how difficult it was to get myself through this massage in the first place. Imagine my surprise when I found this e-mail in my work inbox Monday morning. Daaaammmn.

Well, I say I was surprised, but not really. Now, I don't feel like I am an unlucky person, but there must be some sort of "Sarah Parsons factor" in the world... I am sure of it.
Every time I am desperately, optimistically excited about something, you can bet that there's going to be a "sour turn" at some point, so to speak.... A routine harsh to my proverbial buzz. It's like every time I believe in something with unwavering positivity, there is some sort of universal interception that says "you turn that frown back down, Smiley".

While I sit here and wait for the scabies to set in, here are a few prime examples of the "Sarah Parsons factor" over the years:

After being told, by a reputable home inspector, that our basement had "never seen a drop of moisture", we have had steady seepage every Spring since we bought the house. There is a few weeks out of each year dedicated to towels on floor. Laying down towels on the floor, checking towels on the floor, wringing out the towels on the floor, drying the towels on the floor... Towel hell.

A pair of expensive boots were found, at a significantly discounted price, at a store that was on it's way out of business. Upon opening them at home, I realized that they had packed a size 6 and a size 7 boot inside of the box. I called the store right back, only to find out that it was their very last day in existence, and they had already closed down forever. I still stuff the size 7s full of insoles, hoping that I can someday "pull it off".

Finally my family had listened to me: after years and years of begging, it was decided that we would go on a tropical vacation instead of celebrating the holidays. In the middle of December, two days prior to leaving for sunny Costa Rica, I ended up with the chest cold to end all chest colds. My cough kept neighbouring rooms up all night. Not only was I sick, but also very unpopular on the beach.

Two weeks prior to my birthday, I decided to renew my ID. I went to the registry, filled out the forms, took the photo, and dropped off my old card. They ensured me that, although I was currently ID-less, I would have my card for sure by my birthday. The day before my birthday, the registry called me: I had forgot to sign on one of the lines, and they had forgot to call me until just that moment. Another PG-rated birthday for me.

...And don't even get me started on the stories about dates gone wrong, and pricey tights, and airplane mishaps, and library books, and cabins full of bats. Half of the stories don't even make sense, but I've learned to anticipate the unpredictable. Often the most unlikely of events is what eventually conspires, so I've had to learn to just play along and deal with the consequences, no matter how shitty they may be.
Really, what can I say? That's life, kid.
Never a dull day.

~sarah p.

p.s. Scabies! Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. What is this, the 17th century???

p.p.s. When we were children, we went on an outdoor excursion for a few days. When we returned home, we began to break out into spots all over our body. My mom took us to the doctor, who told my mom we had lice. My mom rushed us home, and bathed us in foul liquids and washed everything in the house. After a couple of days, the spots still weren't going away. She took us back to the doctor, who told my mom to re-treat us and re-clean the entire house. The lice were still around. We went to the doctor again one more time before my mom bit the bullet and drove us to the hospital. The waiting room was packed with very sick children, and we were bumped to the back of the line, but my mom needed peace of mind. Why were her two daughters playing host to a race of super-parasites? We waited for almost eight hours, reading the same issues of Highlights for Children over and over and drinking expired juice from the vending machine. A doctor walked by whom just happened to know my mom. The doctor had us lift up our shirts while she examined our spotty stomachs right in front of the triage desk. "Chicken Pox," she said. "Go home".

Rub you (the right way).

2011-03-29T20:24:00.012-06:00

In January, at the end of a particularly long work day, my boss came to my desk with an envelope. Inside was a gift card for a spa. I wasn't aware, but her "token of appreciation" had ulterior motives. My wonderful and caring boss was trying to tell me something...
I needed to chill the fuck out.

I took the card home, and stuffed it in my scarf drawer until two weeks ago, when shit really hit the fan. In my industry, it is common to burn out after a long period of stress. After a stretch of long work hours, plus a number of personal and professional crises, I felt like hell. I looked like hell. It was tough to get up in the mornings, and even tougher to drag myself through a ten-hour day of taking care of other people when I couldn't even take care of myself.

"Sarah", my boss said, "Have you used that gift card yet?"

I went home and had to google what happens inside a spa. That's how green I was to the concept of self-care. The menu was disappointing to say the least. I was seeking something like "pay us $40 to sit alone in a warm, quiet room for an hour with lots of nice pillows and NO ENYA", but instead I found a bunch of treatments that would not be of any benefit to my personal situation.
Manicures? No point. I wash my hands a bare minimum of forty times a day, and my natural inclination, despite the fact that I will be turning thirty soon, would be to get sparkles or smiley faces airbrushed onto the tips (probably a poor career move).
Pedicures? I just can't wrap my head around someone spending an hour's worth of attention on my feet, and guess what? Feet are disgusting. Even mine.
Facials? No amount of attention to my face would rectify the years and years of binge drinking, smoking cherry-flavored papers, and the fact that I can barely force myself to drink a full glass of water in a day (beyond the water used to make cup after cup of delicious coffee). Not even worth the effort.
What's left on the spa menu? One thing. A massage.

Now, I was a kid of the eighties and early nineties. Thus, I was in the most susceptible demographic to have the crap scared out of me by the millions of PSAs that were on TV every single day. If you would've told me, up until a few years ago, that you had let a stranger rhythmically rub their hands all over your naked body, I would've told you to go get tested at the free clinic, and to call the police immediately. If you had told me you had paid for such a service, I would've recommended you to a good psychiatrist. You have to protect your bathing-suit area, kiddo!
Yes, I certainly had some hangups about getting this massage. It took me another week to get up the balls to book an appointment. The woman on the other end of the phone had to ask me to 'relax' while I gave her my personal information. Uhhh... That's what I'm trying to do, dude. I was nervous and full of questions, and I hadn't even stepped in the place yet.

They had me fill out a form when I got there. It asked me where I hurt the most. I handed back a nearly-blank form. They didn't have check-boxes for "need to erase the memory of the fact that some of my co-workers are terrible", or "need to stop waking up in the middle of the night, remembering that one of our pregnant teens has a 7AM ultrasound that they will most certainly forget about". The massage therapist ('masseuse', I was told, is a term only used at the many, many rub'n tug establishments in town) took me into a small room and sat me down to ask more questions. Of course, I took this time to tell her that I worked a very stressful job, and put my little body through a lot of abuse over years of trudging to and from work. Did you know that 10-year-old Keds are not a sturdy walking shoe? Not that I care, or anything...
I also took this little question-and-answer period as a great chance to do my own meticulous inspection of the place. I checked under the massage therapist's nails for dirt, checked the floor for dust, checked the table for boogers, and double-checked to ensure that the woman that was about to fondle my unclothed body was not giving off any "rape-y vibes". If I was getting naked in this room, it better be sanitary and safe.

The actual massage was alright. Mostly, it felt oily and a little rough. The music sucked. I chatted neurotically through the entire process. I had her explain each and every maneuver she was doing, and why it was clinically necessary. She kept having to warn me that the process would not be beneficial if I kept tensing up immediately after she had worked on an area. It was probably the most painful ninety minutes of her life, but, hey, she made $120 dollars off of my bare, anxious body. In the scheme of things, it was not all for naught; I looked in the mirror on the way out, and noticed that I looked taller! Also, did you know that I actually have a neck? Me neither!

All in all, it was not a terrible experience, but I still can't shake the fact that the massage would have been so much more enjoyable if performed by the master himself, Mr Johnny Gill. He would rub anyone the right way- I am sure of it. Satisfaction easily guaranteed. He says so himself.

Maybe I should start taking Ativan again instead. That shit was like a massage, but in a convenient pill-form. Aaaaaaativan. It even sounds relaxing.

~sarah p.

p.s. My father was a music lover, and would sit with us and watch the new videos on MuchMusic when we were kids. I can distinctly remember the air thicken in the room with awkwardness whenever this video would come on the screen. The same feeling would cloud the room when my parents heard me listening to R. Kelly's 12 Play album, when watching the scenes in The Bodyguard where Kevin Costner kept plowing Whitney Houston, and when we'd stumble across Madonna's Sex book at the library with my mom. I didn't know it then, but that feeling was a natural barrier that eventually drew a safe boundary between my parents and my personal life in my adulthood. I am so thankful for those moments now- particularly when my parents ask me what I did on the weekend, and I am under no obligation whatsoever to tell them the truth. I don't want them to know, and they don't want to know anyway. I like it that way. Hurrah for uncomfortable childhood memories!

Spring Cleaning.

2011-03-21T21:51:00.008-06:00

For months and months, this select group of photos has been taunting me. Every time I open my laptop, there they are, staring me in the face.
Each one of these photos represents a post that never made it, an initial concept that was deemed too stupid, even by my standards, to come to life. Just try to guess what kind of posts these pics would've churned out (don't worry- I have no clue either)!
Looking at them, all grouped together like this, I have to wonder what the fuck I was ever thinking. Was I drunk, or maybe just not paying attention? Sometimes really wack things seem really funny at first! By the next day though, I've totally talked myself out of some jazzed-up 300-word post on men in spandex. What a difference a day makes. Be thankful for that day.
Alas, it is time. Time to drop each and every one of the pictures into the trash bin on my desktop. So long. Hasta la vista. I need room on my hard drive for more MP3s... Funkclassicmaster has been on fire lately!
Here are some of the ideas that you, dear reader, were (quite luckily) spared from over the last few months:

Some of these were very close to becoming real posts... Real long posts.
Consider yourselves lucky.

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. Also, hi there! How are you guys? Great??? Really great??? The weather is not-so-Spring, but Cadbury Eggs are back in stores, so nobody should be frowning right now. I didn't wear mittens at all last week, and this weekend is going to be the best. I am going to see T-Pain on Thursday! How many of you can say that?
p.p.s. That beagle in glasses! The world needs more of this.

In other TV news:

2011-03-16T21:52:00.023-06:00

If you haven't started watching Real World Las Vegas, don't bother.
I promised myself (let me repeat: promised myself) I would not watch this season. I get sucked in every other season, and it's a real bummer to realize, when it's all over, that you've just spent 20+ hours in total watching stupid, shallow strangers pick fights with other stupid, shallow strangers.
However, one small peek during the premiere last week, and now I'm stuck watching the entire season. Fabulous.
Here's the rundown of Las Vegas so far:

The Real World stopped trying to pretend to be a realistic portrayal of young-adulthood years ago. It's gotten to the point where they just take a bunch of low-grade fame-seekers and lock them in a casino with hundreds of gallons of vodka and a full crate of condoms and let them "have at 'er". All while the cameras roll.

They hired two of the exact same guy to be in the cast this season (and they are currently fighting with each other!). Diversity is a thing of the past. So far, only one of the two has admitted to being on a gay-for-pay website in the past, but I'm sure the other one will 'fess up about something good before the season's over. Twinsies!
2011 is, apparently, the year of the blonde, possibly bi-sexual, shy, rural frat boy in LV.

The product placement has gotten out of control on this show... We're only on the second episode of the season, and they've already eaten at Subway probably 40 times. Subtlety is also a thing of the past, don't you know...

Again, do yourself a favor and just don't bother. There are finer things to do on a Wednesday night- like, basically, anything but watching The Real World.

Those of you that know me well know that I am not a very good sleeper. Since a very young age, I have been, by nature, a night owl. To this day, I spend a lot of nights in bed, staring at the ceiling and worrying about what I'm missing at 4AM on a Sunday morning (besides that adorable Mr. T infomercial), and wondering what ever happened to the fourth chick in Destiny's Child. (Juuust kidding about that last part... I saw on 'Behind The Music' that Beyonce's dad sacked her because she was stealing away the spotlight. Smart move, Mr Knowles. )

Anyway, I'm always desperately searching for something to ease my mind into a deep slumber. Something so slow, mindless, and gentle that it would be impossible to stay awake. Something on OLN. Travel shows are a sure bet, but you know what's even better (and by 'better', I mean 'even more mindless')?
Travel shows where they search, unsuccessfully, for made-up monsters and ghosts.

Recently, I've been drifting off each night to a show called 'Destination Truth', which should be called 'Destination Unknown', because they have never, ever been able to prove the existence of a single creature. Truth be told, it actually seems like a pretty sweet gig to me: you fly into an exotic local, stay with the natives, and run around the forest in the dark with night vision cameras, pretend to be scared for a few hours. You bring some specimens back to the "lab" in LA (which may or may not actually exist, due to the extremely high number of "inconclusive results" I have seen coming out of there), and talk amongst your colleagues on the likelihood of the shadow you saw in the forest being a real, live ghost... Just the one you were hunting for in the first place! That being said, because you have no actual hard evidence, we'll all just have to assume that it exists.
Holy fucking dream job. Am I right? This is someone's real occupation right now.

With all of the craziness in the world today, sometimes it's nice to be fed a little bit of bullshit before bedtime. Let's just face the facts: the 11 o'clock news is a real bummer, and nothing calms the soul more than watching grown men run around the forest after elves in Iceland, and blame their malfunctioning camera equipment on "elf magic" (instead of blaming it on their mid-morning trip to the Brennivin factory). So, so cute.

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. You won't even be able to stop the cuteness at Stars & Muscles 10- next weekend, you guys!

Five guys that kind-of look like Prince:

2011-03-08T21:15:00.002-07:00

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

~sarah p.

Creep.

2011-03-02T20:25:00.007-07:00

If we run into each other, and I ask how you're doing, you really have to realize that I'm doing this strictly as a formality. Of course I already know how you're doing... I'm not under a fucking rock over here.

...I already saw that you got engaged two weeks ago on Facebook. I saw that your baby was, rather graphically, successfully potty-trained recently. Good for him.
I'm not a good actor at all. Sometimes it is extremely difficult to nod along while someone rambles on and on about things I already know about. It's just that I've had a lot of practice lately, and I really think I've got my "listening face" almost perfectly perfected. The key to looking sympathetic is to twist your face slightly, keep your eyes wide, and try not to let the other person know that you are currently ranking your favorite Southern rappers in order of hair-style in your head. Still, I'm creeping on you, mamí... No denying it. I know what's going on in your life, and pretty soon I'm going to have to tell you that things are "fine, I guess", and that I'm "so busy with work", and you're going to nod back at me like you give a fuck. Seems a little pointless, no?

The world is no longer a private place. A friend of mine recently busted her husband having sex with the neighbour, all because of a pocket-dial. Back in the day, the semantics of this maneuver would have been incredible... He would have had to knock the receiver off of the hook, stretch the phone-cord across the room, and find enough fingers, whilst in coitus, to dial a seven-digit number. Now all it takes is a wayward kick in the direction of one of those fancy phones with the big screens to let the world in on your little secret... It's easier than ever to creep, sometimes you don't even have to try.

You sure do go on a lot of dates at The Olive Garden. I know this because you 'status update' my fucking brains out. With media constantly opening the door of communication wider and wider, I have just found more things to judge about you. Guess what? I'm sizing you up, pal.
When I was younger, I used to forget my parents' birthdays every year, and nobody batted an eyelash (well, maybe my parents did). Now, I've got to be on the ball all the time so I don't miss sending someone a "birthday text" or "birthday sext", depending on who we're talking about. People expect you to know things like birthdays and anniversaries nowadays. It's the modern thing to do.

People are always lying to my face and saying that they've "gotten rid of Facebook", or that they "don't understand Twitter". Fuuuuck off. I am Twitter-less, and you know the honest reason why? I really don't think I'd have enough entertaining shit to post. When someone says they're "too busy for Facebook", what they're really saying is "I'm googling your name instead, and spending the rest of the time looking at internet porn". Yo, I see you, hippies. I know what you're really about.

This post wasn't really to rant against social media- it's totally unavoidable, and will probably take over the whole planet in less than a year. I do, however, think that we are almost at the point of being able to release the entire concept of the "casual run-in", wherein you painfully relay stupid details about your current to someone you went to junior high with, in favor of the "observation brows", a small eye gesture and nod to say "I see you, I recognize you, but I hate your love of Tim McGraw and your incessant banter about your stupid kids".
Haven't we evolved to this level by now?

~sarah p.

Grade-A

2011-02-24T21:23:00.004-07:00

I'm glad the "week of Watson" is over on Jeopardy... Between you and I, that guy was a know-it-all (and a grade-A dick).

~sarah p.

p.s. I am positive I've never seen Trebek as annoyed as he was last week, and do you blame the guy? 27 years on the show and he's getting sass-back from a fucking computer in front of a live audience. Dear, dear. Poor Alex.

Open-mind/Open heart.

2011-02-23T21:13:00.008-07:00

At first I was really confused when I couldn't take this song off of replay. Usually, if it doesn't involve child/Southern/gangsta rap, disco, funk, 80's pop, or corny-ass R&B, I leave it alone.
Beth Ditto and Simian Mobile Disco? Nooooo thank you.
However, due to a magical little thing called "the internet", I get exposed to a lot of stuff that I would otherwise leave to the wayside... I have seen a lot of things I will never unsee, and hear a lot of things I will never unhear (I heard the entire Kingdom Come album, leaked online, a few years back, and it wrecked my faith in Jay-Z forever... Do you know how that feels? Do you???).
One in a while, though, it pans out in my favor.
Really, once I calm the fuck down and break it into simpler terms, this song has everything I like rolled into one:
Lasers? Check.
Distinct heart-thump sounds in the background? Chiggety-check.
Also, there's some sort of (rather controversial) theory I've been working on for a few years that directly correlates weight gain to musical talent. Think about it. Open up your mind, throw your politically correct beliefs aside for a moment, keep that a-hole from Smashmouth and any of Rosie O'Donnell's attempts at Broadway out of your thoughts, and really think about it. See? Totally right.

Anyway, new Beth Ditto EP? Totally worth a listen!
Not gonna lie, I still feel a little dirty saying that... Maybe also check out Slave's Bad Enuff album to make me feel better... Solid gold, I promise.

~sarah p.

Gentleman's Choice.

2011-02-13T18:15:00.000-07:00

Let's talk, guys.
Flannel shirt, slim jeans, Vans. The outfit of choice for 70% of the young male population right now.
This is fine, I guess, so long as the whole setup is well-fit and kept tidy (psssst- it's almost never kept tidy).
Dudes nowadays walk around with hot sauce and dirt on their pants and an ill-fitting, raggedy old plaid top (and don't think for a second that I don't notice when you are using a shoelace for a belt).

I know I've said this before, but it is time for guys to step their game up. Gentlemen, here are a couple of looks to consider on your next trip to the mall:

Rich Dick

Scott Disick is a rather smug character. He is banging one of the Kardashians (doesn't matter which one). It's uncertain of how he is currently supporting himself, and I am pretty positive that little baby of his is a real-life troll. Also, his last name is actually two letters away from the word 'dick', and that can't just be by coincidence!

There is, however, one thing I know for sure- just by looking at the guy, you can tell that he is filthy, powerfully rich. He might spit on you if you burnt his toast, and he would probably throw a fit if you stood to close to him or looked in his direction, but he quite obviously has the means to treat a lady right, if you catch my drift.

Kanye is another fabulous example of this look. Now, I like Kanye a whole bunch (much more so when his mouth is closed), but he's bossy and abrasive and corny, and his outfits are perfect every day. His mouth may be spewing all sorts of verbal diarrhea through a vocoder, but his clothes are screaming "yo, I could buy and sell your ass"!

He makes a 9th grade sewing class patch-project look like a million bucks, which is good, because he is probably also carrying a million dollars in his pocket, literally.

I know you're asking yourself a few questions:

What is the Rich Dick equivalent to plaid shirt/slim jeans/Vans combo?
Why, it's the gold watch/collared shirt/another gold watch combo, of course.

Is it practical?
Hellllll no. Now go get me a Perrier and mop my forehead. I think I'm starting to sweat.

How do I pull off the Rich Dick look without breaking the bank?
Maybe a pyramid scheme would be a good idea. That, or start shoplifting from nice stores.

No? Not for you? How about another choice:

G-Funk

Something about all of the gang violence and racial tension of the early 1990's in South Central LA spawned one of the crispest, sharpest looks of all time.

Clean, pressed khakis, just the right balance of baggy and tight, tidy sneakers, and hair that looked like it took hours to perfect. These guys knew it was a good idea, nay, their duty, to iron their clothing before leaving the house.

I can see that you're hesitant. Why don't I help you out again:

What is the G-Funk equivalent to the plaid shirt/slim jeans/and Vans combo?
Bandana (in the appropriate gang color)/Chuck Taylors/pocket full of weed combo.

Is it practical?
Depends... Do you own an iron and know how to pack heat?

How do I pull off the G-Funk look without breaking the bank?
I suggest you drive around Compton in the spring looking for yard sales.

Looking for something a little more "easy-fit"? Here are a few hot looks to keep you cool this summer:

Sunday Brunch With Grandma

Just Raided The Dumpster Behind Dwayne Wayne's House

V-Neck Parade

Effeminate, Low-Ranking Turkish Mafia Member

Fashion is a social agreement. The result of a consensus of a large group of people. - Stella Blum
Really, guys, I think we've evolved from the "just make sure I'm wearing a clean shirt" mentality- let's agree to try something new this year. Please?

Fashionably Yours,
~sarah p.

Have We No Shame Anymore? (a photo series)

2011-02-07T21:43:00.008-07:00

You can dress it up however you like, you can't mask the fact that you're hawking poop-catchers with these ads. Stripped down, these commercials, respectively, represent a bear with filthy bear toilet paper stuck on his gross bear ass, and a high-stakes shitting contest. Come on now. Have we no shame anymore?

~sarah p.

p.s. You know what else sounds terrible and disgusting to me? Sticky buns.
Uh. Just call them sweet-rolls and be over with it, sickos.
Asses and pastries should never be used in the same sentence. Rule of thumb.

Grape escape.

2011-01-26T21:27:00.002-07:00

Fat free? It's a dieter's dream!

Oh, hell yeah. Real fruit juice. Guess who's replacing their morning Grape-Nuts with Grape Heads.

Watch the pounds melt away, fools.

~sarah p.

p.s. Guys! Dam-Funk this Saturday! Gonna be amazing!

A little help from my (ginger, disabled, puppet) friends.

2011-01-17T21:07:00.016-07:00

I've been watching a lot of Toddlers & Tiaras lately. Typically, I watch shows like this to keep myself cynical and miserable. Watching mothers spray-tan their eighteen month old daughters and wrench fake nails onto their tiny little hands can be a terrible experience. Watching moms crumple with faded glory when their young daughters don't bring home a giant trophy and $200 stapled onto a paper plate can make you lose a little faith in the world. I thought all pageant parents were horrible people that stuffed their children full of Red Bull and Pixie Sticks and painted them up like little mini-whores to parade them around in an attempt to make up for their own lacklustre childhoods... That is, until I met Jaclynn.

I guess responsible parents are a rare breed on the pageant circuit. Not only are Jaclynn's parents responsible, but also abnormally supportive. If the kid wants to do the robot in the talent competition, no problem. If the kid wants to bring her life-sized, disabled puppet-baby to the competition, absolutely.
Wait, what?

Sorry, I should've introduced you to Arnold earlier. He comes along to every pageant, mostly for support. He has his own seat in the minivan.

Did I mention that he also has his own wheelchair? Well, he does. What are you going to do about it?

He's always there to extend his warmest congratulations when adorable little Jaclynn hops off of the stage. Job well done, pageant queen! Whatever the fuck you were doing...

Damn straight, you keep doing it, you little firecracker... Shine like the bright little star that we all know you can be.

...You know I was mostly talking to Arnold, right?

~sarah p.

True softness.

2011-01-12T21:04:00.005-07:00

After years of "accidentally" leaving clothing at my mom's house so she could wash them in her own special way, I finally broke down and bought a bottle of Downy. It cost me like three dollars, and now I'm basically drowning in cottony softness.
You can use all of the dryer sheets you want, liquid fabric softener is where it's really at.
Next time you see me, make sure you smell my shirt. Daaammmmnnn! That shit is soft and aromatic, right? Downright intoxicating, I tell ya.
I considered calling in sick to work the other day because I wanted to spend the day smelling and rolling my bed sheets. I have experienced true softness, and I am never going back.
Dylan better watch out, I'm awfully close to running off with the Snuggle bear forever.

~sarah p.

2010: A Year in Photos.

2011-01-03T14:53:00.011-07:00

Best dance floor setup 2010:
Most goats 2010:
Closest giraffe 2010:
Cutest art 2010:
Wisest piece of bathroom-wall advice 2010:
Tastiest cupcake 2010:
Most economic soap dispenser 2010:
Strangest tree 2010:
Best enchilada 2010:
Filthiest pig 2010:
Bestest friends 2010:
Creepiest shelf 2010:
Scariest cult 2010:
Hottest snack deal 2010:
Jaggedest wound 2010:
Prettiest zoo day 2010:
Sassiest dinosaur 2010:
Most successful science experiment 2010:
Toughest bunny 2010:
Most promising soon-to-be carnivorous terrarium 2010:
Most high-profile photo cred 2010:
Highest Def Jam's Rapstar score 2010:
Best Prehistoric road trip 2010:
Happy 2011, guys!

~sarah p.

p.s. Not gonna lie, I am already looking forward to the best enchilada of 2011. Oh, man.

Busted. Chris Hansen-style.

2010-12-26T14:17:00.005-07:00

The mouth may be saying "no, no, no", but those glasses say "yes, yes, yes".

Back in the day, when Chris Hansen would bust one of these assholes, he used to seem genuinely surprised. How could someone ever think that a 13-year-old was totally into their middle-aged, saggy bodies? How could they not expect that an entire camera crew was going to come out from behind a curtain at some point? It used to seem totally unreal, but after about a million of these stings, Chris Hansen has become a total pro.
Now that he's balls-deep in kiddie-fondlers, he's not surprised anymore. Instead, he's perfected this "disappointed dad" look that seems to make even the creepiest pedo-smiles turn to shame.
To Catch a Predator rules. Chris Hansen rules.

~sarah p.

Queen of the jungle.

2010-12-16T08:02:00.002-07:00

This week, I adopted a baby tiger from the World Wildlife Fund (only $40!), and I already can't wait until he's big enough for me to ride to work.

~sarah p.

p.s. Tonight is my work holiday party, which is basically like a staff meeting, but with nicer clothes. Nobody drinks, nobody does anything stupid, and we spend three hours watching powerpoint presentations while we eat buffet-style dinner. Such is the life of a non-profit worker. I love where I work, but I hope I break my leg before tonight comes around.

Red vests and "bon bons".

2010-12-15T20:29:00.007-07:00

There is nothing more indicative of a true asshole than someone who goes on and on about how much they love the winter.
"Can't wait for snow!", they say in early October, when the rest of us are still trying to avoid wearing a jacket. "I've got my snowboard strapped to the top of the car, and my skates in the trunk!"
"I hope you get buried in an avalanche", I think to myself... Perhaps a tad harsh. "That is, I hope your car gets buried in an avalanche". That'll teach you to love winter, dick.
I've always been under the distinct impression that the more people that love winter, the more apt that winter is to show up every year. Fuck winter, and winter-lovers alike.

There is one thing, however, that only appears in winter that I actually look forward to all year. It belongs in the form of a green and red kiosk that shows up the day after Halloween in almost every mall in town. That's right: mother fucking Hickory Farms.

For those of you that are unaware, Hickory Farms is the mother of all kiosks. Usually, kiosks sell odd hair accessories and vacuum attachments, and swarthy Armenian guys, bathed in cologne, peddle these products by sticking their tongue in your ear or trying to steal your wallet.
Not Hickory Farms. When you arrive, you are greeted by the most endearing staff of all time. Most are either recent immigrants or over the age of seventy, and welcome you with adorable red vests and trays and trays of samples. They don't get mad when you eat more than one sample of each product, and will even help you combine samples into a whole new taste sensation. Smoked salmon rolled around smoked cheddar? If you say so, dude.
Trust me, these people love their jobs. They probably even get to keep all of the leftover baskets to feed their struggling families until the next holiday season. I've often considered throwing off the shackles of the work-a-day world and strapping on a red vest for a season, but I do not think I am worthy of such distinction.

They also have a catalogue that used to be sent to every house when I was a kid, which I would read cover-to-cover. No better bedtime story in the world. By late December, I would have many pages folded over and marked with red pen. I guess I was trying to signal something to my relatives. No more toys! I wanted a Fire-Glazed Ham or a tray full of dried fruits. Couldn't they see I was being serious???

Well, one relative believed me. My ex-step grandmother, to be exact, and on my eleventh birthday, I opened a box that contained a small metal sleigh full of a large stick of beef, festive pecans, and a cheese ball. Finally, a little faith in me. Peppered through the sleigh were several candies, wrapped to look like tiny cartoon strawberries. I don't know what they put in those candies, but they call them "bon bons", a hard candy with a soft middle. The main ingredients listed were corn syrup, sucrose, and artificial flavoring, but something tells me there was a sprinkling of pure love in there somewhere.

It's true: this time of year totally blows, but even the most hardened cynic can't find something wrong with baskets of wonderful sausage and cheese and "bon bons". Downright impossible.
I've often wondered if there is a real "Hickory Farm". If it exists, I bet it is full of happy, smiling animals, a big rickety red barn, and a ton of old-timey country flair. That, or it's a gigantic filthy slaughter house... Chances are, a little bit of both.

~sarah p.

Helping hand.

2010-12-02T21:32:00.009-07:00

You know what, Hamburger Helper? Fuck it. I was being a cynical dick- you do make a great meal.
File this one under "don't knock it 'til you try it".

~sarah p.

p.s. Doing thirty minutes of "research" on that little Hamburger Helper mascot: new personal low, or new personal high?

International Flavor.

2010-11-30T22:07:00.006-07:00

My new favorite show is called International Flavor- a local self-described 'reality cooking TV show' on Cable Access... An amateur, Calgarian 'Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives', if you will. I'm sure you guys can already tell that it's a great 30 minutes of television. It's hosted by a perky blonde woman and a really gung-ho guy. Free espresso at the studio, I guess.

Sometimes they go to Indian restaurants or Moroccan restaurants and try exciting new foods, but sometimes they have to go to truck stops and still pretend to be amazed by chicken fingers and pancakes. They take bites of the dishes while the chef, owner, or staff silently watch them chew. Sometimes they pepper the chewing noises with sentiments like "mmm", or "this is good". Sometimes they just stay silent and move onto the next dish. This is the secret way that they signal to the viewer to not order this dish if they ever find themselves there, but without being totally obvious. I appreciate their subtlety in this matter. People's feelings are at stake here.

Sometimes the female host will take a gigantic forkful, like when she would be alone in the kitchen at home eating last night's KFC coleslaw out of the container, and then remember she is in front of a camera, and deposit half of the bite back onto the plate. She deeply nods with each bite, like she's computing how pork chops are supposed to taste. She often takes a second mindless bite, only to realize that she must hide a portion of the second bite in her hand under the table because it's time to move along to the next sample. Out of the two hosts, she is the polite one.

The male host often joins the cooks in the kitchen, where they show him exactly how to prepare some of their most popular dishes. This of course falls to shit, because often the host will begin to stop following directions, and start to cater to what he likes to eat. It doesn't matter that the Southwest Burger has onion on it, because he doesn't like onion and this is his burger. I would say he's the more assertive of the two hosts. A real go-getter, a self-starter.

They put real-life, visibly uncomfortable, customers on TV to give testimonies on the quality of the restaurants. They ask leading questions such as: "Do you think that this restaurant, one of the best in the city, is a good restaurant?", and "Would you say you come here often, all the time, or regularly?"
I have seen a man almost reduced to tears with fear when the camera got up in his grill to ask what he liked about his nachos. He eventually choked out that they were "good, I guess".
They often interrupt their guests in the middle of an interview or let the microphone fall to the wayside so that you can't hear what anyone is saying. I should find this annoying, but it's just plain endearing. Wonderful, in fact.

Obviously, it is the cutest show on TV right now, but I can't do it full justice. You'll have to watch for yourself, if you're in town. Maybe have a couple of glasses of wine first.
Thursdays, Channel 10, 10:30PM.

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. Also, this lady is the producer... She's like the Calgary version of Charo! Neat!

In too deep.

2010-11-23T22:30:00.003-07:00

Oh, the glorious wonders of Youtube.
What happens when you search Genesis' 'In Too Deep'? Hours of fun! Pure magic!
Here, I've done the work for you guys. Check it-

The videos that accompany karaoke videos are always pure gold. This guy is so fucking pissed. He's definitely in too deep. Holy shit. Let's move on.

This one. Oooooh, man. This guy is in soooo deep.

I often wonder if stage parents ever stop to think of the ramifications their son might one day endure for singing 'In Too Deep' to another boy on national TV.

So deep. So, so deep.

xoxo
~sarah p.

Humbug.

2010-11-17T19:16:00.011-07:00

If you couldn't already guess, I totally hate the holiday season. Always have, always will. I try to understand why people would enjoy this time of year, but I keep coming up blank. The reasons people give: the spirit of Christmas, the joy, blah, blah, blah- they just don't seem legit. You can pretend to care about goodwill and cheer and "the giving spirit" all you want, fact of the matter is, people love the holidays because almost everyone breezes into January with a belly full of fine foods and couple of hundred of bucks worth of loot.
For example, I've got this one amazing trick where, upon people asking me what I want for Christmas, I put on a really sad face and say that I want "nothing". This one magical statement turns packages full of candles I'll never use, and ugly sweaters I'll never wear, into cards packed with cash and gift certificates (because, for some reason, you're not allowed to say that you "just want cash" for Christmas). I'm not the only one on the planet that uses this trick, I'm just the only one to admit it.
People say they love the generosity of this time of year, the family, the decency that it brings out in all of us, but then everyone just spends the time getting drunk, stuffing their faces, and getting needless gifts. If it were really about selflessness and togetherness, we would all bring our families to volunteer at the soup kitchen, and take the cash that we would use on little Timmy's X-Box 360 and giving it to the animal shelter.
Don't bullshit the bullshitter, holiday-lovers. I see right through you guys, straight to the little dollar signs in the back of your eyes.

The weather sucks, the malls are packed, and nobody buys me that three-flavor popcorn tin that I always ask for every year (cheese, butter, and caramel). My family started doing a gift exchange, which I thought was a good idea. I drew my mom's name out of the hat, I have to spend $150 on gifts for her and only her, no problem. My mom is the world's easiest person to buy for- she doesn't really even care what the gift is, so long as you wrapped it yourself. Nooooo problem.
You know what, though? Big problem. You see, my name was picked out of the hat by my worst relative. The one that, despite the $150 limit, will spend $3 on an ornament from the clearance section of Shopper's Drug Mart, and shrug unapologetically when I open it and realize that I've been bamboozled. Gift bamboozled.

I hate Christmas specials on TV. It's the same shit every year. Did Matlock need a 'very special' holiday episode? Every day that Matlock continues to breathe off of life support should be 'very special' to him. Also, every year they play the same commercials. I know this because I watch TV every month of every year. Can't trick me. There are a certain breed of actors that will never find themselves on a sitcom or a drama or a movie, and will just continue to be in commercials for the rest of their lives. The children of this breed really stand out, in that you visibly watch them age from one commercial to the next. Huggies to Hot Wheels to Trapper Keepers to Speed Stick. Boys to men. When a kid doesn't age from one year's commercial to the next, you know that company didn't dole out the cash for a fresh new 2010 ad, because they thought that nobody would notice. Unless these companies figured out a way to turn back the aging process, they are very obviously recycling their 2009 ads for another year. Nice try, guys.

Lastly (but certainly not least)- Santa. What the fuck is up with that guy? If it were any other time of year, and you busted a scruffy guy in flamboyant red, fur-trimmed pajamas on your roof, you would get on the phone and call the goddamn police. "Help!", you would say, "There is a gay vagrant on my roof, and he is trying to lodge himself inside of my chimney!".
They would come and take his shitload of reindeer to the SPCA (where does a man get eight reindeer anyway?), and haul his ass off to jail.
As the paddy wagon headed back toward the station, with ol' Saint Nick in the back of the car, he would bellow a deep and jolly "ho, ho, ho" out the window, to which you would get back on the phone with the cops to also sue him for verbal harassment, because nobody is allowed to call you a prostitute.
In spite of all of this, nobody bats an eyelash if this shit happens on December 24th. Guy gets on the roof, lets himself into the house, eats the cookies, makes out with your wife, and takes off with his herd of radioactive wild animals. No big deal. It's Christmas Eve, so it's okay.
Also, Santa looks like he would stink if you met him in real life. Juuuust sayin'.

Look, I like eggnog, and I won't turn down a sugar cookie at any time of the year. I like the smell of fir trees. I look adorable in mittens. I enjoy ruining Christmas for others. I guess it's not all bad, afterall.
Can someone please just get me my tin of popcorn this year? Come on. This is getting ridiculous.

~sarah p.

p.s. How about being nice to each other all of the time, assholes?

p.p.s. I also like those boxes of assorted chocolates. Hint, hint.

The worst feeling.

2010-11-03T20:12:00.008-06:00

I've always thought that the photos in Robert Frank's 'The Americans' were incredible representations of raw human emotion. Visualizations of happiness, sorrow, wonder, hate, hopelessness...Each page a deep window into the human soul.

I guess you could say that this photo is a pretty good representation of one of my least favorite feelings in the world... A gumless depression. Allow me to explain:

Each time my parents go down to the States, they ask me if they should bring me anything from across the border. Each time, I have one request and one request only: Fruit Stripe gum. Both the green (chewing) and the pink (bubble) kinds. Many, many packages.
You see, Fruit Stripe gum is very, very difficult to obtain in Canada, and I do believe that up to 50% of my soul is built of the stuff.

My heart leaps into my throat when they hand me a heavy paper bag upon their return.
I open the top of the bag and inhale the sweet air... I would imagine this is what heaven must smell like.
I eat them in rhythmic order, the pink, green, red flavors before the orange, yellow, blue, and purple flavors. One stick at a time, evenly pulling them from the paper sleeves so that the packages never have a surplus of a certain flavor.
I plaster my arms in the fake tattoos that come on the wrappers. It is a rare treat to find one that hasn't been cut in half during the manufacturing process, and I keep a small collection of wacky zebras surfing, skateboarding, dunking basketballs long after the gum is gone.
With obsessive vigor, I chew and chew until eventually, there is only one stick of each flavor left.
I have heard stories of parents being stuck in some sort of emergency situation where they must choose between their children, and I guess that this is what I feel when I get to this point. The joy is most certainly over. As each piece disappears, a piece of me dies.
For months after the gum is gone, I will occasionally pull out one of the saved wrappers and adorn my hand with a zebra playing t-ball, just for the memories. I always thought that it was just a sugar-comedown, but I now believe that the ending of my hard-to-obtain gum sends me into some sort of true gumless depression (spell check keeps telling me that 'gumless' is not a real word).

I guess what I am trying to say is- can anyone hook me up with more Fruit Stripe? Help a brother out? I've got the shakes, man.

All my love (even if you don't send me the gum),
~sarah p.

p.s. The little zebra on the package is called 'Yipes'. If that ain't cute, I don't know what is.

Dumpstergate 2010.

2010-10-31T19:37:00.004-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, I was strolling past a Calgary Sun paper box, and a headline caught me eye:
"Dumpster Baby Found in City's Northwest"
My first thought was "Oh. How sad.", but my second thought was "Halloween is a'comin'!"

For the record, little dumpster baby is fine. Chances are, he will have a close relationship with his therapist in the future (happens to the best of us), and he may never get to know his real mom, but let's face the facts: the kid's a star!

I went out the night prior to Halloween with a hungover stomach. I wore this costume to Local 522 for another amazing edition of Stars & Muscles. The bar was dark and crowed, a few people asked what I was, but most were fixated on the impending nip-slips that were about to go down (unavoidable when sexy costumes are out in full effect). I ended up taking off early, and not many of my pals caught a glimpse of my most clever costume yet.

Tonight, in between answering the door and dropping handfuls of candy into plastic pumpkins, I figured that I should post a photo of the costume of Facebook for all to see. What a horrible, horrible mistake.

Somewhere between high school and now, most folks have lost their sense of humor. Perhaps it's because a bunch of the chicks I knew in grade school are now full-fledged baby machines, but the amount of hate mail I received was staggering. Responses ranged from "What the fuck is wrong with you?!?" to "Obviously you don't have kids." (they were saying that like it's a bad thing). I had 26 people un-friend me in a span of an hour. Good riddance, you humorless bastards.

I took the photo down. No regrets, I just didn't feel like reading any more angry comments. I posted on a few select friend's walls, there was no reason that the photos should never see the light of day again... It was an amazing costume! There were folks dressed as Hitlers, child molesters, KKK-members, and dudes in fucking blackface, and I'm the one getting in shit? Relax, dudes. I didn't realize that a holiday built around dressing up like sluts and eating candy was such a somber occasion.

Here's a new headline for you: "Apparently, Halloween Is No Laughing Matter". Put that one on your front page, Calgary Sun.

Also, how am I going to top this costume next year, guys?

~sarah p.

The Inkling.

2010-10-27T19:51:00.009-06:00

Those who know me well know that I have never had the urge to have children. Now, in the future, ever. Despite constant cries of "You'll change your mind!", and "Just give it a few more years!", I'm almost 29, and it ain't gonna happen. I love Dylan to death, but quite frankly, I do not want to see what the mingling of our gene pools, combined with nine months of cooking next to my small intestine, would churn out.
However, the other night, staring at the TV while in a overtime-induced stupor after work, I felt a small, strange feeling in the pit of my stomach... An inkling, if you will. What if I had a tiny person to carry around with me? Someone to dress in cute outfits, someone to push around in a sweet little carriage... My petite, well-dressed, apple-cheeked cherub would be the envy of all of my friends. It could be a wonderful, life-changing experience! Motherhood! Bravo!
That's when I spilled my iced tea on my sweatshirt, and came back down to earth.
Waaaaait a minute.
On second thought, the the odd, overtaking feeling that had just swept over my conscience was not a newfound desire to spring children from my loins, but rather a familiar (twenty-five year old) yearning for a really bitchin' Cabbage Patch Doll.

~sarah p.

Vote Purp.

2010-10-21T19:50:00.009-06:00

As of Monday, Calgary has a new mayor, and for once, it's the guy I would've actually voted for. I used the word 'would've' because I failed at voting. Miserably.

I got up bright and early on Monday morning, and ran up to my voting station to place my ballot before 8:30AM. I was facing a long day at work, and wasn't sure I would be able to make it in time to vote in the evening. Too bad the polls didn't open until 10AM.
At 7PM, I ran as fast as I could to get back to my voting station. I got in lineup, ready and willing to place my ballot.
I know what you guys are thinking, but I didn't screw up my ballot by writing "yeah!" in the check-boxes instead of an 'x' (to be fair, I have made this mistake in the past). On a side note, I don't really think it's fair that you can only draw a check-mark or an 'x' to place a vote... They throw out your ballot if you don't mark the boxes properly! Ask any seven-year-old girl if a happy face or heart is just as valid as a check-mark or an 'x', and they will tell you what's up. Come on, now.
No, no, my friends... I did something far, far stupider than trying to 'spice up' my ballot paper. Far stupider.
I had only, shall we say, 'skimmed' my voter guide, and hadn't paid much attention to my appropriate location. When I gave my ID to the lady at the front, she looked at me with a panicked concern. "Sorry, honey," she said "You're at the wrong voting station". I asked if there was any way I could still vote. The polls were closing in minutes. The lady called over the head honcho, who shook his head in disgust at me, and turned me away (sorry, dude- that voter's guide was far too dry to read cover to cover- if they would've put some more pictures or a scratch-and-sniff motif in the booklet, I probably would've made it to the right place at the right time).
I was screwed...There was no way, on foot, that I could make it to my voting station before it closed. I walked home with my head down, terrified that my single vote would fuck up the results of the entire election. Imagine my relief when, at just after 10PM, Naheed Nenshi walked away with the victory by more than one vote.

I'm proud that Calgary finally decided to go against the 'wealthy middle-age white guy for mayor' grain. That shit didn't work two years ago, four years ago, forty years ago. Nenshi's an every-man's mayor; the kind of dude that would eat at a Chinese buffet and watch 30 Rock on a Thursday evening. The kind of guy that just may be able to get shit done. Dude is mad relateable.
He was raised in Marlborough, which gives him both street-cred and leading authority in Jamaican food. He is single, which means that he won't waste his breath trying to preserve 'family values' in the city. Fuckin' Bronconnier.
Plus, I can't wait to see how his dusky cinnamon complexion will contrast against the requisite giant white Stetson hat that he'll wear all throughout Stampede (probably beautifully).

Man, it's time this city shook things up a little bit, because we're the type of city who has a 'comfort zone' based on Budweiser, rodeos, Caucasians, suburbs, country music, SUVs, butter chicken, $1000 strollers, and absurdly shitty weather.
You've got a lot of work to do, Nenshi. Glad to have you on board.

~sarah p.

Behind The Scenes: Rick Ross Featuring Curren$y & Wiz Khalifa "Super High" (Sativa Remix)

2010-10-14T20:14:00.010-06:00

Man, I have been geeking on Teflon Don for months now. Lately, my attention span with rap albums has been wavering. Most albums, beyond this one and, surprisingly, Big Boi's new album, are a two-week fling.
However, I'm totally in love, for life, with the Super High Remix, and even more in love with this 'making of' video:

Catch the highlights at:
0:57- Wiz Khalifa loses his train of thought for the first, but not the last, time in the video.
1:05- Wiz Khalifa forgets where he is.
1:18- "They have smoked so much already, and it's not even halfway through. That was just, like, recreational smoking to get ready for it, but now we can get super high... Turn it up. I need to eat first, though. Fuck that."
1:43- Rick Ross' entry shot- glamour shot of diamond crosses around his neck, panning up to red, squinty eyes.
2:00- Rosay's personal shout out to 'Toucan'!
2:17- Rick Ross' exit shot- red, squinty eyes, panning down to a glamour shot of diamond crosses around his neck.
2:19- Perhaps Curren$y shouldn't eat and try to talk at the same time.
2:48- Walter's: A Place to Remember
2:55- "This is like, not the video shoot." "This is, like, behind the scenes, actually."
3:09- "And just trying to get uhhhh... Emergency... Uhhhh... I can't... Woooo, pause."
3:12 to 3:35- Straight gibberish.
4:03- Curren$y wanders off like a curious small child. Probably not for the first time that day.

Moderation, boys... Moderation. That way you don't get lost in downtown Atlanta at 1PM on a Monday during a video shoot. Chances are, they had to spend an hour out of their day trying to find Curren$y in the crowd at the hot dog stand. When they finally found him, squirting relish in his mouth at the condiment cart, Rick Ross probably ran over, hugged him, and said "Never leave my side again, okay? I was worried sick!".

Anyway, how are you guys? Perfect? Super perfect?

xoxo
~sarah p.

A note to Autumn 2010:

2010-10-09T13:07:00.008-06:00

I see that you have your bag packed, I know you're ready to leave, but please, baby, don't go. We've had some great times together this year. The way you made the leaves fall to the ground? Beautiful. Your colors? Intoxicating. I thought we were still in the "honeymoon stage". You were into me, I was into you, what changed? I have been wearing my prettiest light jackets and boots to try and keep you interested in me! Is the magic really gone already?
How you gonna play me like this, Autumn? I don't mean to be cocky, but I feel like you kinda owe it to me to stick around for a while longer, after giving me the cold shoulder and taking off early last year.
I really feel like we had something special. The way you hit twenty degrees more than once? This year, I wore a bathing suit in front of you for the first time in 28 years! Now you want to turn around and take off? I love you. You make me want to break out into Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel", or the Yeah Yeah Yeah's "Maps", or some corny shit like that. I need you! Damn, baby. You're the world to me right now!

Okay. Look. I'm sorry I'm getting so exited.
I know you can't stay forever, but the truth is, Winter is a cruel bitch mistress that takes away my livelihood every single year... He doesn't take care of me like you do, baby. He tries to freeze my fingertips off, and just when I think he's gone, he wrecks all of my fun by snowing, then trying to freeze my ears off. Sometimes, he even prevents Spring from coming and helping me escape his abusive ways. In the past, he has even gone as far as to ruin my Summer. Not joking! He had made it snow in fucking August, and you of all folks should know how horrible he is... He steps on your game almost every year! Stick up for yourself, man.
Please stay. My relationship with winter is not healthy, and only you can save me, Autumn 2010.
Don't leave me, baby. Please.
~sarah p.

Another COPS gem:

2010-09-18T21:26:00.004-06:00

A cop stops a guy as he lowers himself off of a high, barbed wire fence onto the ground.

Cop: Do you speak english? A little bit?
(guy nods)
Cop: Are you an American citizen?
(guy nods)
Cop: When did you immigrate to the U.S.?
Guy: Uhhh... Just now?

Nice try, man. The hopeful glimmer in that guy's eyes was probably the cutest thing I've seen all year. The cop shipped him back to Mexico, where he will have to try hopping the fence again in three hours.

~sarah p.

Hot Stuf.

2010-09-17T20:31:00.005-06:00

This week, I learned that, at 28 years old, I have high cholesterol. Guess it's time to finally make that switch to Single-Stuf Oreos. I always knew this day would come, I just didn't think it would come this soon.

~sarah p.

p.s. I was also stung by a wasp on Wednesday. It was freezing outside, and the little guy probably should have been hibernating by now. He stung me through my sweater (entirely unprovoked), and I had to yank at his black and yellow body him three times to remove him, each pull the stinger piercing harder into my skin. It's Friday and my arm is still swollen and itchy. I am pretty pissed about the whole thing. I've always been one of those "everyone should be nice to animals all the time" people, but I swear to you all that I will drop-kick and torch the next wasp nest I see.
p.p.s. This week totally sucked. Stars & Muscles 6 next Saturday, you guys!

Cavity Creeps.

2010-09-14T21:18:00.008-06:00

I got my first two cavities (ever) filled today. It's been almost ten years since I've been to the dentist; the last time I went it was paid for by my mom's insurance card. I used to walk into the dentist and walk out when the appointment was through, no papers or credit card numbers exchanged. If I walked out of a dental office today without signing a bunch of stuff and giving them my hard-earned cash, they would just send me a fucking bill in the mail.

Since moving out at the age of seventeen, I have learned to mostly flourish "out of the nest". That is, beyond having a strict aversion to doctors, dentists, acupuncturists, therapists, optometrists, holy men, and basically any appointment pertaining to my well-being. I think this all comes down to my "don't tell me what to do" attitude. My body, my rules. See the eye doctor every two years? How about every four. "Yearly" physical? I'll tell you when I'm coming to see you, and you only get to touch me below the waist every five visits. No free rides over here, doc.

That being said, I bit the bullet this last week and saw my MD, my optometrist, and the dentist. The first two were pretty painless. The doctor hovered on the boob area a bit too long, and I spilled a whole coffee on myself minutes before seeing the eye doctor. You know, same old.
The dentist, however, was a complete nightmare. First, they make you take off your shoes at the front and wear mini-hairnets over your feet. Not joking. For this particular visit, I did not see this sign, and left my (coffee-covered) shoes on the whole time, leaving sticky footprints all over the office. Nobody called me out on it. After ninety minutes of cleaning, they came and shot at me with a bunch of radiation, told me I have two holes in my teeth, and gave me a toothbrush with the name of their office on it. I was in shock, and booked another appointment in a week.

Today I went to that appointment. This time, I saw the sign at the door, and put the covers on over my little blue Vans... I didn't remove my sneakers because I wanted to ensure that I was able to make a quick escape if shit got too intense. I did not think I would ever have to get a cavity filled, let alone two. As I was sitting in the waiting room, one of the dental assistants asked if I was okay (I said yes), then asked if I was sure I was okay (this time I said no). I was fucking terrified. I was going to pass out. They talked to me about sedation dentistry. I declined. They asked if I was "sure I wanted to go through with this today". I told them to "hurry up and finish".

As I walked home with a frozen mouth, casually wiping my lip every ten seconds in case I might drool, I realized that first and foremost, I should blame myself for years of neglecting my oral health. Secondly, though, I blame the dentist. For sure.
Don't tell me what to do.

~sarah p.

Here we go again.

2010-08-31T21:38:00.003-06:00

The kid that ate the giant bag of weed in Super Troopers (whose other credits include such classics as 'Medium', and 'Big Fat Import Movie') is one of the lead roles in M. Night Shyamalan's new movie? I'll tell you guys, the 'twist' in this one better have something to do with pot brownies, or this movie is going to blow.

~sarah p.

p.s. I always thought the 'M' in M. Night Shyamalan probably stood for 'Michael' or 'Mild-Mannered'.

Sweet Justice.

2010-08-24T18:53:00.006-06:00

I think I may re-name this blog "Shitty Things That I've Been Doing Lately", because here's another whopper:

Today, on my way home from work, I was asked by a ten-year-old girl that lives down the street if I wanted to buy some lemonade from her stand. Truthfully, I could've really used a cool beverage at that point, I was a block away from home, had worked a hard day, and I was parched.
However, I said no.... And it was purely out of spite.

You see, at least once a week, at approximately 5:55PM, this kid gets onto her tire swing (which is hanging, stupidly, around a tree on their front boulevard, two feet away from the sidewalk). Thanks, mom and dad. She waits (no matter how close or far away I may be), posted on the grass, until I am directly in front of her, and at the opportune moment, careens herself square into my shin.
Afterward, she gets mad at me for "being in the way". She often runs into her house to notify her parents that I have gotten in the way of her swinging. Sometimes she says that I "hurt her foot". Here's a thought, kid: I'm not a ghost (yet*), so quit trying to swing through me.
At this point, any normal parent would be realizing the dangers of posting a tire swing two feet away from the sidewalk. Any other parent would cut the tire swing down, pack up their things, and move to a house with a fucking backyard. Instead, they pat her on the head, go jump in the Hummer, and go buy her another pair of "mini Uggs" (thanks again, mom and dad).
Sometimes, as I'm walking away, I see her smug little face peering out of the window as if to say "I've won this round, bitch".

Today, when I refused that glass of lemonade that I felt like I was standing up for something, and that something is "myself".
I've had my enemies over the years (Robin Williams, for one), and I should probably draw the line at primary school-aged children. "Should" being the key word, here.

I'm a huge fan of spite. It is easily my one of my favorite emotions, and my polite refusal of her lemonade barely makes up for all of the orthopedic surgeon visits that I may have to make later in life. However, using spite against a child? Making a 10-year-old enemy? I may (or may not) have gone too far this time.

I hope there's cable in hell, guys. I will just die if I miss an episode of Shaq Vs.

xoxo
~sarah p.

*...and when I am a ghost, and you can swing right through me, little girl, I promise you I will haunt the living shit out of you and your family.

Thuuuuug life.

2010-08-16T21:18:00.005-06:00

The other day, I may have done the worst thing I've ever done. I will be thirty years old in a year and a half, and I'm terrified that my mom will find out. I'd rather not divulge the details, but I assure you: for doing what I did, I would get in trouble in any country in the world. There is no excuse for what I did, rather, it was a crime of circumstance... A story to tell in about five years when I am sure I am fully void of any repercussions. I may not believe in heaven, but I am positive I will still end up in hell for this one.
Do you guys think I'll look better in a prison-issued orange jumpsuit, or a prison-ordered striped jumpsuit? How should I wear my do-rag: Hells Angels-style, Tupac-style, or 50 Cent-style? Do I have to make out with my cellmate? What will I do if I drop the soap in the communal shower????
Ugh. Why didn't I get mistakes like this out of my system when I was young, resilient, and brave?
Cross your fingers for me, guys. Or don't. I don't even know what I deserve anymore.

~sarah p.

Umbrella.

2010-08-09T21:25:00.010-06:00

I almost always carry an umbrella with me. Calgary's weather is less predictable than the lotto, and since I haven't had a 649 ticket pay off, well, ever, I figure I better adopt the 'better safe than sorry' motto in most facets of my life.

I used to carry around these beautiful compact black umbrellas. They were light and easy to hide in my bag. However, I kept running into the same problem: it would start to pour as I left work for the day. I would get on the bus (which, at the time, was my second home due to an exuberant daily commute), and place my wet umbrella at my feet. Sixteen hours later (which was the equivalent of 90 minutes in 'bus time'), I ring the bell and push my way through the wet asses and grabby hands to escape into the fresh air, entirely forgetting my inconspicuous umbrella on the serrated floor of the bus. I only let this happen about twelve times before enough was enough. No more petite, classy umbrellas. I went to buy the most inexpensive, horrid umbrella of all time.

There used to be this dollar store a few blocks from my work. Perhaps "dollar hole-in-the-wall" would be a more appropriate word for it. It was in between a Supercuts and a laundromat, and they often gave you your change in rolls of pennies. This may have had something to do with the ten-year-old that, I'm pretty sure, was running the joint. If he wasn't the main boss (sometimes there was a very old woman who didn't speak any English that also hung out behind the till), he was most certainly the assistant manager or something. A high ranking title, nonetheless.
There were shelves in the store, but the owners chose against stacking their wares on them (except maybe the odd empty soda can or used Kleenex), and preferred the "dig and hunt" method of shopping.
One lunch break, I rifled though the boxes on the floor until my knees were sore. I only had an hour for lunch, and when I asked the kid at the front if he knew where the umbrellas were hiding, he looked at me like I was crazy, and went back to pretending to shoot a faux-gun lighter at his wrinkled partner behind the till. Some sorts of 'Cowboys and Indians' game, but for dollar store employees, I guess.
I came back the next day, and only had to dig for a few minutes before finding the perfect umbrella. Even when folded, this umbrella stood higher than my knee and the price was right- $3. The print on the outside, a Blossom-esque peach floral, was just a bonus. It didn't matter if I lost this umbrella- it was cheap and ugly.

As Murphy's Law often has it's way in such cases, it's been almost three years that I've been carrying around this monstrosity. I haven't left it behind anywhere, and for the money I paid, it is abnormally durable. It's heavy, and it clashes with everything I own. However, it is safe to say that I have gotten my $3 back, tenfold, for all of the times that this awful umbrella has saved my ass.

The weather in this city has a funny way of working. It tends to like to play cute little tricks on me, like how it can be the most lovely day ever, all day long, but as soon as I'm about to clock out, it starts to downpour in a way that makes me wonder whether or not I should go start building an ark...
Today was no surprise: the blue skies turned to black as I stepped out the door on my way home. Drizzle progressed to rain, and pretty soon my trusty umbrella was shading me from sheets of water and hailstones. By the time I had reached the stairs right by my house, the rain had slowed down, but the wind was still fairly heavy. The wet plastic handle of my umbrella slipped through my fingers, and my umbrella floated halfway down the hill. From behind me, under the shelter of a half-built duplex, were a whole gaggle of construction workers, applauding as they watched me chase my airborne umbrella down the slope. At that moment, I wished that they'd just get back to hammering and sawing things, and making comments about my tits and ass like they normally do.

I held onto the long blades of grass to steady myself as I reached for the peach plastic handle. I bent down to pick up the umbrella, entirely forgetting the age-old rule: Never bend at the waist to pick something up if you are in front of twenty construction workers. With my ass in the air, I was almost requesting the barrage of ass-related comments that were being yelled from behind me. Ass this, ass that.
I was so wrong... The ass comments were way worse than taking a little guff for the umbrella gag. I stood up and, without turning around, opened my hand and let the wind carry the umbrella all the way to the bottom of the hill while I chased behind at a pseudo-panicked pace. You know what they say: always leave on a high note.

~sarah p.

I used to love H.I.M.

2010-08-06T20:03:00.005-06:00

I used to love T.I. too, Facebook... Before he was "saved by prison".
T.I. is now a role model, a father, a law-abiding citizen, and an all-around clean, polite, respectable guy. His albums are something you could buy for your nephew. I don't know, man. I'm just not buying into it.
Somebody get this man an Uzi and a stack of cash to throw around. Please. For the sake of all of the young ladies who thought Trap Muzik was the fucking best.

~sarah p.

Not the father.

2010-08-03T21:31:00.007-06:00

Q: If a man wears an airbrushed shirt that says "I'm not the father", but a woman says that she is "250% sure" that this same gentleman fathered her child, who is correct?

A: Trick question. You want to believe the woman, with tears running down her face, would be able to identify the man that put her through four minutes of drunken fondling, sixteen hours of labor, a life's worth of stretch-marks, and thousands of dollars in diapers.
However, look closer. Nobody who is that desperate to avoid child support would ever drop the cash to custom-airbrush a shirt without knowing where his semen had ended up earlier in the year. That shirt is pure confidence in the form of a 50/50 cotton blend. I could've saved Maury the cost of the DNA test right there. Not the father.

~sarah p.

A well deserved break.

2010-07-29T21:00:00.007-06:00

I have a feeling these next few days are going to be wonderful... Like when Urkel gets drunk, but in weekend form.

~sarah p.

You think you've had a bad day?

2010-07-26T21:07:00.004-06:00

This guy got busted, on COPS, for having sex in his truck. Next to a playground. With his (currently incarcerated) brother's wife. Who was fifteen years his junior.

I was watching a particularly rousing episode of COPS a few weeks ago, aptly titled "Stupid Behavior #3".
The cops pull up to the bumper of this old pickup, where there's a bunch of blurred blobs of skin, jumbling around in the cab. The driver's window opens, and a man's voice asks if he can get dressed. The man emerges wearing a neon orange t-shirt, and dangerously short cutoffs. A meek woman saunters out behind him, wearing a man's button-down shirt and no pants. The woman is terrified, she asks the cops if they have to "tell her folks" about the arrest. "Yes", nods the cop, sympathetically, despite the fact that the woman is clearly over the age of eighteen.
The man stands and talks with the cops for a minute. "Did you realize that you guys are right beside a playground, where there are children playing only a few feet away?", the cop asks.
The guy looks around for a moment and lights a cigarette with shaky hands: "I thought we were below the sight-line". "No", says the cop, "You were above the sight-line".
As they cuff him and frisk his pockets, he keeps saying polite, jolly things like: "Sorry 'bout this, guys", and "Well, jeez, I'm just real red in the face here".

Shows about cops? Still hot.
Shows about prison? On fire.

...Gotta make sure I don't spend too much time outside this summer, right? I don't want to go into "tan withdrawls" in the fall.

xoxo
~sarah p.

Whiiiiiiittney!

2010-07-23T22:50:00.005-06:00

Cover page again, baby! Still a star.

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. Guys! I think it might actually start acting like summer soon! Tomorrow, I'm going to drink some wine spritzers in the back yard, read some vintage Vogues that I picked up at the flea market, and shoot for medium bronze legs, light bronze face. Also, this neighbourhood is full of baby bunnies right now, and we have a big pot full of catnip (and also every cat on the block), so I don't even have to leave the yard to be entertained!
Next weekend is Stars & Muscles 5, and I am totally not wearing a coat. It is going to be the best.

Lohan: Raw

2010-07-13T22:37:00.006-06:00

Whoa, Lohan... You've really done it this time. You are in so much trouble, dude.
You are going to get hurt in prison. You are going to be the most attractive human in the entire building at all times (hell, even in court, you managed to pull off a "drugged supermodel that hasn't blown all of her money yet, and likes to play with markers" look that really worked!). Your cellmate is going to be so fucking stoked. When Martha Stewart got out of prison, she re-appeared into the spotlight, and told everyone that she was better for the experience. What she didn't mention were the nightly mandatory 'truth or dare' games in the exercise yard, or the 'Martha doesn't shower alone' rule that the girls in her cell block made up. It is going to be awful.
90 days later, you'll emerge a happy, slightly less scruffy, demure faux-lesbian... At least until you get your hands on one of the three V's: vodka, Vicodin, or vagina.
Tough break, kid. Good luck in the slammer.

~sarah p.

Best summer ever.

2010-07-09T21:00:00.005-06:00

There is one thing, and only one thing, thing that I miss about being in school: summer vacation.
You know what, though? Although I will never have the entire months of July and August off ever, ever again, the basic principles stay the same as they were in seventh grade. It's not rocket science, you guys.
If you feel like your summer is off to a lagging start, here are some things you can do to ensure the best summer ever:

Pick up a copy of the 'Above The Rim' soundtrack (I cannot stress this enough).
Drink beverages in slush-form only.
Buy a single pack of menthols and make it last for two whole months (refreshing!).
Wear mesh.
Eat popsicles every night for dinner.
Kick it at the outdoor pool.
Learn how to dunk (even if it's just on the elementary school nets).
Blow all of your spare change on sour soothers and freezies, and eat them on the swings at the playground.
Kick a wasp nest, and run (bonus: great way to burn calories).
Bring a pillow outside, and take a nap while you get a foxy tan.
Spearhead some sort of rap group. It doesn't matter if you break up just after Labour Day.
Heckle the 'Shakespeare in The Park' dudes.
Sneak into your neighbour's garden at night to enjoy some fine produce.
Try to fry an egg on the sidewalk.
Make casual bets on how many nutsacks you'll see peeking out of cutoffs on any given day at the park.
Stay up until the light starts peeking through the darkness, wake up in the early afternoon.
Find an old wheelchair. You'll be the envy of all of the kids riding around on stupid bikes.
Forget your curfew.
Go steal a stack of pamphlets from the Library, fold them into boats, throw them in the river, and watch them float away.
Wear your bathing suit instead of underpants, all summer long.

I may have responsibilities now that I didn't have fifteen years ago, but I still have a feeling that this may be one of the best summers ever.
xoxo
~sarah p.

The Back Pages.

2010-06-29T21:27:00.009-06:00

Each month, our copy of XXL ('Hip Hop on a Higher Level') shows up in our mailbox. It's a great 'family magazine' for our house. I enjoy reading articles on Drake's close relationship with his mom and play-by-play rundowns of Soulja Boy's twitter beefs, and Dylan likes to stare at the pages and pages of plump video-ho asses.
The best part, however, are the ads in the back. Between endorsements for gay chat-lines (thugs need hugs, too), 'male enhancement tablets', technical schools, and off-brand sneakers are ads such as these:
Now, I'm no marketing genius, but I can see XXL's advertising strategy from way over here: know thy reader.
You, the average XXL subscriber, flip to the back of the magazine just as the blunt starts to burn your fingers. While sunken into the couch, with squinty, red eyes you read: 'Is your music being leaked?' (it could be), and 'Is someone talking badly about you on a blog?' (probably). Fuck. Now you're all paranoid, clearing the smoke by doing that little 'hand-fan' motion, drawing the curtains and locking the door. You were going to go get some Cool Ranch Doritos, but fuck it- you're being watched. You think about calling someone, but are now suspecting that your homeboy might be a snitch, and your girl or man may be cheating on you. Also, the phone is probably tapped.
Better getin touch with 'Hacker for Hire'. Problem solved. XXL banks five cents a sale. More money to pay Nicki Minaj to take her pants off and pose with a pouty face into the camera. Ching ching. Everybody wins.

The ad below 'Hacker for Hire' is called 'Spoofem.com', and the grammar alone is delightful:
*Call any number you want and have any number show up on a persons caller ID.
*Send Text messages and Emails to make it look like it came from someone else.
*Wire Tap- Do you need to tape your own telephone line to record telephone calls.
How sweet it would be if I could make 'untraceable phone calls that CAN'T be traced', and could 'change my voice to sound like a male or a female'. I would make all kinds of joke phone calls. Perhaps I could change my voice to sound like Martin Lawrence circa 1993 (damn, Gina!).
I could call up my buddies at 1-800-FLOWERS to send a great big surprise box to Sinbad's house, filled with fifty bouquets of sunny daisies (and a full-grown Siberian tiger), paid for by Martin Lawrence's MasterCard, circa 2010. I would just tell them to 'charge it to my account'... You know that Martin Lawrence has had to use the old 'floral hush' technique before ('roses keep mouths closed')... He probably has those guys on speed-dial for those 'sick of the bullshit, gonna call your wife' emergencies that spring up on movie sets now and again.
Anyway- cute prank, right?XXL, subscription renewed.

~sarah p.

A letter to my 16-year-old self:

2010-06-25T21:43:00.003-06:00

Hey little lady,

I am writing this from the not-too-distant future... 2010, a place where nobody even uses Discmans anymore! Do you realize that we are now able to jump and listen to personal music players at the same time? Listening to Kris Kross is so easy for you now, you wouldn't even believe it.

Holy fuck. I'm not going to ruin the surprise, and spill the beans on your entire life story, but let me tell you: shit goes down. Sooo many times.
Listen, kiddo, I just want to give you a few words of advice... You don't want to have to learn this shit the hard way again:

*There are easier and smarter ways to do the following: buying booze, earning money, having a good time, getting decent grades, making rad friends. You are currently doing none of the preceding correctly. You fucking hate babysitting, and pretty soon Carly's older brother is going to college, and nobody is going to be around to score you bottles of Baby Duck. Better figure something out.
*If a guy shows up at your house, and a flavored condom falls out of his pocket, that guy is trying to get you pregnant.
*Please reconsider your "16-yr-old minimalist" phase, because there are albums and cassettes that, in your late twenties, you will wish you didn't sell in a milk crate at your mom's yard sale (for a very minimal profit).
*You should maybe learn to drive while you still have the balls.
*Don't let your cynical nature keep you from enjoying what is good. Don't sleep on the following for so long: Lil Wayne, vintage shoes, eyebrow pencils, and the joys of home ownership.
*If you totally hate your job, just fucking quit. Update your resume, and go get a new job. It is actually that easy.
*I know it sounds corny as hell, but be nicer to your sister.
*Remember when you drank bottled Singapore Slings and Powerade and rye, and you woke up feeling like you might die? Gin and soda sounds horrible, I know. It's more tolerable than you would think, and reduces hangovers by at least 40% (rough estimate). Also, it's going take you another twelve years to figure out that an occasional glass of water will make you feel even better. Sorry, 16-year-old liver.
*You should be more cautious about: traveling alone in foreign countries before the age of eighteen, knowing how much weed costs before trying to buy weed, "dressing your size", and significantly older men.
*Please try to understand what it means if you start dating a guy, and people give you that raised-eyebrows, "warning eyes" look when they find out.
*You know how sometimes, when it's hot, you go out for ice cream in the summer? Pretty soon, you'll be going for gelato instead.

Anyway, say hi to 1998 for me! 'Still Not A Player'- great track, right? Wait until you hear 'You Got Me' and Armand Van Helden for the first time next year... You're going to go nuts.

xoxo
~sarah p. (age 28.5)

p.s. New blog, you guys! All of my favorite Youtube tracks, in a convenient format.