Where are you?

I am here: http://write2sarah.com

So, it's not funny-ha-ha but it's who I am now as a writer. I just wrote my first post. I moved my old posts over there but haven't made any public. Who's still here? Anyone else move?

Helloooo

Hippie come-ons

Hi.

Last weekend, I went to a music festival with one of my besties. It was 400 degrees, so he was surly. We had some beers when arrived. On the way there, a young bride with a full skirt caught my friend's attention. "Look at this goddamn bride getting her picture taken on the bridge. Fucking asshole."

Admittedly, it's not a pretty bridge. I heart him.

After some beers in the heat, we ran into a friend from college and her beau. They ran into some more people. We watched some middle schoolers rocking Talking Heads and Nirvana. No joke. They drew a crowd.

Among the friends our friend brought to the mix was a hippie who had also had some beers. Hacky Sack and I struck up a conversation about the arts. He asked what I wrote. I said mostly essays and memoir about the uncomfortable. Like what, he wanted to know. Religion, relationships, sex - you know, life.

At this, he lit up. He talked a bit about his romance experience and said he was very interested in talking about relationships. He gave me his card. I tried some back-and-forth until he said, "Yeah! I'm most interested in talking about things in the physical realm, you know?"

Yeah, pumpkin. I know. That's when I texted my friend, who was standing to my right. "Help!" And he did.

A couple days later, I had a thing published about relationships. But not the kind that interested Hacky Sack.

If you're interested, please check it out here (and stick around because there is some great writing going on there).

Cheers.

A New Person

It's been years since I've posted here. It seems like just yesterday, and it seems like a long time ago.

I am a different person.

I got a master's degree, and then I got a divorce. Not a conscious uncoupling. A traditional, horrible, mean divorce. The kind your parents had in '76 or '82. Before Ivanna told us, "Don't get mad. Get everything."

This is not the right venue for me to share intimate details of my divorce, and really, it's fresh enough to be self-centered and not of value to the greater good. Yet.

I'm working on a website ... slowly, as I have a full time job and I'm a single-parent of two hilarious, brilliant, and remarkably weird kids. I might move this stuff over there. Or move some of it. Or none of it.

I thought I would want a fresh notebook because my writing style has changed with my life.

But I just logged in to poke around the blogs I've missed and felt like I reconnected to old friends.

I'm going to sit here the rest of the afternoon with a cup of coffee and the leftover chocolate-covered strawberries from Valentine's Day and visit old friends. I don't know that anyone will see this, but if you do, I've missed you and I'm happy to see you again.

I leave you with an old toast ...

Here's to you, and here's to me,
Friends, friends we'll always be,
But should we ever disagree,
The fuck with you and here's to me!

Cheers,
S.E.

How to Feed the Children

UNICEF commercial with Alyssa Milano comes on TV. An overwrought cover of John Lennon's "Imagine" plays over faces of beautiful, sad-faced children.

Me: Sometimes she fake-cries like Sallie Struthers. I wish she would just take her shirt off.

PHubby: Seriously! If she charged 50 cents a tit shot, she could feeds lots of kids. Her shaved muff could feed a village.

Happy New Year

Where does he get it?

My five-year-old son's artwork:

(I'm the furry one with the side-ass. His twin sister is the victim.)

I found this on the coffee table one morning, before my first cup of coffee.

(that's his name I blocked out up there.)

He should probably just be my illustrator.

Things that are not sneakers

This morning, I asked my five-year-old daughter to put on sneakers. She was home sick, and I had a lot of driving to do early for work. I told her to keep her snuggly, warm pajamas on, but to add underwear, socks and sneakers.

For future reference, a list of things that are not sneakers:

• Sparkly blue Mary Janes
• Pink snow boots
• Two pink child-size purses - one sparkly, one not
• A backpack containing ginger ale and goldfish.
• Two teddy bears, a "lovey" (a stuffed bunny head attached to a mini blanket), and a miniature lavender hippopotamus Pillow Pet
• One paperback copy of Matilda by Roald Dahl
• A journal with Curious George on the cover

For future reference, a list of things I did not say:

"PUT YOUR GODDAMN SNEAKERS ON YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FEET."
"Have you been taking any hallucinogenic drugs?"
"Seriously?"
"I swear to all that you hold dear that if you do not find SNEAKERS, put them on your feet, and get in the fucking car, I will throw away every other pair of shoes you own."

I consider this a victory, because last week, I did actually throw my five-year-old son's shoe in the trash can before school. He had to fish it out of there before getting on the bus, and I cried all the way to work.

I graduated and stuff

Hi Internet!

I missed you more than you missed me. What? What's that? You don't remember me? Yeah, I wouldn't remember me either.

I'm a little gloomy and grumpy and spending the evening in my sweatpants on my couch, watching election results roll in and drinking wine until I fall asleep. How YOU doin'?

And we're getting a Nor'Easter tomorrow. Thbpbp. Just hand me a bucket of ice cream and pants with better elastic. I quit.

Anyway, I graduated from my master's program. I'm now a master. Master writer. Perverts.

A tiny little excerpt of an excerpt from my manuscript was published on this really lovely online literary magazine for nonfiction, BraidedBrook.com. Really, most of the stuff they publish is gorgeous and poignant and lyrical. And mine was, well, mine.

If you care to read, I would love your good and bad feedback.