It's never too late for now

Do you ever have conversations with the 16 year old version of yourself?

Sure you do.

I don't do this deliberately or with great intention, but every now and then I catch myself thinking, "This is not at all where I thought I'd be when I was sixteen..." Mind you, it's supposed to be a passing notion, meant to inspire wistful glances at azalea bushes as I think of days gone by while Adele conveniently becomes the soundtrack to my life.

But then this uppity tart chimes in every time and I'm forced to explain myself to her.

28: Wow, this is definitely not what I thought I'd be doing when I was sixteen...
16: Damn right. You're supposed to be the 4th member of Destiny's Child and married to Lance Bass!
28: Yeah, there are a couple holes in that plan...
16: So, what the hell happened? Didn't you go to school for music?
28: Yeah, why?
16: Well, you're a therapist.
28: Oh, right. Well, you're never going to believe this, but it turns out that getting a degree in vocal performance does not actually get one any closer to financial independence and stability.
16: Shut up, really? I feel like someone should've mentioned that.
28: I know, right?
16: Well, didn't you ever think about going to Chicago or New York to audition for shows?
28: I did think about that, but it sounded hard and I got sleepy and Queer Eye was on-
16: What?
28: You'll see.

I tell you, that is one mouthy sandwich girl.

Fortunately, my life did not turn out the way my 16 year old self had planned. Otherwise, I'd be married to a gay former boy-band member and I'd be singing back-up for Beyonce at the Superbowl in leather and fishnets while someone pretends they don't understand me when I ask them if my mic is on.

As a therapist, I encourage all of you to have a chat with your 16 year old self. This may help you gain insight, address insecurities, or deal with unresolved feelings in your life.

As a woman nearing her 30s who still cannot parallel park or properly fold a fitted sheet, I encourage you to tell that judgmental, little shit to get off your lawn.

Everything sunny all the time, always, good time, beach party!

I tried really hard not to write this post because I wanted to be classy.  That went out the window at exactly 7:30 this morning.

'Round about that time, I was ripped from my sleep when the sound of 47 chainsaws came screaming from the kitchen and into my ears.

I leaped from my bed and went out into the kitchen to see what the hell was going on. And there stood my roommate.  Juicing a PINEAPPLE.

I just stared at him for a moment, trying to absorb what was going. I mistakenly waited for him to use his deductive reasoning skills to understand that his actions may have had something to do with why I was standing there, looking like a plaid-covered banshee.  

Nope.  Nothing.

In fact, he looked at me and said, "How are you this morning?"  

I stared at him again and blinked a few times, convinced that no one could be this dense.  "That thing scared the shit out of me."

He looked at me with sincere confusion, blinking the doey eyes of an innocent and said, "What thing?"

Mind you, I had just woken up in a fairly violent fashion and, as many of you may be aware (and as I have told him on more than one occasion) I am not a morning person.

"Are you kidding me?"  I looked from him to the juicer several times, trying to help him out with the context clues.

Now, this is the part that gets me. There was no epiphany.  There was no realization.  There was not even a hint of understanding that crossed his face.

Instead, without even a trace of a change in facial expression, he said, "Sorry about that."

Did he mean it?  I'm pretty sure he didn't.  Did he sound like he meant it?  Not even a little bit.  However, much like a 4-year old, he has learned that you can say this when someone is unhappy and it makes it all better.

In the last eight years, I have had 17 different roommates.

One of them was a 22-year old, male undergrad who once woke me up at 3am while he and his buddies, all high as kites, decided to play various musical instruments at once.

Another was a 5-foot, 110 pound firecracker with a long-distance boyfriend who liked to Skype Saturday morning before the sun was completely up.

At one point, I even shared a house with a married couple and their newborn baby.  Never once did that baby wake me up.

In all of those situations, any time someone was making a little more noise than usual, all of those people had the decency to at least say, "Sorry, did I wake you?" and look somewhat remorseful.

In this situation, however, it's like a cocker spaniel pooped in my sneaker and then hid in the linen closet because he knows he did something wrong, but he's not exactly sure what that is.

And just like that cocker spaniel, there's no point in yelling or rubbing his nose in it because, well, he won't get it.  Instead, you roll your eyes, throw out your shoe, make your coffee and go write a blog post until you calm down.

Quite frankly, I'd rather have the shoe-shitting cocker spaniel.

Hey, it's okay...OR AM I?

Hey, it's okay...

...if you got in trouble last week for PASSING A NOTE IN CLASS.

Wait, nope.  No, that's not okay.

Last I checked, I tie my own shoes, I set my own bedtime and I use the potty all by myself.

Never mind the fact that at least two other students in that class had Facebook pulled up on their laptops.  Never mind the fact that people (who are not me) talk over this professor constantly.  Never mind the fact that I am in graduate school, I'm 26 years old and I transitioned from my training bra a long, long time ago.

Here's what happened.

My professor was asking the class about their individual experiences with a project that requires each person to give something up.  I commented on my struggle to give up refined sugars for the last 4 weeks.

After I shared my own thoughts, the girl next to me wrote on a piece of paper that I should try sugar-free chocolate pudding.  I wrote back, thanking her for the suggestion and that I hadn't thought of that.

Sexy stuff, right?

There was no attempt to cover up this note-passing.  We simply pushed it back and forth between us, jotting down a quick thought and going back to listening. The whole thing lasted all of 3 minutes.

My professor, rather than saying, "Hey, can you guys knock that off?" (to which I actually would've responded really well), stopped talking, walked over to us, put her hand on the piece of paper and slid it away from us with this knowing smile, like she had just caught us trying really hard to be sneaky.

I attempted to explain myself.  "That's actually relevant to what we're discussing."

She smiled again and rested the piece of paper on the desk in front of her.  "It's distracting."

"I'm sorry. I thought it might be less distracting than me just chatting with her," I tried again.

She smiled, said nothing and went on with the rest of class.

This professor is actually a very nice person.  That doesn't mean my ass wasn't twitching through the rest of class.

In all fairness, one could argue that if I'm such a grownup, I wouldn't be passing notes in the first place and could control myself long enough to talk to my peer after class.

One could also argue that if I am really a grownup, chances are the note I'm passing, and making no attempt to hide, probably doesn't say, "OMG! She's so boring! What are you doing after class?  I like boys! REBELLION!!!"

"But Sara," you say. "You're missing the point.  It wasn't the content of the note to which your poor professor objected.  It was the manner in which you conveyed that content.  Have you learned nothing?"

Point taken.  And yes, I have learned something.  I will no longer pass notes in class.

I'll just text like everyone else.

Oktoberfest! (Suck it, September)

September has pretty much been the worst thing to happen since clear Pepsi.  The suckathon began September 2nd and stayed strong, popping up right on through the 30th.

Tomorrow is the first day of October and let me just say, I'm not putting up with September's shit anymore.  So, I've decided October needs to be wildly excellent.  And because I'm the laziest kid in town, I'm going to need you guys to fix it for me.

Starting tomorrow, *I will pretty much do whatever you guys tell me to do.

I am asking you all to come up with things I can do to entertain myself, perk myself up when life's got me down and perhaps amuse me at the expense of another.

For example, if you require me to insert the phrase "refurbished ninja stars" into at least one conversation every day for the month of October, I'll do it.

Basically, I need this month to fly by.  Otherwise, I'll be forced to buy a housecoat and start streaming episodes of Mannix.

Here are the only stipulations of this shtick:

• It needs to be cheap
• It needs to be relatively legal
• Sadly, it can't include sugar because of a stupid class project
• It cannot interfere with my sitting around time

Keep in mind, I live in a "town" with limited resources.  I have no Target, no curbside trash pickup and no cell reception.

Challenge extended.

*I will not eat mayonnaise, kick a puppy, lick a boot, pee outside, put feathers in my hair, engage in professional or amateur prostitution or cook.

TODAY is my brother's birthday instead of yesterday

My brother, Sam, and I keep in touch through the the magic of texting.

We're both educated, witty and highly intelligent people.

As you might imagine, we have educated, witty and highly intelligent conversations.

This was the winner from last night:

Sara: Happy birthday! What are you doing?
Sam: I actually had to think for a second if I had forgotten my birthday. I'll probably make people go drink tomorrow. And ice cream.
Sara: Not tonight? Your birthday is happening right now, isn't it?
Sam: No, I checked, it's tomorrow. But thank you!
Sara: Am I high? Wait, yup. I am. Never mind. I knew that. I've had my days messed up.
Sam: You and your drugs.
Sara: You're what, 28, right? Wait, how old am I?
Sam: I'm 28.  For one more day. You're 25 I'm pretty sure.
Nope, 26.
Sara: Are you watching the Emmy's?
Sam: They're still doing those?

If this is what we sound like now, I can't wait until we're exchanging holograms about our bowel movements in 50 years.

Happy birthday, Sam!

Adventures in shopping for things I hate

I'm in Florida this weekend with Lisa, The Blonde Blogette.

As part of my preparations in the upcoming days, I realized I did not have a swimsuit worthy of Tampa.  And as I had Thursday morning free, I saw it as a lovely opportunity to go forth and procure a new suit that would like be on sale.

I started out at our "mall."  I use that term loosely as it only involves JC Penney's, Old Navy, a nameless fudge shop and something we have here in the South known as Belk.

I went to Penney's as I had seen multiple mentions of online sales, and I assumed at least a small fraction of these would also be in the store.

Upon arriving, I did a lap around the store, looking for that one rack of swimsuits, probably pushed in the back.  After taking the 7 seconds required to walk all the way around our JCP, I realized I might need some direction.

I found the nearest sales associate and approached her, asking for help.

"Excuse me, do you know where I might find the swimsuits?"

The saleswoman led me to the clearance racks.  "Oh, great.  Thanks.  I'll just rifle through these."

I thought out interaction had ended.  I was mistaken.

The saleswoman, who I will refer to as Alma, insisted on being helpful.

"What size are you lookin' for?" Alma asked, as she started moving through the racks on her own.

"Uhhhh, you know, I'll just peruse through some of this here.  Thanks so much." Isn't that the international code phrase for "Piss off."?

"Now, there's a medium bottom over here and a small top on this rack. Wait, no that's a medium top and a large bottom."

"That's great.  I don't think-"

"There used to be a black and white one here, but I don't know where it went.  Maybe someone's trying it on."  I then watched Alma head toward the dressing room, assuming she was going to look on the discard rack.

All of a sudden, I hear her knock on one of the dressing room doors and say, "'Scuse me? Are you tryin' on that black and white bathing suit?"

The woman she'd interrupted in the dressing room hesitantly replied, "Um, yes?"

"Well, when you're done, there's a young lady out here who wants to try it on," Alma informed her.

"...Okay."

The whole time, I'd been staring at the clearance racks, which had all of 2 bathing suits on them.  Both were two-pieces (which I don't do) and both were ugly (which I also don't do).

Suddenly, a woman emerged from the dressing room with a black and white two-piece.  She looked a little irritated as Alma grabbed the black and white bathing suit from her, thrust it toward me and announced, "I knew it was still here!"

I had trouble with words at this point.

"Oh, wow, I don't, um, I really need a one-piece but I'm sorry and thank you so..."

"Oh, well okay..." Alma sort of wandered off into the distance and I took this opportunity to get the hell out of there.

After JCP, I went to Old Navy, Belk and then I even drove to our outlet mall in another town.  At every store, I was told that they'd already gotten rid of most, if not all, of their bathing suits.

Okay, so am I high?  I always thought a Labor Day sale was when stores got rid of their Summer stuff for wicked cheap to make room for the Fall stuff.

I was so frustrated, I got in my car and cried.

Actually, I think that was largely due to the fact that I hadn't had coffee in 36 hours.  I would've sucked the coffee grounds from under a lemur handler's fingernails at that point.

Nobody likes a quitter

I'm not having coffee today.  Or tomorrow.  Or the next day, for that matter.

I'm not having coffee for the next two weeks.  May God have mercy on the poor souls of those who cross my path in the upcoming fortnight.

(See, I can still use words like "fortnight" because my brain is happy thanks to all the chemicals I give it every morning.)

It just so happens that I'm also giving up alcohol, sugar and all the illegal drugs I never did but now kind of want to do just because someone is telling me I can't.

By no means am I doing this of my own accord.  I am in a class that focuses on addictions and part of the curriculum is that we look at some of our own addictions.  Apparently my addiction to dental hygiene didn't count.

For some people, it's that frosty beer at the end of a long day.  For others, it's the doughnut every morning (I wish), the M&Ms at midday and the brownie before bed.  For Jessie Spano, it was those damn caffeine pills.

For me, it's coffee.

I have my coffee every morning.  I'm a simple woman with simple, yet particular taste.  I want my Newman's dark roast, black as night and strong like bull.  Occasionally, if I'm feeling fancy, I like my coffee to taste "Christmasy."  Point being, I have 24 ounces every morning.  This allows me to put my pants on correctly after only 2 tries, remember how my thumbs work and make almost complete sentences with my work colleagues before 9am.

After the two week period without caffeine, alcohol, sugar and Mexican Speedballs, I am to choose one of these from which I will continue to abstain for the remainder of the semester.

Naturally, it will not be caffeine.  It will not be alcohol as I really only have the occasional glass of red with dinner.  It will also not be the Mexican Speedballs because they are what's behind my bubbly and perky demeanor.

My friends, I'm giving up sugar for the whole semester (and yes there's sugar in wine but it doesn't count I'm not sure why shut up who's side are you on anyway you fascist excuse for a hamster wheel).

I think this will be for the best as many of my clothes no longer fit and my ass is taking on a life of its own with its non-shape of a shape.

In the meantime, I'll be going "cold turkey" for the next two weeks.

Sidenote:  "Cold turkey" should really be called "dehydrated jellyfish rolled in breadcrumbs and stuffed down the garbage disposal."