I'll be watching you

I had a post all ready about how the worst thing about a woman living by herself is having to carry in all the groceries without any help (and have 2 of the bags break on you, their contents spilling all over the stairs-which may or may not have happened to me tonight). However, I just watched "Primetime", and they ran a story about a 27 year old woman from Indianapolis. She lives in a house all by herself. One day she was in her bedroom reaching to grab a sweatshirt, and she saw a man outside. He busted through her front gate and started running at her window. He was holding a video camera and slammed it up against the window.

The girl called 911, but the guy was gone by the time the cops got there. This went on for 6 months. She would catch him at her windows 3 or 4 times a week-sometimes in the middle of the night-then call the cops, but the guy would always get away. For SIX MONTHS!!!! The girl didn't leave or go stay somewhere else or anything. Instead she got pissed.

One night she went outside and they met face to face. He looked at her, put his hands in his pockets and walked away. She went after him. She chased him down the street. He finally stopped, and she was like, "Why do you look in my windows and take pictures of me? What do you want?" The guy said, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't even know you, lady." She was like, "Cut the bullshit. I've seen you." The guy freaked and ran to his pickup truck. The girl called 911. The guy jumped into the cab of the truck and started driving away, and do you want to know what this girl did? Do you?

SHE JUMPED INTO THE BED OF THE TRUCK.

Um. Are you fucking kidding me? The guy just kept driving. The whole time she was on the phone with 911 trying to tell them where the guy was taking her. Eventually the guy stopped, got out and went to the back of the truck and started trying to grab her and pull her out, but she just kept kicking him over and over--still on the phone with 911.

The cops ended up finding them and arresting the guy. It turns out this man had been out of prison for 2 years after being in there for 18 years for aggravated rape. They found duct tape, a leather mask and lubricant (mah!) in his truck. When they searched his house they found hundreds upon hundreds of photos of this girl. He had been stalking her for 11 months--5 months before she even noticed him.

Holy fucking shit.

This story raises some questions:

1. Can someone with knowledge of the law or police policy please explain to me why the hell this girl did not have a cop outside her home every single night waiting to catch this guy?

2. Why does this girl rule everything? She is a real life badass and my new hero. The first time I see some guy at my window, I'm fainting. Then immediately moving out and buying a gun. Or at least sleeping with my kitchen knives.

3. Can someone please come stay with me at night? Girl or guy-I don't care. Just someone come over and protect me, or I am never going to be able to sleep again. Pretty please?

By the way, in case you are wondering, experts "do not recommend" taking things into your own hands the way this girl did because you never know how your assailant will react.

Um...duh?

First of all, I am the slowest runner on Earth so if I tried to run after him on the street, he could stop for a bite to eat, take a 20 minute nap and do his taxes before I even got 10 yards. Second of all, I would have no idea what to say to him if I did catch up to him. It would start out like, "'Sup?" and end in me laying on the ground in the fetal position crying my eyes out. And lastly, I can't even hop into the bed of a pickup truck when it's parked, let alone moving. Vigilante Sarah is the wussiest superhero ever.

Letters for March 30th

Dear Blogger,
Kudos on your effort to try and rid the Internet of me this morning, but your little plan didn't work. The people were outraged and a coup was staged. And yes that is just a fancy way of saying that I was outraged and sent you an email asking you why my blog was missing. But even though you tried to keep me down, I rose above and triumphantly returned. How would the world have continued on without my observations on bad drivers and Salt & Vinegar Pringles? I mean seriously, Blogger, I am really important, and I speak about the issues that concern all of us (The Bachelorette, alcohol and Thin Mints to name a few). Let's just get one thing straight: I will not be oppressed!!

Dear Guy Driving in Front of Me This Morning,
I can certainly appreciate why you would not want to drive over potholes. And I am aware that in Lakewood there is a pothole roughly every 20 yards. However, if you actually think that you will avoid damage being done to your car by swerving into a) the car next to you or b) oncoming traffic to avoid potholes, I'm afraid you are mistaken. You see, a head-on collision will actually cause more damage to your car than a small pothole. Yes-it's a little known fact but true nonetheless. At any rate quit driving like a goddamn moron because if you get in an accident in front of me I will be really pissed.

Dear Smokers,
I did not mean to offend with my post yesterday. While I do wish for your health's sake that you didn't smoke, I applaud the fact that you are managing to find a way to not work the full 8 hours. I use a lot of creativity to get out of working such as "I need to go across the street to mail something" or "I was doing some banking" or my personal favorite "I was talking to my dad" (he works in the same building as me). I didn't mean to imply that you guys were lazy or that I was mad that you took breaks. All I was saying is that I want in...just without having to smoke. Also you should quit because it's bad for you. Instead you should drink a lot of alcohol.

Dear Ladies with Big-Ass Hair,
We need to discuss your seating choices at movies, concerts, plays, etc. Let me just set the stage here: last night we went to a concert (I will refrain from saying which concert so as to avoid losing readers), and one of you was sitting in front of us. Her hair somehow managed to block the view of no less than 4 adults, 3 of whom are 5'8" or taller. More surprising is the fact that she was sitting down, and we were standing. I don't even know how that is possible, but it happened. At one point Diane was so frustrated she blew on her, but all that resulted in was her fluffing up her hair more. So here is what I'm proposing: if you have big hair* and you are planning a night at a venue where it is possible you could be sitting in front of other people, please do one of following things:

1. Move your hairstyle into this decade. Your club member at the concert last night had the hairstyle that my friend Meg described so eloquently as "the same hairstyle my mom had in '83". If your hair is from this decade and is just plain big or you refuse to leave the 80's behind, then...

2. Sit in the back. No-I'm not kidding. And if you simply cannot sit in the back...

3. Bring a hair tie. And before you accuse me of tossing out judgements (which I never ever do), I should tell you that I, myself, can have "mushroomy" hair if the necessary precautions are not taken and proper control is not maintained. However, if that situation should arise, I always have a hair tie with me. It is just common courtesy.

*If you aren't sure, ask a trusted friend or hairdresser.

Life altering

Sometimes you read something that speaks to you, that reaches you in a way nothing ever has before, and once you've read it, you're somehow changed. It is with this in mind that I present to you, Pineapple.

Smoke-out

I got on the elevator this morning to go downstairs and buy breakfast (Sprees), and another girl got on with me. When we got off the elevator at the first floor, I noticed she was going outside to have a smoke. It was 8:30am. 8:30 in the morning, people! What could possibly have happened in the first 30 minutes of work that she had to have a cigarette? "The fax machine didn't give me a confirmation document! Why?? WHY???????" (heavy sobbing) "Goddammit I need a cigarette."

I mean if this girl is going at 8:30am, chances are she will go at least once an hour for the rest of the day. And each break will probably last at least 7 minutes. That's 8 breaks x 7 minutes each = 56 minutes. That's almost an hour worth of breaks that us non-smokers are not taking. I think I have just justified the amount of time I spend on blogging and reading others' blogs. I will save this information to provide to my boss when he catches me reading John's 3lb poop theory.

P.S. Here's another reason why my dad is awesome. He smoked for 30 years, and then on December 19th, 2003 he quit cold turkey. He hasn't smoked since. Kick ass much, Dad?

C'est la vie

One of the things I have learned from B leaving is that life offers no guarantees. It doesn't matter how confident you are of anything or how secure you feel, nothing is for sure. This is a crappy lesson. In fact I hate this lesson. It is difficult and heartbreaking and not even useful, really. It would've been much more valuable to me if when B had left I had learned a lesson on how to change my oil or on creating a great steak marinade. But nooooo. I have to learn that you can count on almost nothing. Boo. That sucks.

All of this lesson learning has me depressed. So to make myself feel better I have decided to seek out things that I CAN count on. Here is what I have so far in the way of life's certainties:

- Will Ferrell is the most hilarious person on the planet
- Cherry Coke is always refreshing and delicious
- Diane will tell me I am crabby or in a bad mood at least once a week
- If I turn the cold water off a little bit in my shower, the water will get colder
- 6 times out of 10 I will sneeze right after I put on my mascara so I end up looking like this:



- If it exists in nature, I will be allergic to it
- Diet Dr. Pepper does not and will never taste like regular Dr. Pepper
- When Conan O'Brien has animals on his show you will laugh so hard you almost pass out
- A night at the emergency room will cost more than my first car

Happy Birthday, Diane!!!

Happy Birthday to my little sister, Diane! She's 26 today. That actually makes me feel older than turning 28 myself. You sure are a pain in the ass, D, but I love you anyway. Happy Birthday!



P.S. She totally kicked that bull's ass.

My Spring Break in the Bahamas - Part 3 of 3

Diane's rash is worsening, and I notice I am starting to get the same rash. Our chests and backs are covered in these red itchy bumps. We decide to call our mom who says we might be allergic to the sunscreen. We buy a different kind, but it doesn't help. Eventually we are so miserable we simply must get medical attention. We go to a nearby clinic. Diane gets a shot in the ass, and we both get some pills and some ointment. We are told to stay out of the sun and to not drink any alcohol. 'Hmm,' we think, 'at least those are two activities that have nothing to do with Spring Break.' We have about 3 days left, and there is no way in hell we are staying indoors or staying sober. So we thank the doctor and go outside and immediately start tanning and drinking.

One of the girls who is with us, Jen, is a friend of my roommate's. None of us really know her. She doesn't really talk much, and she kind of acts like she doesn't like us. One night we all go out, and she says she wants to enter a wet t-shirt contest. Holy crap-this chick is totally cool! We are so excited that she's opening up to us and feels comfortable with us. We encourage her to get on stage, and we get all the people around us to cheer for her when it's her turn. She loses to a girl who decides that you don't even need a t-shirt to be in a wet t-shirt contest. Nor do you need a bra apparently. Or anything covering up the top half of your body. Of course this girl is going to win. She is a slut, and I'm pretty sure I saw her French kiss the judge. Jen rejoins us and starts yelling at us. She says it is our fault she didn't win because we didn't yell loud enough. We bring up the fact that we got tons of guys who don't know her to cheer for her when they clearly wanted to cheer for the bare boobies. She doesn't want to hear it. Instead she takes off the t-shirt she was given for the contest. She is now standing in the middle of the bar in her bra. She looks over at some poor guy who is looking back at her in disbelief, and she says, "What the fuck are you looking at, asshole?" then flips him the bird. She then decides it's time to leave so she grabs her stuff and heads out. I decide right then and there that I will not go on any more vacations with Jen.

One of the last nights of our trip, we decide we need Outback Steakhouse. I really don't know why. We just see an ad for it, and we want it. We take the bus to the other side of the island. Once we get there we see that Outback Steakhouse will not be open for another month. Sweet. Let's just go to that Chinese place over there. Surprisingly, it is the best Chinese food I have ever had. After our meal, we want to head back to our hotel so we start looking for a taxi. A guy standing on a corner says, "You guys need a taxi? Come on-$4 a person." We say fine, and hop in his minivan. The middle bench seat is missing. A little alert goes off in my head "Danger! Danger!" yet like total morons, we still get in. There are 7 of us so half of us are on the floor. He asks us where we are going then decides he wants to show us around the island. He says he wants us to see the "real" Bahamas then he proceeds to drive 700 miles an hour down every back road on the island.

At this point, it's dawning on us that hey-this guy may not be an actual taxi driver! I am praying. Images of my mom and dad, my friends, my childhood all go flashing through my mind. I'm holding my sister's hand because I am fairly certain we are about to die in one of two ways: either we are going to be killed in a head-on collision or we are going to be taken back to a crackhouse and then raped and murdered. After about a half hour of driving absolutely nowhere near where we need to be, my 4'8" roommate, Megan, tells him in no uncertain terms that his little tour is over, and it's time to take us to our hotel-now. He says, "Okay, okay." and takes us back. He apologizes for scaring us. (Seriously, Megan, what is the deal? Why are you so goddamn streetwise?) The next day we tell another legitimate taxi driver about our experience, and he tells us we are lucky to be alive. We have now cheated death four times on this one vacation.

The last day of our trip, Diane and I are purple. We officially have sun poisoning. We try laying out, but our skin begins sizzling so we have to go indoors. We are shaking and sick. We are inside all day until dinnertime when we finally start to feel better. I take a look at the skin on my neck and chest. It is purple and blistering. It looks totally hot. And not hot like attractive. Hot like you could probably fry bacon on my sternum.

Finally the day has come for us to leave. We all agree that even after everything that happened, it really was a fun trip. Then we all agree even more that we need to get the hell out of here before we almost die again. We get to the airport and realize that Megan has forgotten her garment bag. Someone from the vacation company has to drive back and get it. We don't feel bad, though, because they are the ones who let us book rooms in the crappy hooker/drug motel then charged us for leaving it.

Besides our loooong layover in Miami, Florida, our trip home is, thankfully, uneventful. We get home safe and sound...and, quite frankly, with a newfound respect for life. My sister, Kim and I take our film from the trip to Wal-mart to be developed. When we pick up the pictures an hour later, they are all ruined because some jerk-off high school photo lab kid spilled chemicals all over the undeveloped film. We are mildly pissed, but can only laugh because when you really think about it, that is a very fitting end to a very effed up Spring Break.

My Spring Break in the Bahamas - Part 2 of 3

That first night we get drunk at the pool bar. It's actually hopping, but not with kids on Spring Break. It's all locals. One guy walks up to Diane and Renee, shows them his huge bank roll, and asks, "How much for the both of you?" They laugh out of sheer panic then run away, and it's determined that Joey really wasn't lying about the by-the-hour thing. Then later I go up to the bar with Diane and some guy grabs her ass. She asks him to stop, but he won't. He keeps grabbing her and saying, "Hey. Hey. Come sit with me." Finally I push him away and say, "Leave her alone, asshole. She doesn't want to talk to you. Can't you see that?" Then we walk away. This is a big mistake because apparently this man has a gun, and he comes over to me later to tell me so. He tells us he is a drug dealer and that he has a gun, and he has shot people before, and that he could shoot all of us right now, and nothing would happen to him because his cousin is a cop. This is the second time in one day we have been told we might die. Somehow my 4'8" roommate, Megan, calms this guy down and actually gets him to like us. She is a total badass and is really scary--even to me, and I am over a foot taller than her. Finally we find our fellow Spring Break boys and make them stay with us all night because we are scared of every single person at the motel. Also Renee was trying to hook up with one of them so you know.

The next day we head to the "beach" again, and our pal Joey is there. We hang out with him. I actually attempt to get in the ocean (you know how I feel about the ocean), but then I see something jump out of the water about 20 yards away, and that pretty much does it for me. It's about this time we start to notice that Diane has some kind of rash on her chest and back. She is kind of miserable because it itches so we buy her some Benadryl. We decide to get lunch, and we say, "Hey Joey-we're going to get something to eat if you want to come." So he does. Lunch is tons of fun. We get the bill and start passing it around and Joey says, "I don't have any money. You guys invited me so you should pay." He had lobster--the most expensive thing on the menu. We're all just kind of staring at him in disbelief, and Kim says, "Okay we'll get it. That's fine." Then we ditch Joey because seriously what the eff? We didn't say we would buy you lunch. We just said if you wanted to tag along you could. Plus earlier in the day he had started to get creepy and talk about doing hard drugs with us so it was time for us to say goodbye anyway. You suck, Joey!

We come back to the motel later that night after going to a club, and we can tell something is amiss. It's too quiet. We walk to our rooms and see a few police cars sitting right outside. We quickly go inside. Suddenly there is an eruption of sound. Men shouting, dogs barking, car engines. Headlights are shining into our room. We carefully peak outside, and it turns out that right outside our window, a full-scale drug raid is taking place. The dogs are police dogs searching for drugs. Men are being arrested and beaten. Guns are being pulled. It is the closest I have ever come to actually soiling my underpants. We turn off our lights, pull the shade, put all our luggage in front of the door and lay in bed, under the covers, totally freaking out. This is the third time on this trip we have almost died.

The next morning we call our parents and tell them what happened. They immediately call the vacation tour company, and the woman on the phone tells my mother, "Oh that's weird-we usually never let girls even stay at that hotel. I wonder how they got through." I wonder had we been raped and murdered, would this lady have said, "Oh that's weird."? My mother succeeds in getting us transferred to a new hotel...at $150 extra person. But none of us care. We would rather be poor than dead.

They put us up in the Marriott. It is BEAUTIFUL. It's exactly what you picture when you say you are going to the Bahamas. It has a huge (real) beach right on the ocean, an enormous swimming pool fit for human use and the rooms are gorgeous. They have carpet AND a telephone! Ah-the luxury! There is even a remote for the TV. It is like we have died and gone to heaven--died as innocent bystanders during a shoot-out between the cops and the druglords and then gone to heaven at the Marriott. Oh and it isn't long before we discover that the guy who propositioned Renee and Diane on our first night here is the Spring Break DJ at the Marriott.

to be continued...

My Spring Break in the Bahamas - Part 1 of 3

My senior year in college, my friends and I decide to go to the Bahamas for Spring Break. My one roommate books it through one of those agencies that set up entire Spring Break vacations for you. They have specific flight times, and all the transportation is provided for you once you're on the island. The only choice you have to make is which hotel to stay at. The day comes to leave, and we get up at the buttcrack of dawn. I mean, seriously people, it is early.

We get to the airport and the flights are delayed. It's too early for any of the restaurants or food stands to be open so we basically just sit for hours, totally starving. There are probably hundreds of college kids, splayed out all over the airport floor. Finally they start rounding us up. Once we're at the gate they quiet us down and announce that for reasons I don't remember, we can't take the plane we were originally supposed to, but don't worry-they found us another plane. There's just one catch-we have to give them our weight as we board the plane. Immediately everyone is talking. Some are laughing and joking around about how they will probably need us to manually start up the propellers, too (me-this is one of my favorite jokes and you definitely would've laughed if you were there), and some are actually worried--holy shit what the hell kind of plane is this? The airport announcer is none too pleased with how noisy we're being so he loudly yells, "You can laugh and joke all you want to, but if you lie and tell us you weigh less than you actually do, it'll be your fault if something happens."

Whoa. Um-WTF? Is this guy for real? Did he just tell us that if we have body image issues we could maybe die? That quiets everyone down, and one by one, students are soberly boarding and whispering their weight to the airport employees. One is writing it down on a notepad, and one is typing it into a calculator. Seriously. Obviously when it is my turn I tell them I weigh 10 pounds less than I actually do. What-I hide it well, and if we go down in flames, I will blame it on that kid with the Spring Break '98 shirt because seriously, dude, we all get it-you're going on Spring Break. But it's like 9am, we're not in the Bahamas yet, and it's snowing outside right now so let's bring it down a couple notches.

Apparently we are not fat enough to bring down a commercial airliner as the flight is uneventful. This doesn't really surprise me because Miami University has a real problem with anorexia and bulimia. At any rate, we arrive at the airport, and they have shuttles that take all of us to our respective hotels. There are kids from a whole bunch of different hotels on our bus so we stop at a lot of them to drop them off and pick others up. We stop at the Marriott, the Radisson-each one is more beautiful than the one before it. We excitedly wave goodbye to everyone who gets off the bus and say, "Have a great vacation!" Then the driver says, "Next stop - Colony Club!" That's us! We are brimming with excitement. We cannot wait to get to our room and see the pool. And the beach is only across the street! Awesome!

After about 10 minutes, our excitement begins to wane. Where are we? How come we're getting further and further away from where the other kids are staying? Oh well-it's the Bahamas. How bad can it be? Ten more minutes go by, and we pull into the driveway of a crappy motel. We figure we're here to pick some kids up so we wait a few minutes for someone to get on. Finally the bus driver yells, "Hello-Colony Club!" And then it hits us. Oh. My. God. This is our hotel. We all laugh nervously, and one really sweet girl next to us says, "I'm sure it's really nice inside." I want to hug her and say, "You are really nice. I want you to be the one to tell my parents that they found my body floating face down in the swimming pool."

We reluctantly get off the bus and take in our new surroundings. The entire place looks like an old rundown apartment complex that is beyond needing a few coats of paint for it to even look presentable. I mean it is shady with a capital 'S'. The swimming pool is green. I don't mean like beautiful-emerald-ocean-water-green I mean like radioactive-neon-something's-not-right green. Nobody is in it, but there is a DJ playing Bob Marley (and by DJ I mean guy with a boombox hooked up to surprisingly good-and probably stolen-speakers).

A woman from the front office walks out to greet us. She takes us back to check in and then shows us around. There's an outside bar by the pool and even an inside bar next to the pool. Our trip is looking up already. We like bars. Any kind. Then she takes us to our rooms. As we're walking she is saying, "If you have any valuables like jewelry or traveler's checks or extra cash, you might want to put them in the safe." That sounds reasonable to us. Then she says, "The safe is in the main office." Yes there is one safe for the entire complex, and it's in the front office, and only the people working there can open it. Mm-hmm. Just as I'm calculating the chance of me actually leaving any valuables in the safe (0%), she says, "There are no phones in the rooms. You can use the pay phone up in the main office." Sweet. That is very comforting. Also comforting is that I just saw a rat run in front of me, but I'm just going to keep that to myself so as not to make the other girls cry. Finally we get into our rooms-2 right next to each other-and there is no carpet and no dials on the TV, but they're clean, and have running water.

We decide to have a group meeting re: the hotel. Some of us want to leave because we don't feel safe here. But it costs $150 extra to switch hotels now so we decide to stick it out. We lay out at the pool, drink at the bar, meet some boys who also can't believe they are staying here...things are actually going well. Then we decide to hit the beach. The lady in the office says it's across the street, and she's kind of right. If the hotel was situated a mile and a half down the road from where it was currently, it really would be right across the street, but alas it's not, and we have to walk over a mile down a busy road to get there. After walking forever we get to the "beach". I use the quotes in this situation because this "beach" is more like a bed of branches and rocks with some sand thrown in for good measure. But we find a good spot and lay out.

We are literally the only people at this beach. Probably because it's not by any hotels--including ours. But that's okay-we like having it to ourselves. At some point in the day, a local shows up. He is just swimming around and minding his own business. We decide he is hot so we call him over. His name is Joey. He has an awesome accent and seems to be hitting on all 7 of us at the same time which is pretty impressive. He asks where we are staying and we say "The Colony Club". He makes a "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis" face and says, "I thought they only rented those rooms by the hour." We ask him if he is being serious, and he says, "Yes. It's-well, I don't know how to say this. I don't want to offend you girls, but it's where hookers go. Everyone knows that." Niiiice. We are staying at a hooker motel.

to be continued...

S.O.S.

Just FYI to anyone who cares: if I don't show up at work tomorrow, and you don't hear from me for awhile it's probably because there is something in my basement waiting to kill me. I heard rustling and some sort of gurgling noise. No doubt the creature that awaits will take out it's fury on me. That or I started playing Minesweeper like 3 days ago, and I can't stop.

Either way, alert the authorities.

It's over

Due to the events that took place this weekend--and by that I mean all the ass-whooping my teams took--I regret to inform you guys that there is pretty much no possible way I can win any of my NCAA pools this year. I just want to state for the record that this is effing bullshit. And now my 2005 NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament poem:

"I hate almost every single team this year" by Okay Seriously

I effing hate you, Kansas
And your little dog, too.
But if you can believe it
I hate others more than you.

Oklahoma, are you kidding?
Do you remember how to play?
Utah totally owned you.
Man you guys are gay.

Wake Forest I had you winning it
But now I can only lose.
I feel like I got punched.
I am battered, beaten and bruised.

Over and over and over
You do this to me every year.
Why do I keep picking you?
I must really like it in the rear.

I don’t know if you effing suck
Or if West Virginia just got lucky.
But you should’ve asked me out
Before you went and fucked me.

I'm a poet and I totally did know it

The term March Madness absolutely applies to me when it comes to the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. I like college basketball (much more than the NBA), but I don't watch too much of it. That is, until it's tournament time. I'm not sure if it's the fact that every year the tournament is exciting and unpredictable or if it's because I have money on the line, but I completely lose my mind during the tournament. I barely function at work because I spend all day on espn.com watching the scores update in real time. I keep copies of all the brackets I'm in with me at all times. I become an ESPN junkie, and a basketball game is always on at my house. Always.

I tend to be in 3-4 pools at a time. Always one with the lunch guys and always one with my parents and Diane. Two years ago in the lunch pool I won the whole goddamn thing. The year before that I won the family pool. Actually I think I won that one last year, too. Man I'm awesome!

That being said, each year there is inevitably one pool I'm in that just gets royally messed up. Not because I pick the wrong teams, but because the teams totally and purposefully eff me over. In these times, I find it necessary to express my anger in the form of poetry. I've written poems for the last two tournaments in 2003 and 2004. I haven't written a 2005 poem yet as it is too early in the tournament for that, but I guarantee one of these teams will eff me over because all they care about is seeing me lose. So that poem is TBD. I will post it here when it's time, though.

With that, I give you the last two entries into the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament Poetry Hall of Fame:

2003
"I hate you, Wake Forest, but not as much as Duke" by Okay Seriously

Hey there, Wake Forest!
How are you doin'?
I am doing just fine
Now that my bracket's in ruins.

I thought you'd do it this year.
The rest were sitting ducks.
Then Auburn kicked your ass.
Excuse me, what the fuck!?

Oh it's not a big deal really.
I only had you in the final four.
Didn't make the sweet sixteen.
You stupid, stupid whore.

I feel like a cheap hooker
Whose job is to sell booty.
You, Illinois and Florida
In one night you guys all screwed me.


2004
"Thank you, Kentucky!" by Okay Seriously

Kentucky, Kentucky
Why you so sucky?
I want to punch you in the face

My bracket's now done
And you are the one
Who put me in my place

Sorry to place blame
But wow you are lame
You are such a giant whore

There's no way I can win
I took it right on the chin
And man...my ass is sore

St. Patrick's Day

Even though I am covered in glitter and suffering from a same-day hangover right now, St. Patrick's Day was pretty kick-ass.

Highlight:
Dwarf dressed as leprechaun standing on the bar at Blind Pig and handing out little tiny bottles of beer.

Lowlight:
Hearing "Come on Eileen" no less than 3 times.

Ew I feel sick. I'm going to bed. Talk to you cats tomorrow.

Things that rock

Wisks

My mom's fruit dip recipe

The new pull-tab tops on soup cans

My friend Amy who is going through a tough time right now. Amy, I wish I had an explanation for you about why things like this happen, but all I can say is that I love you, and I know you and I will both find what we are looking for someday. Try not to let this take your attention away from what's really important here-what's always been important-you kissed Kyle...who may or may not be gay.

Thin Mints (Seriously what do they put in those things? Crack?)

My parents buying me dinner tonight

80's movies starring Molly Ringwald*

Only working half a day**

The people who wrote to defend me against the Sarah-hater and who continue to come read this blog and always say nice things to me and who read this in the right mindset and know that I am just a silly girl from Cleveland who deals with the big things life throws at her by joking about the little things. I love that I can write about whatever I want here, and I never have to say "Just kidding!" at the end of my posts because you guys already know I'm kidding. You know that when I say I'm going to punch someone, I'm not actually going to punch someone because the last time I hit anyone it was my sister, and I was 5 and my sister was 3, and I had to stand in the corner for 4 hours. And I love that I have all these new friends who make me laugh and who I totally connect with even though we are all hundreds of miles away from each other. All my friends are awesome-old and new, near and far. I wish all of us could have a big party and get real drunk and dance on tables and make fun of the fact that we had to park 7 miles away because we aren't pregnant. And my friends who are pregnant and did get to park close would totally rub it in our faces all night because I am only friends with people who get the joke.

Run-on sentences


*I stayed up until 1am to watch "Pretty in Pink". Best line of that movie is when Blane (Andrew McCarthy) says to Steff (James Spader): "That's it, Steff. She thinks you're shit. And deep down, you know she's right." By the way, it was on Turner Classic Movies. "Pretty in Pink" on Turner Classic Movies? How old am I??

**I am so out of here right now.

I've been found out

I just got an anonymous comment on my post from this morning which I would like to print for all to read:

"If you are as young and healthy and unencumbered as you indicate, why get so hostile? Why do you NEED to be by the door, or is it just a selfish, me first attitude? You have never been pregnant, never had to deal with strollers, never had a handicap and have no clue what people go through. And you don't care because you are a princess and nobody matters but you. The store is putting in those spots because they want those kinds of people to shop there. They may not want your kind, especially if you are the ones who throw clothes on the floor and are otherwise high maintenence. You definately have a bad attitude in your blog. Cuss away. This is America and you are allowed to do that but almost nobody will respect you for it and they will do stuff to try to keep you away. Maybe you need to spend less time at the mall and get a life. And if you don't want to be attacked, quit attacking!"

Dear anonymous commenter,

Wow. This is really embarassing for me right now because obviously I was personally attacking you. I just can't believe you picked up on it. Boy is my face red.

Seriously, though, I must know--how do you see right through to the heart of me just by reading a bunch of sarcastic posts written over a 3 month period of my 28 year life? It's amazing. I mean how did you know that I only go to the mall to throw clothes on the floor and demand attention from everyone around me? It's almost as if you follow me around. And I didn't realize I was unwelcome at America's malls. Thank you for the heads up. Hey-attention all unmarried people: we are not welcome at shopping malls! Only people who are pregnant or are parents or have a handicap! Things we can't possibly know anything about!

Since when is cussing not a way to gain respect? This is news to me. Wait-is sleeping around not a way to gain respect either?

You're right. I need to get a life. Maybe I should go anonymously post on people's blogs and pretend like I know them then get all holier-than-thou on their asses. I mean you seem to think that is a more productive use of time so maybe it will be for me, too.

You don't know me, and you'll never know me just by reading a few posts on my blog so why don't you jump back on to your high horse and ride away.

And for the last time fucking address me as Princess Sarah! How many times do I have to say it!?

This spot reserved

Last night I went to the Strongsville mall. Every time I go there, it's packed. Trying to find a good parking spot is tough. I always turn into the middle aisle and go all the way to the front, hopeful that someone will be leaving at that exact moment, and I will get an awesome spot. So far this trick has worked 0 times. But last night was different. I was slowly driving down the aisle--you know giving all the people parked by the door time to get to their cars and back out for me--then it happened. A car started backing out. It was the 4th spot from the front. Holy crap it actually worked!! I drove up there smiling, whistling, hi-fiving all the imaginary people in my car. I started to pull into the spot when BAM!!!! I'm hit with this: "This spot reserved for expectant women and patrons with strollers."

Are you fucking kidding me?

I can almost-almost-understand expectant women, but only with some kind of qualifier like "expectant women who are in the 3rd trimester". But I'm sorry First Trimester Ladies, your legs aren't broken, and your family and friends probably don't even know you're pregnant yet. Park your shit where everyone else does.

The biggest problem I have is with "patrons with strollers". Patrons with strollers? What? What the hell makes you so special? If anything you should park the furthest back because you don't even have to carry anything! All your bags and kids are strapped into the stroller, and all you have to do is push. But to have 8 out of the 16 prime spots (and 4 others are handicapped)? Well that is total bullshit. The only thing that prevented me from going into the mall last night and knocking over the Avon kiosk in a fit of rage was the fact that "Hangin' Tough" was playing over the loudspeaker.

I propose adding some reserved spots for those who actually need them:

• This spot reserved for recent organ removal patients.
• This spot reserved for women with PMS. Seriously don't even think about fucking parking here.
• This spot reserved for patrons who don't shop at Hollister.
• This spot reserved for patrons whose parents sing here at Christmas with their adult choral group.
• This spot reserved for patrons whose stupid-ass abandoning boyfriends left them and broke their heart, and all they want is an effing Orange Julius so just let me park here goddammit!!!

Or just,

• This spot reserved for Okay Seriously.

Birthday wishes

Today is B's birthday so I pretty much hate everything. I wrote a song in his honor:

Happy Birthday-eff you!
Happy Birthday-eff you!
You look like someone who used to live here,
And you smell like one, too.

I am not that creative. Dammit does anyone have any vodka?

Letters re: my weekend

Dear guy who did my first condo walk-through,
I’m sorry that I pretended to be fascinated by something out the back window while my parents ambushed you after finding out that the cable jack was in the wrong place. I haven’t seen them attack with such intensity in a while. The cable jack’s placement is important to me, but I was so excruciatingly uncomfortable during the whole “incident” that I couldn’t even step in to help you. I’m sorry about that. But only a little bit because you don’t remember me from high school even though we were in marching band together, and I was very popular in marching band. And by popular I mean Mr. Harbart yelled my name over the megaphone a lot because I was never paying attention and was always in the wrong place. Anyway, move my cable jack.

Dear body,
I’m sorry that on my first foray into drinking alcohol since the surgery I “took it easy” by drinking an Amaretto Sour, a martini and 4 White Russians on an empty stomach. I realize that even on a full stomach and at full drinking capacity, you can barely handle one martini. I have no excuse except to say that it tastes so good when it hits my lips.

P.S. I promise to stop wrapping my legs around people in the middle of the bar. It’s just sometimes hugging isn’t enough.

Dear friends who went out on Saturday,
I'm sorry I didn't go out. Please see above letter for explanation. Jace, I hope we are still best friends who sometimes "make it".

Dear Carrabba’s,
I will make love to your chicken marsala.

Dear Monday morning,
Fuck you.

Let's get physical-not like that, sicko

Whoa-since when do guys not like fat chicks? Oh-since like the 17th century or something.

Here's the deal, Internet. I need to lose some goddamn weight. John and I are both trying to do it. His reason is so Danielle and I will talk about his hot body at lunch. My reason is so I can be a better dresser. Both reasons are lame, but we'll just see how lame they are when we are totally hot.

Now, I've already jumpstarted the process by having an organ removed. But it turns out the gall bladder is pretty small so it probably only accounted for a couple pounds. Poor planning on my part. I have my eye on a couple others (Appendix, sleep with one eye open. What are you laughing at, Left Lung? You think you're safe? You've gotta be worth like 10 pounds or something.).

Actually I'm keeping the organ removal plan in my back pocket--for now. Since my insides are so messed up right now, I cannot eat anything with a high fat content which in layman's terms means I can't eat anything that tastes good. So I am attempting to change my eating habits. And as my first observation I just want to say, do the people at Lean Cuisine honestly expect me to eat one of those mini-meals and be full?

I also plan on working out as soon as I'm physically able. I cannot begin to tell you how much I hate this part of the plan. You know those people who work out for like 2 hours every single night and leave the gym like, "Oh my God I had such a great workout today! I love it! I feel terrific!"? Yeah I am the person who sneaks up behind those people and snaps their necks.

I fucking hate working out. My sister and Renee love it. They're always talking about how much fun it is and how great it makes them feel. The only reason their necks haven't been snapped is because they are funny when they're drunk.

I will keep you updated on my progress since I know it is really important to all of you. This effing blows. Seriously.

By the way, despite my new commitment to fitness (I can't even say that with a straight face), I will be eating Thin Mints even if it kills me.

Quickies

I have been really busy today, but I have a few quick things to share:

Look at this.

It's Girl Scout Cookie season so I expect to be a full blown whale-sized tub of lard any time now.

Yesterday I saw a homeless guy in a ski mask practicing karate on a tree. I have my theories about who it was (Pat Morita).

I know I never commented on the Bachelorette finale or the Oscars, but that is because both of them almost completely drained my will to live when they aired. I don't want to go back to that dark place.

Yesterday I was on the phone with the gas company while walking down to the basement, and I fell down the stairs. But I think I played it off really well by yelling "Holy Christ!" at the top of my lungs.

Oh also take a look at this.

A note to Hollywood

Dear Hollywood,

I watched an inordinate amount of movies this weekend due to feeling sick because this effing surgery is messing with my entire insides. Anyway after all this "research", I have a few suggestions for you because clearly you need my help.

1. Stop putting Tara Reid in movies. Immediately. If she is currently filming something, shut down production until she has been escorted away from the premises and away from people who can hear her voice or see her face. She is horrible. She's semi-cute in a coked-out skankified way, but she is the worst thing to happen to the movies since "Eyes Wide Shut". If you are worried about replacing her, here are a few comparable substitutes:

• a Barbie doll


• a wooden marionette


• a popsicle stick

2. If you are going to put Matthew McConnaughey in a movie he should always have his shirt off. I don't care if it's inappropriate for the scene or the time period or whatever. Take it off.

3. Sometimes I can figure out who the bad guy is just because of the actor playing him. For example, if J.T. Walsh is in it, he's bad. If Gary Oldman is in it, he's bad. Same with Keifer Sutherland (this does not hold true for his television roles because on television he is the bravest hero of all time) or his dad Donald. All I'm saying is maybe sometimes you can make Ron Rifkin a good guy. Mix it up every once in a while so I'm not always figuring everything out in the first 5 minutes.

4. Thank you so much for putting Bruce Willis back into a role where he is the badass hero who will take matters into his own hands and do anything it takes to save lives, and I mean anything because the rules, well, they don't apply to him. That is what he should always be doing all the time because he is awesome. Oh also, I see you guys are doing "Die Hard 4.0", and I just want to say: awesome.

5. I've decided Ryan Reynolds should be in every movie, but at the same time he should also be my husband till death do us part. Seriously look at this.

Thank you very much for taking the time to read my initial set of suggestions. I have many more, but I don't want to overwhelm you at this time. I know reading is hard for you. Until next time....Hasta la vista, baby. Hahaha-that's just a little movie humor for you. Stay sweet.

Your friend,
Sarah

Trendsetter

Let me explain to you how the words "trendy" and "Sarah" go together: they don't. Roughly 95% of the time, I come in on the tail end of any new trend or fad-that is if I don't completely miss it at all. Not only that, but when/if I do finally adopt it, I don't let go of it until I am literally the last person hanging on, and Diane smacks me across the face and says, "What the hell is your problem? That is so over! Get with it! You're embarassing me!"

I think part of the problem is that I just don't pay attention. I didn't realize that people stopped wearing flannels until about a year and a half ago when Diane said, "Oh my God, Sarah, people stopped wearing flannels, like, years ago." Then she made me get rid of them. (I secretly kept one. It's hiding in the way back of my closet. Shh...don't tell her!) I'm just....behind.

Things have gotten a lot better since my sister graduated from school and came to live with me. She is very trendy and pays pretty close attention to what's in and what's not. She goes to lots of cool bars and restaurants and clubs and cities, and I...well, I have a bigger TV. So there.

Okay I'm just going to come out and say it: my baby sister is way cooler than me.

Well, she was until last night that is. Thanks to some friends, I embraced trendy in all its glory. Steph, Christy, Jace, Janelle and I went out to dinner at a very trendy new sushi place in Tremont*. It's called Parallax, and their menus are clipboards. Clipboards! It was so trendy inside I was afraid to touch anything. But there I was, in my cute shoes in the trendy restaurant, and within minutes-through no fault of my own-I was talking about poop and catheters much to the dismay of Mrs. Snooty McLooky-Loo sitting behind us. She really did not enjoy my choice of dinner conversation, but then again maybe she should mind her own business/sushi.

Steph dropped her fork, and the waiter accused her of being drunk. Then Christy dropped her menu. Things were going well. Steph mentioned it was an eclectic crowd there but quickly decided it might just have been eclectic because we were there. Then a lady in a fur coat came in, and Steph was hopping mad. She said if she had paint she would throw it on her. I would have, too, but not because of any animal rights deal-it was just that ugly. Steph whispered sarcastically to me, "Hey, do you wear fur?" and by whispered I mean screamed at 100 million decibals. Luckily fur lady didn't hear her because her giant fur collar was muffling her ears. Then somehow we started talking about sex, and how some people who seem really tame and quiet do weird things. It was at that time that I noticed that the entire restaurant was filled except for all the tables right around us.

Okay so maybe we aren't the classiest of the classy, but we went to Parallax you totally didn't therefore we are awesome, and you are just someone who ate somewhere average last night.

*In case you are wondering, at the very trendy new sushi restaurant I got steak because I am not trendy enough to like sushi.

Shut up

Dear next door neighbors at 6:00 a.m.,

Shut your goddamn dog up before I come over there and duct tape its mouth shut.

Love,
Sarah

ID, please

I would say the work ID badge photo gives the driver’s license photo a run for its money in the category of “Worst Pictures Ever Taken of You”. In fact my driver’s license photo looks like a Glamour Shot compared to my work ID badge.

The problem is that the security guards who take the pictures and make the badges are just so unhappy with this part of their job. I remember when I got mine taken 6 years ago the guard was in the middle of eating his lunch. He did not give a crap about all the 22-year-old fresh-out-of-college new employees. He told us all we had one shot so make it a good one. Here is pretty much how mine turned out:



How can this possibly help with security? After I received my badge I said to the guard, “If you wanted to go up my nostril, you could’ve just asked.” Surprisingly enough he did not think I was funny.

Bad day

Things that have gone wrong the past couple of days not counting the assassination attempt by my gall bladder:

My gas bill is over $500. Don't worry-I have already called both the gas company and my landlord and was like, "Um....yeah no."

I never changed my insurance information with my allergy doctor so none of my weekly claims have gone through for the past 2 months. Real swift, Corky (my grandpa's nickname for me).

My garbage disposal is broken.

My belly button is in so much pain it actually feels like it's on fire.

B did not send me the rent in time so my rent payment is overdue.

I just realized that B's and my lease is up at the end of this month which makes me really sad because a year ago today I thought my future was beginning and now all that is beginning is that I have to start paying the rent fully on my own.

I bounced a check to my builder. This is only because instead of depositing the money I needed to cover it, I got emergency surgery. So everyone just calm down. The service charge has already been reversed because I am a really smooth talker. Okay that's a lie--really I slept with the customer service guy to get it reversed. Okay that's a lie, too--it was a girl.

My back door is frozen shut. And that is not an innuendo of any sort. Though, the more I think about it, maybe it really could be. Ew-you guys are gross.

Oh-also I'm back at work. Blah!

Sticky stuff

Does anybody know how to get tape residue off of human skin? I have taken numerous showers since my surgery yet still the tape residue remains. I mean it is literally all over my body in a grid-like pattern. Here is an artistic rendering:

The red marks are my incisions and all the gray is the outline of tape residue. This is actually uncomfortably similar to what it looks like on my body. And yes I’m aware that it looks like I have a bulge in this drawing. Stop making fun of me, or I will talk more about catheters.

Holy crap I am hot. How do I not have a boyfriend.