LA

Dear LA Fitness,

I'm sorry I had to pass you this note rather than talk to you in person. But it's just too hard. I have so many emotions right now. I'm confused, I'm hurt, and you haven't been returning any of my text messages. And yet...I still keep running back to you, every day. What is this hold you have over me??

I know you already know what I'm upset about, but since you refuse to talk about it (you can be such a coward sometimes), and because I deserve the opportunity to express my feelings, I just need to let you hear this. On Tuesday, we were lifting weights, like we always do. We were SO HAPPY, LA. So happy. And suddenly, I felt a muscle pull in my neck. I know it's not your fault, and I don't blame you. But I just felt like you didn't care! You didn't ask how I was doing. You didn't seem concerned. And why do I feel like you were almost happy that I couldn't finish my lifting? Is it because you wanted some other, younger, prettier girl to lift with? And even though I've seen you every day since then, you haven't asked if I'm feeling better. I am...not that you care.

Just about twenty minutes after the muscle pull, we were running on the elliptical together--so carefree, making plans for the future. And suddenly, out of nowhere, the pedal fell off. LA...I could have been seriously hurt. But again, not a word from you.

You had to know I was upset, and maybe I'm overreacting, but it's just because I get so nervous when we fight. Are you going to leave me? Would you revoke my membership? Cancel spin classes? You're so unpredictable! But I guess that's what I love about you.

So where do we go from here, LA? You know I can't stay away. I could be tired, hungry, sick, or hurt, but you know I'll be there. Be honest--is there someone else? You've seemed distant, and I see the way those other girls wiggle around the gym in their teeny little shorts and overly sexualized exercise wear. Whores.

I'll be there again tomorrow. Can we talk?

xoxo

August

This just in: August 2010 has recently been renamed Saramonth. By me, which is really all that matters. Also, the arsonist has oddly shaped feet. You know what I'm saying.

First of all, August is my birthday month! I am a Leo, because I know you were wondering. I also enjoy long walks on the beach and snuggling. Oh, and throwing underwear dance parties on my bed. But more than all of those things, I enjoy making lists, so the following is irrefutable evidence that this month is obviously mine:

1. I just graduated from grad school! More on that in my next blog post, because I have more to say about it. But for now, please know that I have my Master's degree, and with that degree have become infinitely smarter. I feel like I just know more things, have the capability to spout wise statements, can converse intelligently with scholars and scientists...it's a good feeling. Also, having my Master's means a raise at work, which means I'm that much closer to being able to afford a giraffe.

2. I turn 30 this month. Probably most females would be in hysterics, but I'm kind of excited. Life seems to just get better as time goes on, so I can't even imagine what great things will happen in my thirties! Maybe I'll discover that AB is actually a duke/lord/prince/king of some unknown tropical (yet well equipped with a Tiffany's and a Sugar Factory) island so I can FINALLY marry into foreign royalty and rule over a small country.

3. We go to Jamaica in less than a week! I've never been to Jamaica. I hope I learn how to dreadlock my hair and put beads in it. I also hope I learn how to say "Mon" casually in conversations. But we're going to an all-inclusive, and I feel that it's going to be incredibly wonderful and relaxing.

4. My best friend Franny just informed me yesterday that she booked us a day at the Hershey Spa all day Sunday. I've wanted to go there forever, and now I get to spend the day with her (which we never do), take a chocolate bath (I may not like to EAT chocolate, but I sure do like the idea of bathing in it), use their gym (which sort of makes me feel like I'm cheating on LA Fitness, but LA was a giant douche to me the other day...we're kind of in a fight), have a facial, and get a manicure. It will prepare me nicely for Jamaica.

5. My parents got me a Macbook for my birthday/graduation. I'm not really sure HOW yet, but it makes me feel infinitely more fancy. Also, I like to skype people.

Is that all? I feel like it might be. But cheers to you, August/Saramonth. Here's hoping September doesn't come around and kick me in the face.

xoxo

Wine

AB and I are not engaged: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. (thanks, Chuck D...openings have never been my thing.)

Last weekend, AB and I spent the weekend in Ocean City, NJ with my family. I consider myself a relatively well-seasoned traveler. This year alone will have taken me to Mexico, New Orleans, Las Vegas (twice), Buffalo (okay, so that one's not super thriller material, but STILL), Ft. Lauderdale, and Jamaica. But nowhere makes me as happy as OCNJ, especially when my parents, brother, aunts, and cousins are there. Probably because my family rules.

One evening, while tailgating in a parking lot waiting to be seated for dinner, my mom, who never drinks more than one cocktail every now and then, decided she wanted to play keep-up with my more alcoholically savvy brother and cousin. She downed three glasses of wine, and moments later was belting "Don't Stop Believin" across the parking lot--the Glee version. My mom loves AB, so her dance moves eventually carried her over to him. I thought nothing of it, since I'm so glad that they get along, until I overheard her listing who she wanted to invite to our wedding. I tried to divert her, to no avail. Then she danced away.

Not five minutes later, I found her cornering him, pointing out a small infant and informing him that she "wants one of those." In her next breath, she thought it would be an excellent time to remind him that once we did have children, she planned to move in with us for a few weeks...to help out. And before I had the chance to intervene, she also found it important to mention that if, in childbirth, my life were to suddenly be jeopardized, she'd have to choose my life over the baby's, and were they on the same page about that?

Over the course of one evening, my mother had me engaged, married, pregnant, was moving in with us, and aborted my hypothetical baby.

Luckily, AB is the most easy-going person I know. With most other men, the preceding conversation would have resulted in a boyfriend-shaped hole in the door the next morning, and me coming home to a half-empty house. AB, on the other hand, took it as a compliment.

I should add that my mom ended the evening by leading a conga line through our beach house, and then passing out in bed by 10:00.

Meanwhile, now that AB and I have been dating for a year and a half, apparently every single person I encounter feels that an appropriate greeting is "Hey, how are you? When's AB going to propose?" Let me answer that en masse. I DON'T KNOW. We talk about it, but I don't like the idea of planning out a marriage before one is engaged. I am the girl. Proposing is not my job. My job duties include things like: looking pretty, making our house smell nice, making our friends, and party planning. My duties do not include things like: making the first move, taking out the garbage, or proposing. You can yell at me if you want for perpetuating outdated gender roles, but I'm not making these rules up. It's science.

xoxo

Gucci

I love big sunglasses. You know the ones I mean. The REALLY big ones...preferably with a bit of fade-out in the lens. In fact, I love them so much that I recently spent a minor fortune on a pair of Gucci sunglasses that I consider to be one of my most worthwhile investments. That's them, in the picture. Go on...salivate. But I know that big sunglasses come with a certain stigma. Eyes roll, snarky comments are made. That is why I have compiled a small list of my favorite things about big sunglasses.

1. They allow me to judge you anonymously. I can stare at your appalling choice in footwear, make faces at your parenting skills (or definitive lack thereof), show my annoyance at the fact that you absolutely refuse to shower, and you'll never know. For all you know, I'm looking straight ahead, minding my own business. But I'm not. I'm judging you.

2. It makes it evident, if it wasn't already so, that I am stylistically superior. I find that a well-placed pair of expensive sunglasses can make even the most mundane outfit stand out. Yes, my sunglasses make me better than you. In turn, I tip my hat to those wearing cooler sunglasses than mine. And really, why eliminate this social hierarchy? Everyone feels more secure this way.

3. I am able to look completely put together without putting on any makeup. Now, to be honest, I have not mastered the art of wearing my sunglasses indoors...I just feel silly. But while I'm outside, makeupless, I still feel sufficiently done up.

4. It's easy to avoid eye contact. Without being able to see my eyes, I can very easily pretend I didn't see someone walking across the street, and I can continue on my journey without having to pause for an awkward conversation with that same someone I have been avoiding.

5. The eyes are the windows to the soul. My soul sometimes likes its privacy, thanks!

Pickles

If you know me, then you might have caught onto the fact that I have a teeeeensy bit of a potty mouth. If you don't know me, and you're just internet stalking me, kudos to you. If you don't already have it, I'll be happy to give you my address so you can leave me gifts on my doorstep. Note to you: I need a new tote, and I'm always happy to receive anonymous gifts from Tiffany's.

I digress. Recently I've realized that maybe I swear TOO much. Let's be honest, it's just not ladylike. And more importantly, I think it's lost its power. For instance, when I say "fuck," no one really flinches. If, say, my grandmother were to say "fuck off," I'm pretty sure she'd get some attention. Why? Because she NEVER tells people to fuck off, whereas I tell people to fuck off almost every day. Lovingly, mind you...lovingly. But it's not fair that my fuck has no power, and my grandmother's fuck has a LOT of power. I want to reclaim the power of my fuck.

Also, there's nothing interesting about a word if one says it all the time. And if there's one thing I don't like, it's the idea of not being interesting. So in the name of being interesting, here's what I propose: I will not swear for one week. Not at all. No damn, hell, shit, fuck...none of it. If I do swear, the week re-starts, until I last a week. At the end of that week (which may very well be sometime in the year 2019), I will get myself a fun little present. Yay me.

Now here's what I need from you.

1. If you're lucky enough to enjoy the presence of my company, please keep on me about the swearing. If you hear me swear, you can smack me. Gently. A love tap, really.
2. Let's discuss some "gray area" words. Like balls. That's not a swear word, but it's definitely inappropriate. Or dick. Is that a swear word, in your book?
3. I need to have a ready repertoire of replacement words, because I constantly have the need to have some form of mild outburst, and I need a lexicon for such instances. I'd like to try bring back "bonkers," as in "That is bonkers!" instead of "That is bullshit!" Or perhaps "poppycock." Also, "pickles" seems to be an acceptable substitute for "fuck."
Person A: I'm going to go to Payless and buy that pair of shoes.
Sara: What the pickles is wrong with you?!?

You see what I'm saying.

Ok...go.

Joey

AB and I have taken to spending our evenings watching marathons of Full House. Just so you know, Teen Nick runs four back-to-back episodes of this culturally cataclysmic television show every night starting at 8:00 p.m. Join us, won't you? Not only will you get a heaping dose of Tanner family love, but you will get to see every acne wash/pimple cream/face cleansing/zit busting commercial that has ever been produced--repeatedly. Teen Nick apparently knows something about teen culture that we don't...all teens care about is their complexion, and by showing the exact same set of commercials during every commercial break, you will eventually wear them down.

So, we love Full House. We learn valuable lessons, AB gets to make four cracks a night (I've limited him to one per episode) about Jodie Sweetin's meth addiction, and we have a hearty chuckle as Uncle Jesse's hair care jokes never cease to be hysterical. But there is one piece of the happy family puzzle that just doesn't fit in.

Joey.

What the fuck is this guy doing there??? I mean, I understand that when the mysterious Mrs. Tanner died, he moved in to help out his bestie, Danny. Sure. Makes sense. But he NEVER LEFT. I mean, by the end of the series, he's got to be in his early to mid thirties, and he is still just kind of leeching off of the Tanners, with absolutely no family or friends of his own. In all the years that the show ran, he never got his own girlfriend. I can count on one hand the number of Joey-centric episodes that ran. It has never appeared that he has any life outside of the Tanners. He somehow managed to get his own television show, which leads me to believe that he was making decent money, but he remained content to live in the basement (and in later episodes, a small bedroom) in this already overcrowded home.

Does he even have his own car? Is he paying Danny rent of any kind? Other than doing the occasional Bullwinkle impression, what contribution is he making to this family? This family that doesn't belong to him. At what point does Danny finally say, "Listen friend-o, it's been a nice run, but people are starting to talk." Doesn't he feel awkward at all? Like you know when you were little and you went on vacation with your best friend's family? Yeah, it was fun and all, but you were never really PART of the family, and it was always kind of relief to get back to your own house with your own food, and not that weird food that your friend's mom made.

I mean, really, Joey. Cut. It. Out.

Grownup

Well, I'm afraid I might have grown up. Or just got boring, but since I find myself to be the most interesting person I know, and I know this must be accurate since I also find myself to be an excellent judge of character, I doubt that's the case. I imagine it's much more likely that the years have caught up with me. Damn you, Time! Peter Pan would NOT find this acceptable, and he would probably mock me and send his shadow after me. I, however, am smarter than Peter Pan, and would just turn out the lights and tell him I killed his shadow. I might have grown up, but I can still be a bitch.

The Evidence:
1. I just don't feel like going out anymore. I mean, sometimes, like if I'm in Vegas or somewhere else that's actually conducive to my very high going-out standards, I'll do it. However, it should be noted that I was recently in Las Vegas for three nights...one of those nights was spent partying the sh*t out of Blush and drinking $600 champagne until 3am. The other two nights, I was happily tucked into my Bellagio bed before eleven. I digress...but I really don't feel as though getting trashed on the weekends is a productive expenditure of my time. My tummy hates it the next morning, and let's face it--it's just empty calories. Also, my decision-making skills are not awesome while intoxicated. But if I had the choice between going out to a bar with a group of friends and sitting on my couch, cuddling with Hamlet and AB and watching Full House--you guessed it. The Tanner family's shenanigans would be getting my attention. Turns out I actually don't need to be drunk to be entertaining. Who knew.

2. When people text me past 10:00 at night, I am (a) usually in bed, and (b) wonder what on earth these people are thinking with their middle of the night crises.

3. My tax return is going for two things: saving for grad school loans, and taking a fantabulous vacation with AB to a tropical location this summer. Anything left over will be spent on a Bissel SpotBot. I'm really excited about it. It's like the Michael Phelps of carpet cleaners!! Minus the giant ears and the pot.

4. Things that frequently excite me: making lists, going to the gym, planning vacations, going to bed early, cleaning, and drinking organic skim milk out of a martini glass.

5. Purchasing a house seems like a reasonable thing to do in the next year or two. Um, really? I always swore I would rent forever because I didn't like the idea of having to fix my own appliances or take care of my own lawn. I still don't like those things. However, this just in: boyfriends are good at that.

I feel like the mounting evidence speaks for itself. But the most compelling argument that I am probably an official grown up...

6. I actually don't mind it. It's nice having money to do stuff. It's kind of fun to not deal with hangovers, and to plan exotic vacations, to get enough sleep, to fall asleep and wake up to the same fantastical person every morning, to have positive and healthy friends, and to feel secure in myself. One of my students called me her Carrie Bradshaw for life. As long as she means that I am awesome, and not that I have a horse-face, that's kind of ok.

So, I expect that I will soon be receiving my "Grown-Up" card in the mail, along with a detailed instruction manual. My parents, by the way, used to insist that their reasoning behind many of their parenting decisions simply came from the "Parenting Instruction Manual." I can not WAIT to get a copy of that, because I can't even keep plants alive, so I'm hoping there are some good ideas on how to maintain a child.

Underwear

So you know what's kind of depressing? I spend all kinds of time, effort, and money making sure that I am always wearing adorable underwear. I love them. When I'm not in a hurry, I definitely spend at least 10 minutes dancing around in front of my mirrors, showing off my awesome underwear to myself. I think part of me is hoping that somehow, someone can see me and be impressed--by both my rockin dance moves and my kickass choices in high panty fashion. But the depressing part--almost no one ever gets to see them!

I mean, now and then people see them. When I'm changing at the gym, or when I'm on the treadmill and my pants are falling down (which happens way more often than I think it should--suggestions?). But as a rule, the public doesn't get to see my cute undies. And it makes me mad. Because they're CUTE. Last fall, my mom sent me a pair of underwear with a little candy corn guy on it (you all know about my candy corn obsession right?), and on the back it said "Corny." HA! And they were swell little black boy-cut underwear that made my butt look great. So I was getting really depressed, until I finally decided to make my co-worker Chelsea come over. Here's how it went:

Me: Chelsea, we're friends, right?
Chelsea: Of COURSE we are.
Me: Ok, then please come over to my office right away.
Chelsea: (arrives in my office and shuts the door)
Me: I'm going to need to show you my underwear.

And I did. And, they were super cute! This is why I know I love Chelsea. She was perfectly excited to see them. I feel that I'm too new at this new job to wander around showing off my underwear to anyone.

So instead, I propose that we drop Casual Friday and instead implement Underwear Friday. I know what you're going to say--that you have lots of co-workers who you do NOT want to see traipsing around in their unmentionables. But be honest with yourself...don't you KIND OF want to know what that woman 2 offices down, with 12 cats and stale peppermint candy has on under her girdle and shiny white orthopedic shoes?? I do.

Please join me in this endeavor.

xoxo

p.s. Yes...yes I was tempted to put a picture of myself in my OWN underwear up instead of just a picture of underwear that I happen to have. However, do we think that could get me fired? Probably. Once Underwear Friday gains momentum, I'll be much more likely to do it.

Coup

Well, I think we all knew this was going to happen. If there is anything I've learned from watching blockbuster action flicks of the mediocre variety, it's that eventually robots are going to turn against us, kill most of us, and inhabit the earth. That's why I absolutely refuse to get a Roomba vacuum. I mean PLEASE--I know it seems innocent enough, but it's a slippery slope from there. First you're having a little disc guy vacuum your living room, then you're using Rosie from the Jetsons to make your breakfast (and the occasional hilarious joke), then you're getting bound into indentured slavery to the I, Robot bitches.

Not me.

I thought we had more time, though. However, when I was sitting in spin class yesterday, I noticed the "man" in front of me. I always check out the people in front of me...what else are you supposed to do when sweat is pouring out of your face at epic rates? But I paid specific attention to his left leg...it just wasn't flowing properly. It was kind of...clicking. Jerking around the wheel a little bit. I stared, perplexed, until suddenly I realized the truth--he was a robot. Obviously. And his designers were smart! He's really kind of plain looking (my first instinct if I was going to build a robot would be to make him super hot), didn't really say much, didn't appear to be too well-built...all of that to mask the fact that he could rip my face off in a matter of seconds.

Crafty.

So, throughout the rest of the class, I had some time to digest this information. The Robot Coup is much more imminent than I had realized. I'm not really one to try to rebel against this. That seems like a lot of effort, and I'm more of a go with the flow kind of gal. Instead, I'm proposing some tips on how to make nice and live with our new robot overlords.

1. Wear witty t-shirts, probably from snorgtees.com. Robots love a good witty remark.
2. When you're on your cell phone (because you know they're listening) try to talk up the droids--say how you think R2D2 is the best Star Wars character you know of, and that he was robbed in terms of screen time.
3. Try to emulate robots yourself, as best as you can. Always be dressed nicely, don't wear wrinkled clothes, smile a lot. Pretend your life is a Miss American pagaent. Wax the important areas...robots don't approve of unsightly body hair.
4. Walk the fine line between using your gadgets (iPod, GPS, etc) and taking them for granted. Don't drop your cell phone in the toilet. Don't hit your computer if it's being slow.
5. Always carry an oil can.

Good luck! xoxo