Requiem

In Memorium:

Oh, Candy Corn, how I have loved thee. Throughout the years, you have been my steadfast friend, a confidant, a nugget of sugary deliciousness in times of yucky candy alternatives like Babe Ruths or Peeps. Every fall, around Halloween, we all looked forward to the first candy corn harvest of the season. The first bright orange bag to sneak into an array of chocolates and nougat. And then, suddenly there was Easter candy corn! Valentine's Day candy corn! Even Christmas candy corn. It's almost as if the heavens had opened up and rained processed honey and refined sugar down upon the mortals.

However, Candy Corn, I've recently become a pretty hard core vegan (more on that in an upcoming blog post.) As you know, I've been a vegetarian for about ten years, and have been kind of flirting with the whole vegan situation for about a year now. But about a month ago, I made the commitment to go at it full force...and unfortunately that means I have to let you go. As you also know, I have somewhere close to 100 bags of candy corn sitting in a closet in the guest bedroom...and I wonder what I should do with those? My first thought was to throw them away, but that just seems harsh and careless. I do know of others who love candy corn...perhaps I should spread the candy corn love around? The world would be a much more peaceful place if everyone had a bag of candy corn.

Perhaps one day we'll meet again. It's been a pretty good month so far though (I also gave up refined sugar and white flour) and it's amazing how quickly my body has gotten accustomed to those things. In fact, candy corn, I haven't craved you in quite some time. But I do know that you've got to get out of the closet, because who knows when a craving will strike...and I do like to do things right. Oh, and you might want to pass this message along to your friends Gummy Bears--actually, the whole Gummy family. Swedish Fish, luckily, ARE vegan, so I'm going to try to develop that relationship again, in moderation.

So...thanks for the memories. I'm sorry to have replaced you with things like cashews, dried dates, puffed kabut, and soy crisps. But if you ever need a reference, please feel free to get back in touch with me.

xoxo

Royalty

I think it's only a matter of time before I find myself in the position of ruler (Empress, perhaps?) of a small foreign country. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that this country will be a tropical one, perhaps on an island. Perhaps on an island that travels through time and is home to smoke monsters and strange tribes of people who never age...but an island never the less.

I recently realized that I should probably be prepared for when this inevitable rulership occurs. So I've decided to make an edict so that people interested in residing in my country (and no, it won't have my name in it. I will worry about naming this country after I am crowned) know what they're getting into. A set of laws, if you will. A completely unreligious Ten Commandments. A Bill of Rights.

1. Everyone gets a puppy. This puppy may or may not come in a really fantastic outfit. It just depends. But everyone gets a puppy.
2. Debates will be solved with wit, emphatic finger pointing, and a hilarious joke contest.
3. Glitter. I hope you like it, because it will probably be everywhere.
4. There will be no Payless Shoe Stores in the country. Those who attempt to enter the country wearing shoes from Payless will be kindly asked to remove them.
5. There would be several new national holidays: Candy Day, Cupcake Day, Dress Up Day, and Hat Day. It would basically be like Spirit Week all the time.
6. There would be a really strict immigration code that would include a written exam, a photo shoot, a practical exam having to do with fashion sense, and a variety act of some kind. Like hula hooping or a vaudeville number.
7. You probably think I'm going to say that no one would have to work...but that would just be ridiculous. People still have to have jobs. However, the work day will always be broken up with a dance break, snack time, and a mandatory mid-day nap. Also the work week will be no more than 30 hours.
8. Your social standing in my country will be based on a points system. You get points for things like having a fun outfit on, interesting artistic abilities, and doing things that I find funny. You lose points for being a jerk.
9. There are many gyms, and they are open 24/7. Fitness is important in this country, because we will probably enter the Olympics eventually. However, there is a whole set of other gym rules...ones that include not being a gym creeper, and wearing clothes that fit.
10. Hugs are a viable form of currency.

xoxo

Bananas

You know what I like about bananas? Well, I mean, a lot of things. I like eating them, I also like the idea of people dressed up like bananas. Or dogs dressed up like bananas. Oh, I'd like to be clear that I do NOT like banana-flavored things. Ew. However, what I'm talking about here is the fact that no matter what, a banana is always a viable option. There is no segregation amongst bananas. You see, if you are a devoted fruitist, like I am, you get really excited when you go somewhere and fresh fruit is an option. Generally you are presented with apples, bananas, oranges, and a weird "fruit salad" which is a tricky way of saying "bowl of gross melons." But the thing is...with apples, so many varieties exist, and yet I'm always offered the lame ones. Usually Red Delicious. On a rare occasion, I'll see Granny Smith.

No one likes those apples. Honestly. No one. Wouldn't it be great if they had Pink Lady apples (which happen to be my favorite, in case you're interested in giving me apples as a present) or Gala apples? Braeburn? Even a Fuji? It doesn't happen, and so I feel like a jerk turning up my nose just because I don't happen to like that particular apple variety. This very serious problem does not exist with bananas. A banana is a banana is a banana. None of this discrimination. And that makes them pretty great. Oh, unless you don't like bananas. Then you're kind of screwed.

Don't even get me started on oranges. Who has time to peel an orange in these situations? And who wants to smell like oranges all day?

xoxo

Jokes

Everyone can calm down. I got a new phone. Crisis averted, please resume your daily activities in a calm fashion. The only caveat was that in getting a new phone, I lost all my phone numbers, pictures, data, EVERYTHING. So, in a desperate plea to try to regain what I had lost, I sent out a facebook post, asking that my friends please text me their phone numbers, along with a hilarious joke. My friends, those tricksters, sure did come through. Here are some of the highlights, from my extremely hysterical friends. You're welcome. (p.s. if you don't see your joke here, please know that it was probably too inappropriate *cough, Toby* and I don't want you to get beat up.)

From Eli:
What's the difference between a blonde and a washing machine? A washing machine doesn't follow you around after you dump your load in it.
Blonde jokes...classic. I think there should be more redhead jokes though...and by jokes, I do mean heavy amounts of adoration and gift-giving.

From Keanan:
What did the apple say to the computer?
You may have two cores, but mine can replicate.
I'm going to be honest. I don't get it. Don't start a redhead joke about this.

From Matt S:
A woman and a duck walk into a bar, the bartender says "Where did you get that pig?" The woman replies, "That's not a pig, that's a duck." The bartender says, "I was talking to the duck."
400 ducks walked into a bar, and the bartender says, "I can't serve 400 ducks," and the 400 ducks said, "You are really starting to ruffle my feathers, sir."

From Jason S:
What's green and smells like pork? Kermit's finger.
Ew. Also there are many levels to this joke, because Kermit is controlled by other fingers, so by proxy, are puppeteers fingerbanging Miss Piggy?

From Xine:
So, a hipster walks into a club...
...that you have never heard of before.
Ha. I'd laugh, but I'm busy thinking about existentialism.

From Jess K:
Why did the little girl fall off the swing? Because she had no arms.
Jess had another joke. I'm not publishing it, because I don't want either of us getting arrested.

From Cara:
Why do seagulls fly over the sea? If they flew over the bay then they would be bagels.
Not going to lie. I cracked up, out loud, at this joke. And then later, I thought about it again, and laughed some more.

P.s. that picture is of me and my mom, laughing uproarioiusly at something. Not at these jokes, clearly, but something in Las Vegas sure did tickle our fancy.

Phone

Can we please just ignore the fact that I haven't blogged since August? Please?

I've encountered a catastrophe of monumental proportions, friends. My phone broke. Let me take you to the scene: I'm sitting at rehearal, blithely unaware of the tragedy that was to ensue, playing a game. Suddenly, and without warning, the screen turned a deathly shade of white. I tried to stay calm...I removed the battery. Still white. I removed the battery and waited several minutes. Still white. Panic began to set in, and I threw my dying phone into the hands of anyone who offered to try to revive it. No luck. And to make matters worse, the phone's functionality stayed in tact...I continued to receive text message, facebook, and email alerts. I just couldn't read them. It was like my phone was crying out for help, and I was powerless to rescue it.

That was Saturday, and I have been phoneless since then. I took the poor carcass into Verizon, where they promised to ship me a new phone--Tuesday. Until then, the nice lady suggested that I revive one of my old phones and activate it. So this morning, I did. I'm now using a zombie phone...a pink Motorola razor, circa 2007. Here are some things that I have learned about 2007 Sara, courtesy of said phone:

1. She was kind of a whore. According to text messages, 2007 Sara was apparently dating about 5 boys. As I recall though, I wasn't exclusively dating any of them. And I certainly wasn't sleeping with them. But still.
2. 2007 Sara loved downloading ringtones. I mean, she freaking LOVED it. She liked to assign ringtones to individuals as well.
3. She was smart enough to download Tetris. Score. She also had some pretty bangin high scores.
4. She loved Dior. She loved Dior enough to make the phrase "J'adore Dior" her banner on her home screen. Could she AFFORD Dior? No. Did that stop her from purchasing it? Doubtful.
5. Apparently 2007 Sara liked to send pictures of herself making faces to her friends. Were camera phones new?

So, while I await the replacement of my Blackberry, you'll find me trying to remember what T9 was like while simultaneously rocking at Tetris. My heartfelt condolences go out to anyone else who has suffered a similar loss.

xoxo

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

Job

Soooo...guess who has a new job! This will be a multiple choice question:

a. Our dog Hamlet--finally got his dream job of Mulch From The Yard Eater
b. The Noid--remember him? From Dominos? Avoid the Noid? He got hired by Pizza Hut to promote their wings.
c. Zach Morris--his ability to stop time by making a "T" with his hands has launched him into reality tv superstardom.
d. Me

If you guessed "d," then you win! Please see me at a later date to collect your prize. Just so you know, your prize is a hug.

After five and a half years (why does time move so quickly??) of working in Admissions at Penn State, I've been offered a job at Harrisburg Area Community College as their Coordinator of Student Life and Multicultural Affairs. I know what you're thinking, and yes...that DOES make me kind of a big deal. But honestly, it's a huge step up in terms of responsibility, SALARY, and awesomeness. I'm really excited to get started. My first day is January 4, and my new colleagues are already e-mailing and calling me with questions!

So, here's where this inevitably leads. I've said almost since I moved here that I wanted to move away. York wasn't nearly glamorous enough for me, there wasn't enough to do, the people didn't impress me...I had a nice little list of reasons to book it out of here. But here's the thing--it's kind of grown on me. I can easily get to Philly, Baltimore, DC, and NYC. Harrisburg, Lancaster, and York all have these great little hidden artsy areas with awesome local artists and businesses. And it's so cheap to live here! If I lived in NYC, like I've always said I wanted to do, I could never afford to DO anything! Living in York will afford me the opportunity to actually have money to spend. I can travel abroad. I can buy things. I can manage to feed my expensive tastes.

So apparently it turns out I'll be sticking around here, which is good. And also, in York, I stand out. People find me endlessly stylish, quirky, and savvy. I think I might blend in a little bit more in a bigger city, and I do NOT like doing that!

"The only rule is don't be boring and dress cute wherever you go. Life is too short to blend in."
Paris Hilton