6 saltines in 60 seconds, you say?

I’ve mentioned before that I am fascinated by competitive eating. Last night I was over at Julie’s for Friends’ Christmas, which was a ton of fun and I scored some awesome gifts. Like this scarf (thanks, Kristin!):

But this post is not about how awesome my new scarf is, or how delicious the crab legs, shrimp, and oysters were, or even how delicious my Sailor Sarahs are. This post is about slamming saltines.

C challenged K to eat 6 saltines in 60 seconds. Sounds easy, right? I mean, I regularly hoover a whole sleeve in what feels like no time at all. The rules are simple: 6 saltines, chewed and swallowed, with nothing to drink, in 1 minute.

K stepped up to the plate. Around cracker 4, though, it became evident that she wasn’t going to make it.

It was sad, my friends. I offered to coach K in the fine art of competitive eating, so that next year she can redeem her good name.

I’m not-so-secretly wondering if I am up to the challenge. I’ll get back to you on that one…

Wine Eye?!? What happened to Notorious?

I was riding with J and Julie to a friend’s wedding, when I over heard this half of a phone conversation between J and The Groom:

J: Yeah, we’re almost there…I’m with Julie and Sarah.
The Groom: (inaudible)
J: Hahaha, yeah, Wine Eye Sarah.

Me: What? Who’s Wine Eye Sarah?

WTF? I’d never heard that particular nickname. I interrogated J and Julie, but neither one of them was copping to any knowledge of the origins of the nickname. I barely made it through the ceremony before rushing The Groom and demanding an explanation. I walked away in a huff after he spilled the beans.

The backstory: I used to date The Groom’s best friend a couple of years ago. We met at a local bar that had karaoke and 1/2 price bottles of wine every Sunday. Needless to say, I was there just about every Sunday.

The beans: Unbeknownst to me, drinking an entire bottle of wine all by myself causes one of my eyes to, well, there’s no delicate way to say this, drift? Go lazy? How fucking embarassing. Karaoke Boyfriend and his boys were laughing at my lazy drunk eye and calling me Wine Eye. Granted, these boys gave everyone a nickname, but I thought mine was Notorious, since that was what they called me to my face and my signature karaoke song was (and continues to be) Notorious by Duran Duran.

I wanted to punch someone, but since Karaoke Boyfriend was safely in Colorado and The Groom was, well, The Groom, I had to laugh it off and pretend I didn’t care. But I did, internet. I did.

But then I reviewed pictures from the wedding after-party and decided the nickname was warranted, after all. Still, that fucking sucks.

Ernie’s imitation of Wine Eye Sarah.

Not funny, Ernie.

Anyway, if you’ve noticed a decline in pictures of the dogs over the past couple of weeks (come one, I know there’s at least one of you), it’s because Wine Eye struck again and I lost my camera. HOWEVER, Steve rocks and got me a brand spanking new camera for Christmas.


Bumper stick seen on the back of a Kia Rio this morning: “Sorry, Officer, I thought you wanted to race.”

First of all, I don’t think it’s a smart idea to taunt the police. There ain’t no talking your way out of a speeding ticket with that baby plastered to your bumper. Don’t even think about crying or showing a little skin, either. You take that ticket. Take it like a man.

Secondly, and more importantly…a Kia Rio? I don’t drive a flashy car (Honda Civic gas sipper, woot woot!), but I’m pretty sure a Kia Rio isn’t going to beat anyone in a race. Maybe not even those scooters I routinely get stuck behind doing 35, maybe 40 mph on the streets of Wilmington.

In conclusion, sir, I think you would be better served by a different bumper sticker. Might I suggest the following:


JEI Thursday: RATS…some facts

I was wracking my brains this morning for a good TMI post, but I decided to go with JEI (Just Enough Information) Thursday.

I was at our county’s government office yesterday, trying to get some permits approved for new after school programs. Have I mentioned I work for my county’s school system? Of course, I end up waiting in 3 different lines to talk to 5 different people, eventually leaving with 2 additional forms that need to be filled out and approved before the county can grant itself permission to run after school care programs in buildings not only built by the county itself and run by county employees, but previously inspected by county agencies. Ah, bureaucracy, how I love you.

Anyway, I got to leave work early and I picked up some sweet pamphlets while I was waiting in the Environmental Health Department line.

So, without further ado, I bring you RATS…Some Facts.

And inside…(emphasis my own)

Click to view larger image

  1. Text: The average rat lives about one year. During this time a female rat may have seven litters, each with 6-12 young.
    Conclusion: Rats live hard and die young. Also, rats are sluts.

  2. Text: Each time a rat leaves the nest, it travels the same path. This path is called a “runway.”
    Conclusion: Tyra Banks is a rat.

  3. Text: Rats commonly live near people and are not scared by the odor of humans.
    Conclusion: Rats do not shop at Wal*Mart or use public transportation, because if they did they would be scared by the odor of humans. Unwashed humans, at least.

  4. Text: The rat most commonly found in homes in North Carolina is the Norway rat (Rattus norvegicus).
    Conclusion: We need to build a fence between the USA and Norway, to keep out illegal immigrants.

  5. Text: When food is available, rats will make themselves at home.
    Conclusion: My stepbrothers are rats.

  6. Text: Where large numbers of rats are present in a neighborhood, a community effort is needed to control the rat problem.
    Conclusion: You better make nice with your neighbors, because when the rat apocalypse occurs, you are going to need back-up.

I totally would (with bonus Delicious Deliciousness)

So yesterday Nilsa over at SoMi declared it a De-Lurking Day. As I have a problem keeping my mouth shut, the holiday didn’t really apply to me, but she did say that regular commenters could ask her a question. Any question. This is dangerous territory my friends.

Maxie’s been doing a “Would you Wednesday” for a while now, and it’s a game my friends and I play all. the. time. Usually it’s along the lines of, “What if you met [insert name of current celebrity obsession], and the two of you fell in love, but he would only ever have sex with you doggie style? He would never want to look at your face when you were having sex?” Which typically leads to a 30 minute conversation in which we hammer out rules/details (could I look back at him? could we do it in front of a mirror? is it because he was molested as a child?) before finally deciding on a scenario all parties are satisfied with. Sometimes it leads to one party calling another party a psycho pervert, but it’s all part of the game.

Anyway…so my question to Nilsa was:

Would you agree to wear a bag over your head (with eye holes cut out, but no mouth hole) every time you left your house in exchange for an enormous sum of money (enough to keep your immediate family financially comfortable without working for the rest of your lives)?

And you couldn’t tell anyone (other than your significant other) why you were wearing the bag.

But last night Dexter had a bad case of Old Man Bladder, so after I had let him out a couple of times, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I played the “What if?” game by myself. I thought up some new rules.

  1. You could take the bag off to drive, because driving with a bag over your head is just dangerous.
  2. You could not take the bag off to fly on an airplane. You’d probably look like a terrorist threat, so you’d either have to learn how to fly yourself (like driving, you could remove the bag while actually piloting the airplane) or resign yourself to only road trips for the rest of your life.
  3. You could not embellish the bag, other than to cut the two eye holes. No drawing a face or bedazzling the bag.

I’m sure there were more but now I can’t remember them.

So anyway, would you? And all you lurkers out there, would you, too? I want to know!

**Bonus Delicious Deliciousness**

Steve hasn’t been feeling very well lately, and when he confessed to me on Monday that he was feeling “poopey,” I promised to make him some chicken soup. How nice of me, right?

Well, it would be nice if I knew how to make soup. Which I don’t. Really, I don’t even like soup. But after the words were out of my mouth, I had to make some shit happen. We can’t have little Stevie feeling poopey and disappointed, can we?*

Lucky for me, I found this recipe at epicurious.com and tweaked it a bit. Tortilla Soup with Chicken and Lime? Sounds like a winner!

And it was, internet friends, it was. Here’s the recipe:

1 white onion (chopped)
1 jalapeno (de-seeded and chopped)
1 zucchini (chopped)
1 tbsp minced garlic

1 box chicken broth (I got the big one, I think it’s like 36 oz.)
1 can corn
1 can black beans
1 can Rotel diced tomatoes (any variety would work, but I used “with lime and cilantro”)
1 bay leaf
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon dried crushed red pepper (more or less to taste)
2 green onions (chopped)
a handful of cilantro (chopped)
1/2 cup lime juice
2 cups Mexican cheese blend
1 ready made rotisserie chicken from the supermarket, about 4 lbs. (or you could poach your own***)

4 5-6 inch diameter tortillas (corn or flour)
no-stick cooking spray (I used Pam)


Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Stack up tortillas; cut in half. Cut each half into strips. Spread strips on a non-stick baking sheet and spray with cooking spray. Bake until light golden (about 12-15 minutes). Set aside to cool.

Saute jalapeno, zucchini, and 1/2 of the chopped white onion (reserving half to add just before serving) in garlic in the bottom of a large sauce pan (or you can use a good sized electric skillet, like I did). When onions and garlic are just turning soft, add broth, tomatoes, corn, black beans, bay leaf, cumin, and red pepper; bring to boil. Reduce heat; simmer 5 minutes.

While broth is simmering, remove the meat from the rotisserie chicken and shred. Set aside.

Before adding chicken to the broth, remove half of the solids from the broth and blend in a blender or food processor. This makes the soup less watery and more like a stew. Add blended solids back to the broth. Add chicken; allow to cook for about 5 more minutes. Stir in green onions, reserved 1/2 white onion, cilantro, and lime juice. Season with salt and pepper.

Ladle soup into bowls. Sprinkle with Mexican cheese blend and tortilla strips and serve.

*No, we cannot.**
**I apologize for the footnotes. I don’t know what’s up with me.
***Show off.

Sorry, internets, I’ve been an asshole blogger.

Posting on Monday?** Who does that? Certainly not any cool people…

I have a serious case of holiday induced I-don’t-feel-like-doing-shit-itis. Actually, I do feel like doing something. Namely, sitting on my couch, reading Breaking Dawn and sipping on some dark hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps. Unfortunately, that is not a paying gig and if I want to continue to heat the house and keep dog food in Ernie and Dex’s bowls, I’m going to have to do some actual work around here.*

This morning I got stuck behind a school bus. Crappy, I know, but it was made even more crappy because not one but two creepy kids stared at me the entire time. We’re talking 5 miles with at least 7 stop lights. At first I pretended I didn’t see them, but I kept making accidental eye contact when I’d check to see if they were still looking at me. Then I pretended to be singing along to the radio, but my car stereo was stolen and I haven’t replaced it yet. I haven’t been able to get Britney Spears out of my head since this weekend, and I felt a little weird mouthing “wo-man-izer wo-man wo-man-izer you’re a wo-man-izer” to elementary school kids. At the next stoplight I pretended to be engrossed in the Christmas card my friend Julie had sent me.

Oh, Julie, how nice of you to include Hemo in the card, even though Hemo is a bitch and doesn’t celebrate Christmas or any other holiday other than Breakfast and Dinner.

Even though the card was glittery, it wasn’t enough to hold my attention for much more than 20 seconds at a time.

Why am I so desperate to put on a show for these kids? Jeez, shouldn’t they be picking their noses and wiping boogers on each other? Speaking of picking noses…

*slaps hand away from nose*

No, Sarah, don’t set a bad example.

Oh, Swiss Miss and peppermint schnapps, knowing you are waiting for me at the end of the day is hopefully enough to keep me from pulling a George Costanza and napping under my desk for most of today…
*Not here here, because unfortunately blogging is not a paying gig. It is cheaper than therapy and it makes me sound busy at work, though.
**Proofreading? The cool kids aren’t doing this, either, are they? I mean, I know this one isn’t.

Ladies’ Night

Things I put in my mouth last night (PG-13 edition):

-74 kabillion wasabi-rice crackers
-2 tentative bites of Harris Teeter ham-type spread
-2 beer bongs (how old am I again?)
-1 bison burger
-generous portion of coarse-ground mustard*
-4 sauteed onion slices*
-macaroni and cheese*
-macaroni and cheese
-8 zillion tater tots
-regular mustard**
-1 1/2 glasses wine
-1 1/2 shots strawberry vodka with Squirt chaser

Shows I watched last night:

-3/4 episode My Name is Earl (during which decided I don’t like watching episodes where Earl and Joy are married, because it makes me sad)
-1/2 episode of Kath & Kim (during which I decided I really need to get some cool pajamas)
-1 full episode of The Office (during which I talked to D’s mom, explained that she was drunk but that she wanted Horton Hears a Whoo! on DVD for Christmas)

Topics discussed:

-Whether or not Julie’s neighbors are retarded
-Who should play Jacob in the next Twilight movie
-Who we would have cast as Rosalie***
-D’s rape fantasy non-consensual-while-still-remaining-non-violent sex fantasy
-My penchant for chubby guys
-Whether or not ‘bison’ is spanish for ‘delicious beefy goodness’****

Miscellaneous figures:

-number of nuts I found in Julie’s chair from last week when I ate a drumstick while watching Katt Williams’ stand up comedy: 1*****
-number of Katt Williams’ quotes: 24 (approximate)
-number of beer bongs D took: 3
-number of beer bongs Julie spit on Kristen: 1/2

That is all, folks. It’s Friday, and I am lazy.
*denotes items I put on my bison burger
**denotes an item I put on my tater tots
***Scarlett Johanssen
****No, but I had Julie fooled.
*****Bonus: yes, I did eat it.

TMI Thursday

Much like this blogger who’s BlogSecret secret ended up on Alexa’s blog, I was unaware of all my grooming options ‘down there’ until my sophomore year of college. My roommate, D, was a die-hard waxer; we’re talking eyebrows, upper lip, arm pits, stomach–the whole shebang. It seemed a little overkill to me, especially when she’d come back, bleeding from the armpits. Sure, they were hair-free and surprisingly smooth, but it didn’t seem like a fair trade.

We were living at the beach, though, and I was a bit envious that she never had to bother with the quick ‘touch ups’ my other roommate and I scrambled to attend to before putting on our bikinis.

After much coaxing, I finally broke down and made an appointment with my roommate and her waxer, who I’ll call Helga, not because that is her name but because typing it makes me giggle.

The day of reckoning finally arrived; D and I had back-to-back appointments with Helga. We got to the spa a couple of minutes early. I was nervously pretending to read magazines as D attempted to reassure me that it’s not that bad, I won’t have to come back for another 45 days, blah blah blah. Finally Helga came out, a short, willowy woman with a faint Eastern European accent and led us back into a room.

It was a small room, painted a pale peach color, with a candle burning in one corner and soft celtic music playing. In the middle of the room was a padded table, much like you’d find at a doctors office, with a line of butcher paper rolled down the middle. To one side of the table was a small tray with what looked like a mini-rice cooker sitting on top of it, surrounded by wooden popsicle sticks, cotton balls, and various bottles of lotions and ointments. Helga asked which of us was going first, and I pointed to D.

D and I had decided that I would stay in the room for her appointment. Apparently this is fairly common because there was a chair already set up in the corner. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I guess) the table and the chair were situated so as to give me a front row seat to the action taking place on the small strip of butcher paper.

Helga asked D to take off as much clothes as she felt comfortable with, and I was surprised to see D strip down, but leave her underwear on. D isn’t really a modest person, and this small, surprising bit of modesty made her look vulnerable. My stomach started doing somersaults*.

Helga started with D’s upper lip, then moved on to her armpits. Helga kept up a light banter the whole time, talking about her pet parrot and how her volleyball team did in their tournament last weekend. Tears were pooling in D’s eyes as the hair was ripped from her armpits. I must have looked worried.

“Don’t worry, Sarah, my armpits are the worst part,” she told me.

Finally, D’s va-jay-jay was the only area left. Helga asked if D wanted a simple bikini wax, or a Brazilian wax. D laughed and agreed to go whole hog–the Brazilian.

Helga took out what looked like a ponytail elastic and knotted D’s underwear in such a way as to give her pretty much full access to the area in question. D flinched and whimpered as Helga relentlessly pulled strip after wax-and-pube-covered strip of linen from her womanly parts. Helga left no stone unturned in her quest for pubic hair. I couldn’t look away. I honestly had no idea how ugly a vagina was until I watched Helga hunt down every last hair D had from her belly button to her anus. I was having some serious second thoughts. Legs were lifted, folds of skin were parted; it was like some weird ballet gone horribly, horribly wrong as Helga would tap D’s leg to position her so as to best access D’s nether regions.

Then, it was my turn. D hopped down from the table and wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s really not so bad,” she offered half-heartedly as Helga changed the butcher paper.

I decided to make my humiliation complete, and stripped completely from the waist down. No weird ponytail elastic thong for me! I’d witnessed the thoroughness of Helga’s search for pubes and figured modesty had no place in this room.

Keep in mind, I had no idea what to expect coming in to this appointment. From the day D made the appointment, I’d completely abandoned any attempts at trimming or landscaping my lady parts. I was laid out on the table, exposed to the world, looking like a 70’s porn star.

Helga’s eyes scanned the area in question, then flicked quickly up to my face. She pulled out a tiny pair of scissors.

“I’ll just cut some of this back before we start,” she breezed.

I could have died of humiliation. I thought I was doing the right thing, thinking it would be easier if there were more hair to take hold of, so to speak.

“I should have told you to trim, Sarah, I’m sorry,” D said quietly. My face was so red. I felt like yelling out, Wedding Singer-style, “Information that you could have brought to my attention YESTERDAY!”

Instead, I lay there, wallowing in my humiliation as Helga snipped at my pubes. This was a bad idea, I was thinking.

Finally, it was time for the wax. I agreed to the Brazilian, thinking there was no point in half-assing it at this point. As Helga spread on the first application of the warm wax, I thought to myself that it felt oddly pleasant. Like a warm bath, but just for my privates. Then she applied the linen strip and I steeled myself for the pain.

“So, do you have a boyfriend?” she asked as she rubbed the linen into the wax.

“Um, no,” I replied. No one to admire your handiwork, I thought to myself.

She quickly pulled the strip off, and then looked at me with horror.

“What? What happened?” I asked.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t mean to take so much off at once.” I was aghast. I had hardly felt anything.

“Damn, Sarah, it’s like your hair just jumped off of your body!” D exclaimed.

With the knowledge that the worst was over and this wasn’t actually going to hurt, I could focus more intently on the humiliation I was enduring. Helga found creases and crevices that even I wasn’t aware of. I should have felt violated, but really I felt like I was molesting her. When she motioned for me to lift my legs up to give her a clear shot at my hiney, I prayed desperately that I wouldn’t fart. D was still in shock at how easily my hair had separated itself from my body, and offered nothing by way of distraction.

Finally, it was over, and I was $65 poorer, plus the $20 tip I felt obligated to leave Helga. I got home and studied my naked woman parts in the mirror. Rather than feeling sexy, I felt dirty. I looked like I had a 10 year old’s vagina.


*I spelled this word right on the FIRST TRY! Go me…

I am the anti-Rockwell

For some reason, I think I am invisible when I’m in the car. I have no problems picking my nose and flicking boogers out of the window, or going for a quick crotch scratch. I don’t know why; my windows aren’t tinted, and my car sits pretty much as low to the ground as you can get and still clear speed bumps.

Come to think of it, I think I am invisible much of the time. Stain on my shirt? Who’s looking close enough to notice? Wacked-out hair? Well, I’m just going to Food Lion, nobody really cares. The flip side of this is that I look at people non-stop. Not that I’m necessarily judging people, but I look at and take note of food stains, signs of poor hygiene, unfortunate clothing choices, etc. Let me reiterate–I am not judging. I’m wondering about the thought process behind strangers’ appearances. I can understand that comfort might prompt that lady to wear sweat pants to pick up a gallon of milk, but I’m baffled by the high heels. I want to know the thought process.

I mean, I have an excuse a story for the dirt on my pants. Ernie jumped on me when I was on my way out of the door. I don’t know about you, but I don’t budget an extra 25 minutes to find a backup outfit in the morning. Once the clothes are ironed, on the body, and have passed the mirror test, I’m committed. I can’t go through the whole process of imagining an outfit, combing my dirty clothes hamper closet for the necessary articles, assembling the appropriate undergarments, and ironing twice in one morning, simply because I drooled some toothpaste onto my sweater. Who’s going to notice, anyway?

ALSO, LBluca77 is continueing the Pay It Forward Contest, and the last day to enter is TOMORROW. Go check it out and leave a comment to be entered.

I am a chubby chaser, and I hate ranch dressing

Seriously, I love the expression on the old guy’s face in this picture.
It’s no secret among my circle of friends that I am a chubby chaser. With very few exceptions (including my current beau), I have always been attracted to slightly overweight guys. I’m not sure why; maybe it’s because they tend to be funny and I like funny guys. Maybe it’s because they are good insulation on a cold night. Or maybe it’s because if we ever crashed our plane in the Andes Mountains, they would provide more caloric sustenance.

Yesterday I stumbled upon Man vs. Food, starring Adam Richman. The premise of the show is that this guy goes around the country and takes on local restaurants’ eating challenges. After I saw him successfully eat a 72 oz. steak, plus a salad, baked potato, and a yeast roll, in 32 minutes, I was smitten.

**[UPDATE] Adam also ate a shrimp cocktail with this meal. Oh. My. Gosh.**

**[CONTINUED UPDATE] I was wondering what that thing was between the salad and the roll. I guess that’s a shrimp cocktail. With at least 4 shrimp. This man is a GOD.**

Half-way into the show, however, I had to break up with Adam. Why, you might ask, when you two are so obviously a match made in heaven? Well, internet friends, Mr. Richman put ranch on his fried chicken. True, it was at the urging of the proprietor of Gus’ Fried Chicken, but still. I hate ranch.

My hate affair with ranch started when I was about 11 years old. I was babysitting my 3 younger sisters, when one of them opened up the fridge and out fell a glass, family-sized bottle of Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing. It broke all over the floor, spreading under the cabinets and to almost every corner of our little kitchen. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it, but it is near to impossible to clean up a sea of ranch dressing. After breathing in the ranch fumes for what felt like 6 hours, I was done with ranch. The thought of it made me gag.

Fast forward about 9 years. I’m in college, waiting tables at a rib joint in North Carolina. Every time I turned around, a table was asking for ranch. Their requests blended together until it sounded like the bleating of so many redneck sheep. “Ranch! Ranch!”


My friend decided that ranch is what runs in the devil’s veins. My fellow servers and I would complain when we got sat a bunch of likely ranch dressing lovers.

“Dammit, I just got sat an 8 top of ranch eaters.”


“Fucking ranch eaters–they didn’t even leave me 10%.”

I’d try to get my petty revenge on these tables. Our menu said that we had a ‘low calorie’ ranch, which we were always out of, and I loved to bring ramekin after ramekin of the regular ‘high fucking calorie’ version to ladies at lunch who requested the ‘low cal’ version.

“Are you sure this is low-cal? It tastes so good!”
“Of course, ma’am. We carry only Ken’s Steakhouse Dressings, that’s probably why you can’t taste the difference.”
“Well, do you mind bringing me some extra ranch, then? Since it’s low-cal…”

Hahaha…joke’s on you, biotch. I’m not even mad you left me a $0.75 tip on your $9 salad.

The ranch dressing icing on the cake was when one mother, in between puffs on her More cigarette, told me her son needed extra ranch dressing on his salad. But of course, ma’am.

“Really, he just wants ranch soup with some lettuce floating in it,” she laughs.

*sound of a record scratching*


So, I’m sorry, Adam Richman. Things would never work out between us. You are funny, and charming, and I’d never have to worry about forgetting my to-go box at restaurants, if I could just overlook this one flaw. You are so close to being the perfect man.

Also you have a master’s degree from Yale’s School of Drama and I think you might be gay.