I have not died (but I think my tomato plant is on it’s way out)



Yeah, so, I’m a crap blogger. I don’t even have a good excuse, just an extreme case of writer’s block combined with some serious stage fright. Come on! Have you seen some of the blogs I read? These bitches are funny, and I’ve been having a hard time bringing the funny without falling back on the poop humor that used to kill in third grade.


Those were the days.


And now that I’ve tipped my hand, I should probably refrain from telling you about how I was blissfully passing gas in The Boss’ office as I was making copies of site plans on his big copier/scanner when I was interrupted mid-poot by said Boss. Who knows if he noticed anything (he has a problem with wicked B.O., so perhaps we cancelled each other out), and I think I played it off pretty well. But damn you FiberOne bars! Why are you so delicious? Do you think you are in some kind of gas-inducing face off with broccoli? Because hands down, you win, FiberOne bar. Happy now?

So anyway, I’m back. With gas. Tomorrow I’ll tell you about how my tomato plant is sucking ass.

TMI Thursday

Ok, so maybe this isn’t really TMI, but it is an embarrassing story none the less.

My sister, aunt, 18 month old niece, and myself were in hour 14 of our 15 hour road trip from North Carolina to Michigan. We were making our way through downtown Detroit when we heard a grinding noise coming from underneath the car. My aunt pulled off on the next exit, and stopped at the first gas station we pass to inquire about the nearest service station. While my aunt was in the gas station, a man approached the Dumpster we were parked next to and urinated on it. My sister and I crouched behind my niece’s car seat in the hopes that the black half of her racial heritage would be enough to give us some street cred.

We were pointed in the direction of, I kid you not, the scariest auto repair shop you have ever seen in your entire life. From the oil-spattered walls to the tiny rottweiler puppy tied to a cinder block chewing on a styrofoam take-out tray, everything about that place gave me the willies. I accompanied my aunt to the bathroom, which was no more than a filthy commode stuck in an alcove with half of a shower curtain for a door. I decided I’d hold it a couple more hours, but my aunt was in dire straits so I gamely shielded her as well as I could as she did her best in the cesspool.

We reluctantly left the safety of my aunt’s car and crowded into the tiny office as the mechanics took a look at the car. There are two chairs in the front office, but no one sat in them. I was holding my niece when I suddenly felt a warm patch spread slowly across my hip. Her diaper had leaked. After retrieving her diaper bag from the car, we got her in a fresh diaper but I was stuck wearing my urine-soaked road-trip jammies.

That place may have been filthy, but they were quick. I don’t even remember what was wrong with the car, but they had us out of there in 90 minutes. As we filed out to the car, one of the younger mechanics grabbed my arm.

Him: “Hey, can I get your phone number?”

Are you kidding me? I thought. My hair hasn’t been washed in 2 days and I reek of baby pee.

Me: “Um, well I live in North Carolina, so I don’t really think this would work out.”

He looked at me with an exasperated look on his face.

Him: “No, I need your aunt’s phone number. In case we need to get in touch with her about her car.”

I blushed wildly and ducked quickly into the car.

Me: “Aunt Mary, they need your phone number.”

I should be so lucky

image credit: xkcd comics

I’m sensing a pattern. I cannot fucking win. I’m beginning to hate Scrabble, and myself. This weekend Steve spanked me again at Scrabble. I tried all day not to play, and when I lost I was very, very close to pitching a hissy fit. I was also very, very close to cheating.

“Q-U-O-N-E. QUONE. You know, when a patient gets out of hand, you have to quone’em. We need a medical dictionary!”

Granted, I am showing improvement. I only gave him 2 Triple Word Score spaces, instead of setting him up for all 8, and I only lost by about 40 points. But when did I become such a poor loser?

I was never really big into sports in elementary or high school. First out in dodge ball in 4th grade PE? Oh well, I’ll just sit over here and read “Incident at Hawk’s Hill” again.

On the rare occasion when I wasn’t riding the bench on my high school’s varsity softball team, my sister and my best friend would eat my sunflower seeds and drink my Gatorade Ice, filling it back up with cloudy water from the team’s water cooler, then laughing at me when I came back into the dugout. The three of us were also admonished by out coach for an inappropriate display of mirth on the bus ride home from a particularly bad loss. Apparently the appropriate attitude was one of despair and humiliation. We didn’t get the memo. It was Friday, and we had a date with a handle of Aristocrat vodka and a henna home tattoo kit.

I hope our Technology department isn’t monitoring my internet usage too closely today, lest they see a spike in Google searches for ‘scrabble+tips for winning’ and ‘how to lose graciously.’

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.

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.

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.

The one where vampires cause me to break into my own car with a screwdriver and an American flag

I am an idiot.

I left work during my lunch break yesterday with two goals in mind: mail my rent check and buy a copy of New Moon. I was unsuccessful in both endeavors.

I went to the Wal*Mart up the road where I thought I would have the best luck buying both the book and some stamps. I’d looked at both Barnes and Noble and Books-a-Million, but every 13 year old girl, her mother, her maiden aunt, and her 20-something sister has been buying up these books so they are pretty scarce. As I grabbed my purse, I glanced at my copy of Twilight sitting on the passenger seat. Visions of Edward-crazed tweens played out in my head, and I decided to lock the doors.

Inside Wal*Mart–no New Moon. Dammit. Defeated, I bought some stamps from the vending machine and headed back to the car. Where I had unfortunately locked the doors with the keys still in the ignition. Double dammit. Spare key? Nope. With the whole of Wal*Mart at my disposal, I figured I could find something to help me break into my own car.

Trolling the aisles, I settled on a flat head screwdriver and a 3 ft. dowel, which unfortunately had an American flag stapled to it. Back at the car, I managed to wedge my door open enough to stick the dowel into the car and push the ‘unlock’ button on the door handle. After, of course, I had ripped the flag off while cursing the entire Cullen clan and my own stupidity.

It’s not everyday you see someone desecrating the American flag and cursing Stephenie Meyers in the Wal*Mart parking lot.

On an up note, writing this post reminded me to mail my rent check.

My life as a drinking game

When I was a kid, I desperately wanted a dog (shocking, no?). My parents didn’t cave until I was 13, when they bought my sisters and I the craziest Dalmatian you’ve ever met; however that is a story for another time.

For years I tried to trick them into letting me get a pet. When kittens were born (every 4 months) under the dumpster behind our elementary school, I’d bring the mewling, flea-covered kittens to my mom’s office and dare her to look into their crusty little eyes and deny them a home. Every science fair I begged my mom to let me get mice to train in a maze. Actually, if we’re being truthful here, first I asked for rats, thinking she’d never go for that and then I could maybe bargain her down to mice.

Thus began my unhealthy obsession with lab mice and rats. Reading “Flowers for Algernon” only intensified my longing; of course my little mouse would be a genius. I re-read the description of the mouse habitat built by the Grandmother in Roald Dahl’s “The Witches” and fantasized about the tunnels and mazes I’d make so my mice minions could follow me around the house, safely out of the grasp of my little sisters.

One of my favorite movies as a kid was “The Secret of NIMH.” I still have a VHS copy that I watch sometimes as I fall asleep. I popped it in to watch again last night. As I lay there, waiting for my bed to warm up and fighting the dogs for blankets, I found myself devising a drinking game to go along with the movie.

Take a drink every time Mrs. Brisby is referred to as “Mrs. Jonathan Brisby.”

Take a drink every time Jeremy the Crow sneezes.

Take a drink every time Auntie Shrew r-r-r-r-r-rolls her R’s.

Take a drink every time Cynthia says “Timmy’s sick!”

I could go on. Not only was I laying in bed making up drinking games that no one besides me would ever want to play, I started thinking about what a great blog post it would make.

Clearly I am scraping the bottom of the barrel for post ideas.

I want to see Hulk Hogan beat up Danny Bonaduce

I think my blog is going to join Maxie’s and go renegade. I’m participating in NaNoWriMo and the 2500 words a day that are going into my crap novel are sucking all of the life out of my blog. I can’t seem to get it together enough to write a coherent, let alone mildly entertaining post.

A few thoughts I’ve had which, given a little time or effort on my part, could have blossomed into full-fledged posts:

  • Hulk Hogan.
    When I was younger I was a serious Hulk-a-maniac. My mom wouldn’t let me get the WWF magazines, but my cousin Michael who lived down the street did. My sister Lauren and I poured over those magazines and begged our dad to teach us wrestling moves. Fast forward to the present day. I may or may not have watched every single episode of Hogan Knows Best. I strong armed my boyfriend into letting me watch American Gladiators at his house every Monday night. Now Hulk has a new reality show on CMT, Hulk Hogan’s Celebrity Championship Wrestling. Danny Bonaduce gives me nightmares, but I still tune in on Saturday nights, if I can stay up until 10.
  • Netflix is messing with my mind.
    I currently have 42 movies in my Netflix queue. Why? Because I’ll go through periods in which I’ll add a ton of movies that Netflix recommends which I’ve never heard of. When these movies arrive 4 weeks later, I get all amped up for a pizza and movie night. Unfortunately, I open my little red envelopes to find I’ve got MirrorMask and Elling waiting for me. Two good movies, don’t get me wrong, but not exactly beer-and-pizza fare. On a Friday night, I’m not really in the mode to watch a Norweigan film with subtitles about a neurotic mama’s boy and his simple-minded, sex obsessed roommate. Sounded good a month ago when I was bored at work, though.
  • Orange Soda.
    I’m addicted to the stuff. Sure, who doesn’t enjoy a Sunkist every now and then, but I’m going through it like gang busters and I’m not sure why.
  • Kath and Kim.
    Is anyone else watching this show besides my friends and I? I love Molly Shannon and I want the show to be a success, but it kind of sucks.

I am a pariah (and not in a good way)

Screw you, Monkey Plague of the Eye. I was trapped in my house with no visitors and no cable, with only the dogs for company. Hemo fled the scene when I started blaming her for my affliction, and only returned for meals. I did, however, watch some interesting movies. If you come down with Monkey Plague of the Eye, I recommend adding the following to your Netflix queue to help you survive while society shuns you:

Striking Distance

Not something I would have ever picked, but it was recommended to me by a friend. Pretty much your typical Bruce Willis action movie. I like SJP, I think she’s beautiful, but every time I see her I think about the Family Guy episode where Peter says her face looks like a foot. I’m not sure what that means, but I can kind of see it.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 7 (out of 10)

Little Big Man

This is one of my favorite books, and I didn’t know there was a movie made of it until yesterday. Is it weird to say that Dustin Hoffman was kind of attractive when he was younger? Because by the end of the movie I had a crush on him. Faye Dunaway is in this movie and is supposed to be this beautiful woman, but all I see is Joan Crawford. Watch the movie, but seriously, read the book. Little Big Man is like Forrest Gump, but with Indians.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 6


I’ve seen this movie in the “4 for $20” bin at Wal-Mart like 50 times, but I never picked it up. Mistake. This movie is way funny, and Christopher Walken as J-Man the barfly is hilarious. This movie is worth watching, if only for Jack Black’s hair-do. I want a shiny white horse named Corky, too.

Side note: I would totally buy VaPOOrize. Heck, I’d even buy a can for Steve’s neighbors.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 7.5

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I love this movie. It makes me cry every time. I love watching the arc of Clementine and Joel’s relationship in reverse. I hate her gross hair, though. And I hate that he sleeps on a pull-out couch. Now I really want to take a train to Montauk and walk along the beach in the snow. Oh, and Elijah Wood plays yet another creepy character that you really just want to punch.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 9

American History X

I put this in my Netflix queue at Steve’s suggestion, and it arrived just in time for my Quarantine Movie Marathon. I’ve been an Ed Norton fan ever since Death to Smoochy, and he does not disappoint in this movie. There are some pretty disturbing scenes, including the obligatory prison shower rape scene and a “curb stomping.” **shudder** Fairuza Balk, the girl with the coolest name ever (in my mind I call her Vercua Salt, but that is besides the point) sports a punk Hitler haircut.

Bad Mutha Fudruckers rate it: 8.5