Busted. Chris Hansen-style.

The mouth may be saying "no, no, no", but those glasses say "yes, yes, yes".

Back in the day, when Chris Hansen would bust one of these assholes, he used to seem genuinely surprised. How could someone ever think that a 13-year-old was totally into their middle-aged, saggy bodies? How could they not expect that an entire camera crew was going to come out from behind a curtain at some point? It used to seem totally unreal, but after about a million of these stings, Chris Hansen has become a total pro.
Now that he's balls-deep in kiddie-fondlers, he's not surprised anymore. Instead, he's perfected this "disappointed dad" look that seems to make even the creepiest pedo-smiles turn to shame.
To Catch a Predator rules. Chris Hansen rules.

~sarah p.

Queen of the jungle.

This week, I adopted a baby tiger from the World Wildlife Fund (only $40!), and I already can't wait until he's big enough for me to ride to work.

~sarah p.

p.s. Tonight is my work holiday party, which is basically like a staff meeting, but with nicer clothes. Nobody drinks, nobody does anything stupid, and we spend three hours watching powerpoint presentations while we eat buffet-style dinner. Such is the life of a non-profit worker. I love where I work, but I hope I break my leg before tonight comes around.

Red vests and "bon bons".

There is nothing more indicative of a true asshole than someone who goes on and on about how much they love the winter.
"Can't wait for snow!", they say in early October, when the rest of us are still trying to avoid wearing a jacket. "I've got my snowboard strapped to the top of the car, and my skates in the trunk!"
"I hope you get buried in an avalanche", I think to myself... Perhaps a tad harsh. "That is, I hope your car gets buried in an avalanche". That'll teach you to love winter, dick.
I've always been under the distinct impression that the more people that love winter, the more apt that winter is to show up every year. Fuck winter, and winter-lovers alike.

There is one thing, however, that only appears in winter that I actually look forward to all year. It belongs in the form of a green and red kiosk that shows up the day after Halloween in almost every mall in town. That's right: mother fucking Hickory Farms.

For those of you that are unaware, Hickory Farms is the mother of all kiosks. Usually, kiosks sell odd hair accessories and vacuum attachments, and swarthy Armenian guys, bathed in cologne, peddle these products by sticking their tongue in your ear or trying to steal your wallet.
Not Hickory Farms. When you arrive, you are greeted by the most endearing staff of all time. Most are either recent immigrants or over the age of seventy, and welcome you with adorable red vests and trays and trays of samples. They don't get mad when you eat more than one sample of each product, and will even help you combine samples into a whole new taste sensation. Smoked salmon rolled around smoked cheddar? If you say so, dude.
Trust me, these people love their jobs. They probably even get to keep all of the leftover baskets to feed their struggling families until the next holiday season. I've often considered throwing off the shackles of the work-a-day world and strapping on a red vest for a season, but I do not think I am worthy of such distinction.

They also have a catalogue that used to be sent to every house when I was a kid, which I would read cover-to-cover. No better bedtime story in the world. By late December, I would have many pages folded over and marked with red pen. I guess I was trying to signal something to my relatives. No more toys! I wanted a Fire-Glazed Ham or a tray full of dried fruits. Couldn't they see I was being serious???

Well, one relative believed me. My ex-step grandmother, to be exact, and on my eleventh birthday, I opened a box that contained a small metal sleigh full of a large stick of beef, festive pecans, and a cheese ball. Finally, a little faith in me. Peppered through the sleigh were several candies, wrapped to look like tiny cartoon strawberries. I don't know what they put in those candies, but they call them "bon bons", a hard candy with a soft middle. The main ingredients listed were corn syrup, sucrose, and artificial flavoring, but something tells me there was a sprinkling of pure love in there somewhere.

It's true: this time of year totally blows, but even the most hardened cynic can't find something wrong with baskets of wonderful sausage and cheese and "bon bons". Downright impossible.
I've often wondered if there is a real "Hickory Farm". If it exists, I bet it is full of happy, smiling animals, a big rickety red barn, and a ton of old-timey country flair. That, or it's a gigantic filthy slaughter house... Chances are, a little bit of both.

~sarah p.

Helping hand.

You know what, Hamburger Helper? Fuck it. I was being a cynical dick- you do make a great meal.
File this one under "don't knock it 'til you try it".

~sarah p.

p.s. Doing thirty minutes of "research" on that little Hamburger Helper mascot: new personal low, or new personal high?

International Flavor.

My new favorite show is called International Flavor- a local self-described 'reality cooking TV show' on Cable Access... An amateur, Calgarian 'Diners, Drive Ins, and Dives', if you will. I'm sure you guys can already tell that it's a great 30 minutes of television. It's hosted by a perky blonde woman and a really gung-ho guy. Free espresso at the studio, I guess.

Sometimes they go to Indian restaurants or Moroccan restaurants and try exciting new foods, but sometimes they have to go to truck stops and still pretend to be amazed by chicken fingers and pancakes. They take bites of the dishes while the chef, owner, or staff silently watch them chew. Sometimes they pepper the chewing noises with sentiments like "mmm", or "this is good". Sometimes they just stay silent and move onto the next dish. This is the secret way that they signal to the viewer to not order this dish if they ever find themselves there, but without being totally obvious. I appreciate their subtlety in this matter. People's feelings are at stake here.

Sometimes the female host will take a gigantic forkful, like when she would be alone in the kitchen at home eating last night's KFC coleslaw out of the container, and then remember she is in front of a camera, and deposit half of the bite back onto the plate. She deeply nods with each bite, like she's computing how pork chops are supposed to taste. She often takes a second mindless bite, only to realize that she must hide a portion of the second bite in her hand under the table because it's time to move along to the next sample. Out of the two hosts, she is the polite one.

The male host often joins the cooks in the kitchen, where they show him exactly how to prepare some of their most popular dishes. This of course falls to shit, because often the host will begin to stop following directions, and start to cater to what he likes to eat. It doesn't matter that the Southwest Burger has onion on it, because he doesn't like onion and this is his burger. I would say he's the more assertive of the two hosts. A real go-getter, a self-starter.

They put real-life, visibly uncomfortable, customers on TV to give testimonies on the quality of the restaurants. They ask leading questions such as: "Do you think that this restaurant, one of the best in the city, is a good restaurant?", and "Would you say you come here often, all the time, or regularly?"
I have seen a man almost reduced to tears with fear when the camera got up in his grill to ask what he liked about his nachos. He eventually choked out that they were "good, I guess".
They often interrupt their guests in the middle of an interview or let the microphone fall to the wayside so that you can't hear what anyone is saying. I should find this annoying, but it's just plain endearing. Wonderful, in fact.

Obviously, it is the cutest show on TV right now, but I can't do it full justice. You'll have to watch for yourself, if you're in town. Maybe have a couple of glasses of wine first.
Thursdays, Channel 10, 10:30PM.

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. Also, this lady is the producer... She's like the Calgary version of Charo! Neat!

In too deep.

Oh, the glorious wonders of Youtube.
What happens when you search Genesis' 'In Too Deep'? Hours of fun! Pure magic!
Here, I've done the work for you guys. Check it-

The videos that accompany karaoke videos are always pure gold. This guy is so fucking pissed. He's definitely in too deep. Holy shit. Let's move on.

This one. Oooooh, man. This guy is in soooo deep.

I often wonder if stage parents ever stop to think of the ramifications their son might one day endure for singing 'In Too Deep' to another boy on national TV.

So deep. So, so deep.

xoxo
~sarah p.

Humbug.

If you couldn't already guess, I totally hate the holiday season. Always have, always will. I try to understand why people would enjoy this time of year, but I keep coming up blank. The reasons people give: the spirit of Christmas, the joy, blah, blah, blah- they just don't seem legit. You can pretend to care about goodwill and cheer and "the giving spirit" all you want, fact of the matter is, people love the holidays because almost everyone breezes into January with a belly full of fine foods and couple of hundred of bucks worth of loot.
For example, I've got this one amazing trick where, upon people asking me what I want for Christmas, I put on a really sad face and say that I want "nothing". This one magical statement turns packages full of candles I'll never use, and ugly sweaters I'll never wear, into cards packed with cash and gift certificates (because, for some reason, you're not allowed to say that you "just want cash" for Christmas). I'm not the only one on the planet that uses this trick, I'm just the only one to admit it.
People say they love the generosity of this time of year, the family, the decency that it brings out in all of us, but then everyone just spends the time getting drunk, stuffing their faces, and getting needless gifts. If it were really about selflessness and togetherness, we would all bring our families to volunteer at the soup kitchen, and take the cash that we would use on little Timmy's X-Box 360 and giving it to the animal shelter.
Don't bullshit the bullshitter, holiday-lovers. I see right through you guys, straight to the little dollar signs in the back of your eyes.

The weather sucks, the malls are packed, and nobody buys me that three-flavor popcorn tin that I always ask for every year (cheese, butter, and caramel). My family started doing a gift exchange, which I thought was a good idea. I drew my mom's name out of the hat, I have to spend $150 on gifts for her and only her, no problem. My mom is the world's easiest person to buy for- she doesn't really even care what the gift is, so long as you wrapped it yourself. Nooooo problem.
You know what, though? Big problem. You see, my name was picked out of the hat by my worst relative. The one that, despite the $150 limit, will spend $3 on an ornament from the clearance section of Shopper's Drug Mart, and shrug unapologetically when I open it and realize that I've been bamboozled. Gift bamboozled.

I hate Christmas specials on TV. It's the same shit every year. Did Matlock need a 'very special' holiday episode? Every day that Matlock continues to breathe off of life support should be 'very special' to him. Also, every year they play the same commercials. I know this because I watch TV every month of every year. Can't trick me. There are a certain breed of actors that will never find themselves on a sitcom or a drama or a movie, and will just continue to be in commercials for the rest of their lives. The children of this breed really stand out, in that you visibly watch them age from one commercial to the next. Huggies to Hot Wheels to Trapper Keepers to Speed Stick. Boys to men. When a kid doesn't age from one year's commercial to the next, you know that company didn't dole out the cash for a fresh new 2010 ad, because they thought that nobody would notice. Unless these companies figured out a way to turn back the aging process, they are very obviously recycling their 2009 ads for another year. Nice try, guys.

Lastly (but certainly not least)- Santa. What the fuck is up with that guy? If it were any other time of year, and you busted a scruffy guy in flamboyant red, fur-trimmed pajamas on your roof, you would get on the phone and call the goddamn police. "Help!", you would say, "There is a gay vagrant on my roof, and he is trying to lodge himself inside of my chimney!".
They would come and take his shitload of reindeer to the SPCA (where does a man get eight reindeer anyway?), and haul his ass off to jail.
As the paddy wagon headed back toward the station, with ol' Saint Nick in the back of the car, he would bellow a deep and jolly "ho, ho, ho" out the window, to which you would get back on the phone with the cops to also sue him for verbal harassment, because nobody is allowed to call you a prostitute.
In spite of all of this, nobody bats an eyelash if this shit happens on December 24th. Guy gets on the roof, lets himself into the house, eats the cookies, makes out with your wife, and takes off with his herd of radioactive wild animals. No big deal. It's Christmas Eve, so it's okay.
Also, Santa looks like he would stink if you met him in real life. Juuuust sayin'.

Look, I like eggnog, and I won't turn down a sugar cookie at any time of the year. I like the smell of fir trees. I look adorable in mittens. I enjoy ruining Christmas for others. I guess it's not all bad, afterall.
Can someone please just get me my tin of popcorn this year? Come on. This is getting ridiculous.

~sarah p.

p.s. How about being nice to each other all of the time, assholes?

p.p.s. I also like those boxes of assorted chocolates. Hint, hint.

The worst feeling.

I've always thought that the photos in Robert Frank's 'The Americans' were incredible representations of raw human emotion. Visualizations of happiness, sorrow, wonder, hate, hopelessness...Each page a deep window into the human soul.

I guess you could say that this photo is a pretty good representation of one of my least favorite feelings in the world... A gumless depression. Allow me to explain:

Each time my parents go down to the States, they ask me if they should bring me anything from across the border. Each time, I have one request and one request only: Fruit Stripe gum. Both the green (chewing) and the pink (bubble) kinds. Many, many packages.
You see, Fruit Stripe gum is very, very difficult to obtain in Canada, and I do believe that up to 50% of my soul is built of the stuff.

My heart leaps into my throat when they hand me a heavy paper bag upon their return.
I open the top of the bag and inhale the sweet air... I would imagine this is what heaven must smell like.
I eat them in rhythmic order, the pink, green, red flavors before the orange, yellow, blue, and purple flavors. One stick at a time, evenly pulling them from the paper sleeves so that the packages never have a surplus of a certain flavor.
I plaster my arms in the fake tattoos that come on the wrappers. It is a rare treat to find one that hasn't been cut in half during the manufacturing process, and I keep a small collection of wacky zebras surfing, skateboarding, dunking basketballs long after the gum is gone.
With obsessive vigor, I chew and chew until eventually, there is only one stick of each flavor left.
I have heard stories of parents being stuck in some sort of emergency situation where they must choose between their children, and I guess that this is what I feel when I get to this point. The joy is most certainly over. As each piece disappears, a piece of me dies.
For months after the gum is gone, I will occasionally pull out one of the saved wrappers and adorn my hand with a zebra playing t-ball, just for the memories. I always thought that it was just a sugar-comedown, but I now believe that the ending of my hard-to-obtain gum sends me into some sort of true gumless depression (spell check keeps telling me that 'gumless' is not a real word).

I guess what I am trying to say is- can anyone hook me up with more Fruit Stripe? Help a brother out? I've got the shakes, man.

All my love (even if you don't send me the gum),
~sarah p.

p.s. The little zebra on the package is called 'Yipes'. If that ain't cute, I don't know what is.

Dumpstergate 2010.

A couple of weeks ago, I was strolling past a Calgary Sun paper box, and a headline caught me eye:
"Dumpster Baby Found in City's Northwest"
My first thought was "Oh. How sad.", but my second thought was "Halloween is a'comin'!"

For the record, little dumpster baby is fine. Chances are, he will have a close relationship with his therapist in the future (happens to the best of us), and he may never get to know his real mom, but let's face the facts: the kid's a star!

I went out the night prior to Halloween with a hungover stomach. I wore this costume to Local 522 for another amazing edition of Stars & Muscles. The bar was dark and crowed, a few people asked what I was, but most were fixated on the impending nip-slips that were about to go down (unavoidable when sexy costumes are out in full effect). I ended up taking off early, and not many of my pals caught a glimpse of my most clever costume yet.

Tonight, in between answering the door and dropping handfuls of candy into plastic pumpkins, I figured that I should post a photo of the costume of Facebook for all to see. What a horrible, horrible mistake.

Somewhere between high school and now, most folks have lost their sense of humor. Perhaps it's because a bunch of the chicks I knew in grade school are now full-fledged baby machines, but the amount of hate mail I received was staggering. Responses ranged from "What the fuck is wrong with you?!?" to "Obviously you don't have kids." (they were saying that like it's a bad thing). I had 26 people un-friend me in a span of an hour. Good riddance, you humorless bastards.

I took the photo down. No regrets, I just didn't feel like reading any more angry comments. I posted on a few select friend's walls, there was no reason that the photos should never see the light of day again... It was an amazing costume! There were folks dressed as Hitlers, child molesters, KKK-members, and dudes in fucking blackface, and I'm the one getting in shit? Relax, dudes. I didn't realize that a holiday built around dressing up like sluts and eating candy was such a somber occasion.

Here's a new headline for you: "Apparently, Halloween Is No Laughing Matter". Put that one on your front page, Calgary Sun.

Also, how am I going to top this costume next year, guys?

~sarah p.

The Inkling.

Those who know me well know that I have never had the urge to have children. Now, in the future, ever. Despite constant cries of "You'll change your mind!", and "Just give it a few more years!", I'm almost 29, and it ain't gonna happen. I love Dylan to death, but quite frankly, I do not want to see what the mingling of our gene pools, combined with nine months of cooking next to my small intestine, would churn out.
However, the other night, staring at the TV while in a overtime-induced stupor after work, I felt a small, strange feeling in the pit of my stomach... An inkling, if you will. What if I had a tiny person to carry around with me? Someone to dress in cute outfits, someone to push around in a sweet little carriage... My petite, well-dressed, apple-cheeked cherub would be the envy of all of my friends. It could be a wonderful, life-changing experience! Motherhood! Bravo!
That's when I spilled my iced tea on my sweatshirt, and came back down to earth.
Waaaaait a minute.
On second thought, the the odd, overtaking feeling that had just swept over my conscience was not a newfound desire to spring children from my loins, but rather a familiar (twenty-five year old) yearning for a really bitchin' Cabbage Patch Doll.

~sarah p.

Vote Purp.

As of Monday, Calgary has a new mayor, and for once, it's the guy I would've actually voted for. I used the word 'would've' because I failed at voting. Miserably.

I got up bright and early on Monday morning, and ran up to my voting station to place my ballot before 8:30AM. I was facing a long day at work, and wasn't sure I would be able to make it in time to vote in the evening. Too bad the polls didn't open until 10AM.
At 7PM, I ran as fast as I could to get back to my voting station. I got in lineup, ready and willing to place my ballot.
I know what you guys are thinking, but I didn't screw up my ballot by writing "yeah!" in the check-boxes instead of an 'x' (to be fair, I have made this mistake in the past). On a side note, I don't really think it's fair that you can only draw a check-mark or an 'x' to place a vote... They throw out your ballot if you don't mark the boxes properly! Ask any seven-year-old girl if a happy face or heart is just as valid as a check-mark or an 'x', and they will tell you what's up. Come on, now.
No, no, my friends... I did something far, far stupider than trying to 'spice up' my ballot paper. Far stupider.
I had only, shall we say, 'skimmed' my voter guide, and hadn't paid much attention to my appropriate location. When I gave my ID to the lady at the front, she looked at me with a panicked concern. "Sorry, honey," she said "You're at the wrong voting station". I asked if there was any way I could still vote. The polls were closing in minutes. The lady called over the head honcho, who shook his head in disgust at me, and turned me away (sorry, dude- that voter's guide was far too dry to read cover to cover- if they would've put some more pictures or a scratch-and-sniff motif in the booklet, I probably would've made it to the right place at the right time).
I was screwed...There was no way, on foot, that I could make it to my voting station before it closed. I walked home with my head down, terrified that my single vote would fuck up the results of the entire election. Imagine my relief when, at just after 10PM, Naheed Nenshi walked away with the victory by more than one vote.

I'm proud that Calgary finally decided to go against the 'wealthy middle-age white guy for mayor' grain. That shit didn't work two years ago, four years ago, forty years ago. Nenshi's an every-man's mayor; the kind of dude that would eat at a Chinese buffet and watch 30 Rock on a Thursday evening. The kind of guy that just may be able to get shit done. Dude is mad relateable.
He was raised in Marlborough, which gives him both street-cred and leading authority in Jamaican food. He is single, which means that he won't waste his breath trying to preserve 'family values' in the city. Fuckin' Bronconnier.
Plus, I can't wait to see how his dusky cinnamon complexion will contrast against the requisite giant white Stetson hat that he'll wear all throughout Stampede (probably beautifully).

Man, it's time this city shook things up a little bit, because we're the type of city who has a 'comfort zone' based on Budweiser, rodeos, Caucasians, suburbs, country music, SUVs, butter chicken, $1000 strollers, and absurdly shitty weather.
You've got a lot of work to do, Nenshi. Glad to have you on board.

~sarah p.

Behind The Scenes: Rick Ross Featuring Curren$y & Wiz Khalifa "Super High" (Sativa Remix)

Man, I have been geeking on Teflon Don for months now. Lately, my attention span with rap albums has been wavering. Most albums, beyond this one and, surprisingly, Big Boi's new album, are a two-week fling.
However, I'm totally in love, for life, with the Super High Remix, and even more in love with this 'making of' video:



Catch the highlights at:
0:57- Wiz Khalifa loses his train of thought for the first, but not the last, time in the video.
1:05- Wiz Khalifa forgets where he is.
1:18- "They have smoked so much already, and it's not even halfway through. That was just, like, recreational smoking to get ready for it, but now we can get super high... Turn it up. I need to eat first, though. Fuck that."
1:43- Rick Ross' entry shot- glamour shot of diamond crosses around his neck, panning up to red, squinty eyes.
2:00- Rosay's personal shout out to 'Toucan'!
2:17- Rick Ross' exit shot- red, squinty eyes, panning down to a glamour shot of diamond crosses around his neck.
2:19- Perhaps Curren$y shouldn't eat and try to talk at the same time.
2:48- Walter's: A Place to Remember
2:55- "This is like, not the video shoot." "This is, like, behind the scenes, actually."
3:09- "And just trying to get uhhhh... Emergency... Uhhhh... I can't... Woooo, pause."
3:12 to 3:35- Straight gibberish.
4:03- Curren$y wanders off like a curious small child. Probably not for the first time that day.

Moderation, boys... Moderation. That way you don't get lost in downtown Atlanta at 1PM on a Monday during a video shoot. Chances are, they had to spend an hour out of their day trying to find Curren$y in the crowd at the hot dog stand. When they finally found him, squirting relish in his mouth at the condiment cart, Rick Ross probably ran over, hugged him, and said "Never leave my side again, okay? I was worried sick!".

Anyway, how are you guys? Perfect? Super perfect?

xoxo
~sarah p.

A note to Autumn 2010:

I see that you have your bag packed, I know you're ready to leave, but please, baby, don't go. We've had some great times together this year. The way you made the leaves fall to the ground? Beautiful. Your colors? Intoxicating. I thought we were still in the "honeymoon stage". You were into me, I was into you, what changed? I have been wearing my prettiest light jackets and boots to try and keep you interested in me! Is the magic really gone already?
How you gonna play me like this, Autumn? I don't mean to be cocky, but I feel like you kinda owe it to me to stick around for a while longer, after giving me the cold shoulder and taking off early last year.
I really feel like we had something special. The way you hit twenty degrees more than once? This year, I wore a bathing suit in front of you for the first time in 28 years! Now you want to turn around and take off? I love you. You make me want to break out into Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel", or the Yeah Yeah Yeah's "Maps", or some corny shit like that. I need you! Damn, baby. You're the world to me right now!

Okay. Look. I'm sorry I'm getting so exited.
I know you can't stay forever, but the truth is, Winter is a cruel bitch mistress that takes away my livelihood every single year... He doesn't take care of me like you do, baby. He tries to freeze my fingertips off, and just when I think he's gone, he wrecks all of my fun by snowing, then trying to freeze my ears off. Sometimes, he even prevents Spring from coming and helping me escape his abusive ways. In the past, he has even gone as far as to ruin my Summer. Not joking! He had made it snow in fucking August, and you of all folks should know how horrible he is... He steps on your game almost every year! Stick up for yourself, man.
Please stay. My relationship with winter is not healthy, and only you can save me, Autumn 2010.
Don't leave me, baby. Please.
~sarah p.

Another COPS gem:

A cop stops a guy as he lowers himself off of a high, barbed wire fence onto the ground.

Cop: Do you speak english? A little bit?
(guy nods)
Cop: Are you an American citizen?
(guy nods)
Cop: When did you immigrate to the U.S.?
Guy: Uhhh... Just now?

Nice try, man. The hopeful glimmer in that guy's eyes was probably the cutest thing I've seen all year. The cop shipped him back to Mexico, where he will have to try hopping the fence again in three hours.

~sarah p.

Hot Stuf.

This week, I learned that, at 28 years old, I have high cholesterol. Guess it's time to finally make that switch to Single-Stuf Oreos. I always knew this day would come, I just didn't think it would come this soon.

~sarah p.

p.s. I was also stung by a wasp on Wednesday. It was freezing outside, and the little guy probably should have been hibernating by now. He stung me through my sweater (entirely unprovoked), and I had to yank at his black and yellow body him three times to remove him, each pull the stinger piercing harder into my skin. It's Friday and my arm is still swollen and itchy. I am pretty pissed about the whole thing. I've always been one of those "everyone should be nice to animals all the time" people, but I swear to you all that I will drop-kick and torch the next wasp nest I see.
p.p.s. This week totally sucked. Stars & Muscles 6 next Saturday, you guys!

Cavity Creeps.

I got my first two cavities (ever) filled today. It's been almost ten years since I've been to the dentist; the last time I went it was paid for by my mom's insurance card. I used to walk into the dentist and walk out when the appointment was through, no papers or credit card numbers exchanged. If I walked out of a dental office today without signing a bunch of stuff and giving them my hard-earned cash, they would just send me a fucking bill in the mail.

Since moving out at the age of seventeen, I have learned to mostly flourish "out of the nest". That is, beyond having a strict aversion to doctors, dentists, acupuncturists, therapists, optometrists, holy men, and basically any appointment pertaining to my well-being. I think this all comes down to my "don't tell me what to do" attitude. My body, my rules. See the eye doctor every two years? How about every four. "Yearly" physical? I'll tell you when I'm coming to see you, and you only get to touch me below the waist every five visits. No free rides over here, doc.

That being said, I bit the bullet this last week and saw my MD, my optometrist, and the dentist. The first two were pretty painless. The doctor hovered on the boob area a bit too long, and I spilled a whole coffee on myself minutes before seeing the eye doctor. You know, same old.
The dentist, however, was a complete nightmare. First, they make you take off your shoes at the front and wear mini-hairnets over your feet. Not joking. For this particular visit, I did not see this sign, and left my (coffee-covered) shoes on the whole time, leaving sticky footprints all over the office. Nobody called me out on it. After ninety minutes of cleaning, they came and shot at me with a bunch of radiation, told me I have two holes in my teeth, and gave me a toothbrush with the name of their office on it. I was in shock, and booked another appointment in a week.

Today I went to that appointment. This time, I saw the sign at the door, and put the covers on over my little blue Vans... I didn't remove my sneakers because I wanted to ensure that I was able to make a quick escape if shit got too intense. I did not think I would ever have to get a cavity filled, let alone two. As I was sitting in the waiting room, one of the dental assistants asked if I was okay (I said yes), then asked if I was sure I was okay (this time I said no). I was fucking terrified. I was going to pass out. They talked to me about sedation dentistry. I declined. They asked if I was "sure I wanted to go through with this today". I told them to "hurry up and finish".

As I walked home with a frozen mouth, casually wiping my lip every ten seconds in case I might drool, I realized that first and foremost, I should blame myself for years of neglecting my oral health. Secondly, though, I blame the dentist. For sure.
Don't tell me what to do.

~sarah p.

Here we go again.

The kid that ate the giant bag of weed in Super Troopers (whose other credits include such classics as 'Medium', and 'Big Fat Import Movie') is one of the lead roles in M. Night Shyamalan's new movie? I'll tell you guys, the 'twist' in this one better have something to do with pot brownies, or this movie is going to blow.

~sarah p.

p.s. I always thought the 'M' in M. Night Shyamalan probably stood for 'Michael' or 'Mild-Mannered'.

Sweet Justice.

I think I may re-name this blog "Shitty Things That I've Been Doing Lately", because here's another whopper:

Today, on my way home from work, I was asked by a ten-year-old girl that lives down the street if I wanted to buy some lemonade from her stand. Truthfully, I could've really used a cool beverage at that point, I was a block away from home, had worked a hard day, and I was parched.
However, I said no.... And it was purely out of spite.

You see, at least once a week, at approximately 5:55PM, this kid gets onto her tire swing (which is hanging, stupidly, around a tree on their front boulevard, two feet away from the sidewalk). Thanks, mom and dad. She waits (no matter how close or far away I may be), posted on the grass, until I am directly in front of her, and at the opportune moment, careens herself square into my shin.
Afterward, she gets mad at me for "being in the way". She often runs into her house to notify her parents that I have gotten in the way of her swinging. Sometimes she says that I "hurt her foot". Here's a thought, kid: I'm not a ghost (yet*), so quit trying to swing through me.
At this point, any normal parent would be realizing the dangers of posting a tire swing two feet away from the sidewalk. Any other parent would cut the tire swing down, pack up their things, and move to a house with a fucking backyard. Instead, they pat her on the head, go jump in the Hummer, and go buy her another pair of "mini Uggs" (thanks again, mom and dad).
Sometimes, as I'm walking away, I see her smug little face peering out of the window as if to say "I've won this round, bitch".

Today, when I refused that glass of lemonade that I felt like I was standing up for something, and that something is "myself".
I've had my enemies over the years (Robin Williams, for one), and I should probably draw the line at primary school-aged children. "Should" being the key word, here.

I'm a huge fan of spite. It is easily my one of my favorite emotions, and my polite refusal of her lemonade barely makes up for all of the orthopedic surgeon visits that I may have to make later in life. However, using spite against a child? Making a 10-year-old enemy? I may (or may not) have gone too far this time.

I hope there's cable in hell, guys. I will just die if I miss an episode of Shaq Vs.

xoxo
~sarah p.

*...and when I am a ghost, and you can swing right through me, little girl, I promise you I will haunt the living shit out of you and your family.

Thuuuuug life.

The other day, I may have done the worst thing I've ever done. I will be thirty years old in a year and a half, and I'm terrified that my mom will find out. I'd rather not divulge the details, but I assure you: for doing what I did, I would get in trouble in any country in the world. There is no excuse for what I did, rather, it was a crime of circumstance... A story to tell in about five years when I am sure I am fully void of any repercussions. I may not believe in heaven, but I am positive I will still end up in hell for this one.
Do you guys think I'll look better in a prison-issued orange jumpsuit, or a prison-ordered striped jumpsuit? How should I wear my do-rag: Hells Angels-style, Tupac-style, or 50 Cent-style? Do I have to make out with my cellmate? What will I do if I drop the soap in the communal shower????
Ugh. Why didn't I get mistakes like this out of my system when I was young, resilient, and brave?
Cross your fingers for me, guys. Or don't. I don't even know what I deserve anymore.

~sarah p.

Umbrella.

I almost always carry an umbrella with me. Calgary's weather is less predictable than the lotto, and since I haven't had a 649 ticket pay off, well, ever, I figure I better adopt the 'better safe than sorry' motto in most facets of my life.

I used to carry around these beautiful compact black umbrellas. They were light and easy to hide in my bag. However, I kept running into the same problem: it would start to pour as I left work for the day. I would get on the bus (which, at the time, was my second home due to an exuberant daily commute), and place my wet umbrella at my feet. Sixteen hours later (which was the equivalent of 90 minutes in 'bus time'), I ring the bell and push my way through the wet asses and grabby hands to escape into the fresh air, entirely forgetting my inconspicuous umbrella on the serrated floor of the bus. I only let this happen about twelve times before enough was enough. No more petite, classy umbrellas. I went to buy the most inexpensive, horrid umbrella of all time.

There used to be this dollar store a few blocks from my work. Perhaps "dollar hole-in-the-wall" would be a more appropriate word for it. It was in between a Supercuts and a laundromat, and they often gave you your change in rolls of pennies. This may have had something to do with the ten-year-old that, I'm pretty sure, was running the joint. If he wasn't the main boss (sometimes there was a very old woman who didn't speak any English that also hung out behind the till), he was most certainly the assistant manager or something. A high ranking title, nonetheless.
There were shelves in the store, but the owners chose against stacking their wares on them (except maybe the odd empty soda can or used Kleenex), and preferred the "dig and hunt" method of shopping.
One lunch break, I rifled though the boxes on the floor until my knees were sore. I only had an hour for lunch, and when I asked the kid at the front if he knew where the umbrellas were hiding, he looked at me like I was crazy, and went back to pretending to shoot a faux-gun lighter at his wrinkled partner behind the till. Some sorts of 'Cowboys and Indians' game, but for dollar store employees, I guess.
I came back the next day, and only had to dig for a few minutes before finding the perfect umbrella. Even when folded, this umbrella stood higher than my knee and the price was right- $3. The print on the outside, a Blossom-esque peach floral, was just a bonus. It didn't matter if I lost this umbrella- it was cheap and ugly.

As Murphy's Law often has it's way in such cases, it's been almost three years that I've been carrying around this monstrosity. I haven't left it behind anywhere, and for the money I paid, it is abnormally durable. It's heavy, and it clashes with everything I own. However, it is safe to say that I have gotten my $3 back, tenfold, for all of the times that this awful umbrella has saved my ass.

The weather in this city has a funny way of working. It tends to like to play cute little tricks on me, like how it can be the most lovely day ever, all day long, but as soon as I'm about to clock out, it starts to downpour in a way that makes me wonder whether or not I should go start building an ark...
Today was no surprise: the blue skies turned to black as I stepped out the door on my way home. Drizzle progressed to rain, and pretty soon my trusty umbrella was shading me from sheets of water and hailstones. By the time I had reached the stairs right by my house, the rain had slowed down, but the wind was still fairly heavy. The wet plastic handle of my umbrella slipped through my fingers, and my umbrella floated halfway down the hill. From behind me, under the shelter of a half-built duplex, were a whole gaggle of construction workers, applauding as they watched me chase my airborne umbrella down the slope. At that moment, I wished that they'd just get back to hammering and sawing things, and making comments about my tits and ass like they normally do.

I held onto the long blades of grass to steady myself as I reached for the peach plastic handle. I bent down to pick up the umbrella, entirely forgetting the age-old rule: Never bend at the waist to pick something up if you are in front of twenty construction workers. With my ass in the air, I was almost requesting the barrage of ass-related comments that were being yelled from behind me. Ass this, ass that.
I was so wrong... The ass comments were way worse than taking a little guff for the umbrella gag. I stood up and, without turning around, opened my hand and let the wind carry the umbrella all the way to the bottom of the hill while I chased behind at a pseudo-panicked pace. You know what they say: always leave on a high note.

~sarah p.

I used to love H.I.M.

I used to love T.I. too, Facebook... Before he was "saved by prison".
T.I. is now a role model, a father, a law-abiding citizen, and an all-around clean, polite, respectable guy. His albums are something you could buy for your nephew. I don't know, man. I'm just not buying into it.
Somebody get this man an Uzi and a stack of cash to throw around. Please. For the sake of all of the young ladies who thought Trap Muzik was the fucking best.

~sarah p.

Not the father.

Q: If a man wears an airbrushed shirt that says "I'm not the father", but a woman says that she is "250% sure" that this same gentleman fathered her child, who is correct?

A: Trick question. You want to believe the woman, with tears running down her face, would be able to identify the man that put her through four minutes of drunken fondling, sixteen hours of labor, a life's worth of stretch-marks, and thousands of dollars in diapers.
However, look closer. Nobody who is that desperate to avoid child support would ever drop the cash to custom-airbrush a shirt without knowing where his semen had ended up earlier in the year. That shirt is pure confidence in the form of a 50/50 cotton blend. I could've saved Maury the cost of the DNA test right there. Not the father.

~sarah p.

A well deserved break.

I have a feeling these next few days are going to be wonderful... Like when Urkel gets drunk, but in weekend form.


~sarah p.

You think you've had a bad day?

This guy got busted, on COPS, for having sex in his truck. Next to a playground. With his (currently incarcerated) brother's wife. Who was fifteen years his junior.

I was watching a particularly rousing episode of COPS a few weeks ago, aptly titled "Stupid Behavior #3".
The cops pull up to the bumper of this old pickup, where there's a bunch of blurred blobs of skin, jumbling around in the cab. The driver's window opens, and a man's voice asks if he can get dressed. The man emerges wearing a neon orange t-shirt, and dangerously short cutoffs. A meek woman saunters out behind him, wearing a man's button-down shirt and no pants. The woman is terrified, she asks the cops if they have to "tell her folks" about the arrest. "Yes", nods the cop, sympathetically, despite the fact that the woman is clearly over the age of eighteen.
The man stands and talks with the cops for a minute. "Did you realize that you guys are right beside a playground, where there are children playing only a few feet away?", the cop asks.
The guy looks around for a moment and lights a cigarette with shaky hands: "I thought we were below the sight-line". "No", says the cop, "You were above the sight-line".
As they cuff him and frisk his pockets, he keeps saying polite, jolly things like: "Sorry 'bout this, guys", and "Well, jeez, I'm just real red in the face here".

Shows about cops? Still hot.
Shows about prison? On fire.

...Gotta make sure I don't spend too much time outside this summer, right? I don't want to go into "tan withdrawls" in the fall.

xoxo
~sarah p.

Whiiiiiiittney!

Cover page again, baby! Still a star.

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. Guys! I think it might actually start acting like summer soon! Tomorrow, I'm going to drink some wine spritzers in the back yard, read some vintage Vogues that I picked up at the flea market, and shoot for medium bronze legs, light bronze face. Also, this neighbourhood is full of baby bunnies right now, and we have a big pot full of catnip (and also every cat on the block), so I don't even have to leave the yard to be entertained!
Next weekend is Stars & Muscles 5, and I am totally not wearing a coat. It is going to be the best.

Lohan: Raw

Whoa, Lohan... You've really done it this time. You are in so much trouble, dude.
You are going to get hurt in prison. You are going to be the most attractive human in the entire building at all times (hell, even in court, you managed to pull off a "drugged supermodel that hasn't blown all of her money yet, and likes to play with markers" look that really worked!). Your cellmate is going to be so fucking stoked. When Martha Stewart got out of prison, she re-appeared into the spotlight, and told everyone that she was better for the experience. What she didn't mention were the nightly mandatory 'truth or dare' games in the exercise yard, or the 'Martha doesn't shower alone' rule that the girls in her cell block made up. It is going to be awful.
90 days later, you'll emerge a happy, slightly less scruffy, demure faux-lesbian... At least until you get your hands on one of the three V's: vodka, Vicodin, or vagina.
Tough break, kid. Good luck in the slammer.

~sarah p.

Best summer ever.

There is one thing, and only one thing, thing that I miss about being in school: summer vacation.
You know what, though? Although I will never have the entire months of July and August off ever, ever again, the basic principles stay the same as they were in seventh grade. It's not rocket science, you guys.
If you feel like your summer is off to a lagging start, here are some things you can do to ensure the best summer ever:

Pick up a copy of the 'Above The Rim' soundtrack (I cannot stress this enough).
Drink beverages in slush-form only.
Buy a single pack of menthols and make it last for two whole months (refreshing!).
Wear mesh.
Eat popsicles every night for dinner.
Kick it at the outdoor pool.
Learn how to dunk (even if it's just on the elementary school nets).
Blow all of your spare change on sour soothers and freezies, and eat them on the swings at the playground.
Kick a wasp nest, and run (bonus: great way to burn calories).
Bring a pillow outside, and take a nap while you get a foxy tan.
Spearhead some sort of rap group. It doesn't matter if you break up just after Labour Day.
Heckle the 'Shakespeare in The Park' dudes.
Sneak into your neighbour's garden at night to enjoy some fine produce.
Try to fry an egg on the sidewalk.
Make casual bets on how many nutsacks you'll see peeking out of cutoffs on any given day at the park.
Stay up until the light starts peeking through the darkness, wake up in the early afternoon.
Find an old wheelchair. You'll be the envy of all of the kids riding around on stupid bikes.
Forget your curfew.
Go steal a stack of pamphlets from the Library, fold them into boats, throw them in the river, and watch them float away.
Wear your bathing suit instead of underpants, all summer long.

I may have responsibilities now that I didn't have fifteen years ago, but I still have a feeling that this may be one of the best summers ever.
xoxo
~sarah p.

The Back Pages.

Each month, our copy of XXL ('Hip Hop on a Higher Level') shows up in our mailbox. It's a great 'family magazine' for our house. I enjoy reading articles on Drake's close relationship with his mom and play-by-play rundowns of Soulja Boy's twitter beefs, and Dylan likes to stare at the pages and pages of plump video-ho asses.
The best part, however, are the ads in the back. Between endorsements for gay chat-lines (thugs need hugs, too), 'male enhancement tablets', technical schools, and off-brand sneakers are ads such as these:
Now, I'm no marketing genius, but I can see XXL's advertising strategy from way over here: know thy reader.
You, the average XXL subscriber, flip to the back of the magazine just as the blunt starts to burn your fingers. While sunken into the couch, with squinty, red eyes you read: 'Is your music being leaked?' (it could be), and 'Is someone talking badly about you on a blog?' (probably). Fuck. Now you're all paranoid, clearing the smoke by doing that little 'hand-fan' motion, drawing the curtains and locking the door. You were going to go get some Cool Ranch Doritos, but fuck it- you're being watched. You think about calling someone, but are now suspecting that your homeboy might be a snitch, and your girl or man may be cheating on you. Also, the phone is probably tapped.
Better getin touch with 'Hacker for Hire'. Problem solved. XXL banks five cents a sale. More money to pay Nicki Minaj to take her pants off and pose with a pouty face into the camera. Ching ching. Everybody wins.

The ad below 'Hacker for Hire' is called 'Spoofem.com', and the grammar alone is delightful:
*Call any number you want and have any number show up on a persons caller ID.
*Send Text messages and Emails to make it look like it came from someone else.
*Wire Tap- Do you need to tape your own telephone line to record telephone calls.
How sweet it would be if I could make 'untraceable phone calls that CAN'T be traced', and could 'change my voice to sound like a male or a female'. I would make all kinds of joke phone calls. Perhaps I could change my voice to sound like Martin Lawrence circa 1993 (damn, Gina!).
I could call up my buddies at 1-800-FLOWERS to send a great big surprise box to Sinbad's house, filled with fifty bouquets of sunny daisies (and a full-grown Siberian tiger), paid for by Martin Lawrence's MasterCard, circa 2010. I would just tell them to 'charge it to my account'... You know that Martin Lawrence has had to use the old 'floral hush' technique before ('roses keep mouths closed')... He probably has those guys on speed-dial for those 'sick of the bullshit, gonna call your wife' emergencies that spring up on movie sets now and again.
Anyway- cute prank, right?XXL, subscription renewed.

~sarah p.

A letter to my 16-year-old self:

Hey little lady,

I am writing this from the not-too-distant future... 2010, a place where nobody even uses Discmans anymore! Do you realize that we are now able to jump and listen to personal music players at the same time? Listening to Kris Kross is so easy for you now, you wouldn't even believe it.

Holy fuck. I'm not going to ruin the surprise, and spill the beans on your entire life story, but let me tell you: shit goes down. Sooo many times.
Listen, kiddo, I just want to give you a few words of advice... You don't want to have to learn this shit the hard way again:

*There are easier and smarter ways to do the following: buying booze, earning money, having a good time, getting decent grades, making rad friends. You are currently doing none of the preceding correctly. You fucking hate babysitting, and pretty soon Carly's older brother is going to college, and nobody is going to be around to score you bottles of Baby Duck. Better figure something out.
*If a guy shows up at your house, and a flavored condom falls out of his pocket, that guy is trying to get you pregnant.
*Please reconsider your "16-yr-old minimalist" phase, because there are albums and cassettes that, in your late twenties, you will wish you didn't sell in a milk crate at your mom's yard sale (for a very minimal profit).
*You should maybe learn to drive while you still have the balls.
*Don't let your cynical nature keep you from enjoying what is good. Don't sleep on the following for so long: Lil Wayne, vintage shoes, eyebrow pencils, and the joys of home ownership.
*If you totally hate your job, just fucking quit. Update your resume, and go get a new job. It is actually that easy.
*I know it sounds corny as hell, but be nicer to your sister.
*Remember when you drank bottled Singapore Slings and Powerade and rye, and you woke up feeling like you might die? Gin and soda sounds horrible, I know. It's more tolerable than you would think, and reduces hangovers by at least 40% (rough estimate). Also, it's going take you another twelve years to figure out that an occasional glass of water will make you feel even better. Sorry, 16-year-old liver.
*You should be more cautious about: traveling alone in foreign countries before the age of eighteen, knowing how much weed costs before trying to buy weed, "dressing your size", and significantly older men.
*Please try to understand what it means if you start dating a guy, and people give you that raised-eyebrows, "warning eyes" look when they find out.
*You know how sometimes, when it's hot, you go out for ice cream in the summer? Pretty soon, you'll be going for gelato instead.

Anyway, say hi to 1998 for me! 'Still Not A Player'- great track, right? Wait until you hear 'You Got Me' and Armand Van Helden for the first time next year... You're going to go nuts.

xoxo
~sarah p. (age 28.5)

p.s. New blog, you guys! All of my favorite Youtube tracks, in a convenient format.

Rain, rain.

I often wish that I had 'rain days' at my job... Days where, upon waking to dreary wet skies, my phone would ring, and my boss would say: "Stay inside today! It is too wet to work!".
I would shrug my shoulders, crawl back into bed, and switch on the TV for Maury-a-thon 2010.

Perhaps it's time to consider a blue collar career? I have no idea what a 'foreman' does, but it sounds like it would probably be something that I am good at. Those guys get rain days a'plenty.

I'm sick of showing up to work with soggy feet and frizzy hair, and having to smell the first damp vagrant of the morning (a scent that can only be described as a combo of musk, trash, and depression) as I wrap the blood pressure cuff around their clammy, cold arm.

This weather is the worst. My beautiful Mexican tan has faded to a hint of pale glow across my forehead and cheeks, and my most of my flowers in the garden have barely begun to bloom.
I've been using as much aerosol hairspray as I can, in hopes that it may help rip a larger hole in the area of ozone directly above my house. I'm thinking about burning a bunch of plastic and garbage in my backyard to speed the process along.
Hurry up, summer!

~sarah p.

p.s. The best thing to do on a rainy day by far? Download every Evelyn 'Champagne' King album ever!
Betcha there's some tracks you forgot about, or didn't even know existed. Score!

Fact: Learning about the Meteor Man soundtrack, the hard way.

Fact: In 1993, I ran to the record store to buy a copy of the Meteor Man soundtrack, because I had heard this song in one of the scenes:

Fact: The record store didn't have the Meteor Man soundtrack, so I pulled out my Columbia House catalogue, and sent my money (coins and all) in a pre-sealed envelope.

Fact: Two months later, after two back-order notices and a personal apology call from Columbia House's customer service department, my package finally arrived.

Fact: The song wasn't even on the Meteor Man soundtrack. What I did get was some b-side lacklustre tracks from Shanice and Hi-Five, mixed with some other unknown artists that I'm sure the producers got on the cheap.

Fact: Meteor Man was the worst movie ever. Come oooooon, how was Robert Townsend ever supposed to be playing a believable superhero? That guy can play a sensible dad that loves to BBQ, a depressed Little League coach, or maybe a mild-mannered banker with a heart of gold, but a motherfucking superhero?
People in 1993 must've had some crazy imaginations, because that shit is ridiculous.

~sarah p.

p.s. I often say to myself: "What did I do without the internet?". Well this, my friends, was a classic case.