Friday, January 31, 2014

Pure Class.

I don't make New Year's resolutions. They are rigid and hard and very rarely fun. Instead, at the beginning of the year, I usually make some very gentle, breakable, probably not possible "suggestions" to myself. This year's crop included: learning a really great breakdance move so I can impress the b-boy kids that hang out in the park near my house, letting go of the mermaid esthetic and actually getting more than one haircut over the next year, getting the white vinyl double-album version of 'Ready To Die', buying a set of adult drinking glasses and throwing out all of the ones I stole from the bar, and my very biggest goal of all- getting invited to a party at the private club beside my house.

Oh, I haven't told you guys about the secret mystery private club three doors down from me? Well, it's a real thing. 

I first noticed something different about this building around the time I moved in. It was near to Christmas party season, and although there were many old character buildings in the area, including the building to where I live, no other building had regular valet parking. My building certainly did not. Cars pulled up throughout every evening and looped in front of the double glass doors, which I would observe on my double-nightly walks with Reggie, and a gentleman in a tuxedo would take their keys and drive into the underground parking. "Hm", I thought to myself.

The next clue to what lay inside of the sandstone and brick building was observed while strolling down the alleyway. Living downtown, I pass by a lot of dumpsters, but very few are filled with fancy pastries and lamb cuttings and Cigar Aficionado magazines and vintage Playboys (word to the wise, magazine day seems to be Thursdays). It was clear to me: whatever was going on in that building was of a higher class. 

I started observing through the windows, while waiting for Reggie to sniff every fucking thing on the entire ground. Nightly, I watched lively, well-dressed people having the time of their lives. I could spy Tiffany lamps and fine glassware and fancy pool tables (that, unlike most regular pool tables, appeared to have not been fucked on several times). Envy rose in my chest. I wanted to be in there, enjoying fancy parties instead of dragging my old, fat dog through the cold, dark sidewalks.

Then, a glimmer of hope. I did a little independent research, and found out this magical place had a name: The Ranchmen's Club. It was $2000 to get in, and you had to be approved by their board, and in a fairly affluent position professionally (examples would be: a senior corporate executive, a business owner, an engineer, a stock broker, a chartered accountant, a banker, a lawyer, or a judge). I read through the list, and wondered if they would consider a low-payed non-profit jill-of-all-trades affluent "in spirit alone", but probably not. I considered asking my hot engineer boyfriend to "take one for the team" and weasel his way in, but then I realized I was considering putting an awful lot of time and money and effort into trying to join a club where, on top of having no desire to actually have me as a member, would expect me pay $2000 to go pay for, and drink, regular beers that I could buy at any non-private club in town. 

Still, something in me burns to catch a glimpse of the inside. I bet it's sparkly and everything is really clean, there is probably leather chairs and lush table cloths, and the bartenders probably wear ties and use "sir", and "ma'am". Those old Playboys in the trash? The people in there are probably so fucking classy that not a single one has been dragged into the bathroom. I have discerned that the best time to strike is during Stampede, when everyone is drunk and their guard is down. I have yet to decide on my method, but it is between sitting out front with sad puppy eyes and really short shorts, or following behind some rich guy as he enters, and pretending to be his ignored oil wife for about three minutes before running off to explore. It's risky, but I really do feel that I deserve to enjoy a complimentary copy of Cigar Aficionado, whilst sipping a decent cognac out of a cup that doesn't have the Heineken logo on the side, just as much as anyone else in this town.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Melba, Melba, Melba Edition):

~sarah p.

Saturday, January 25, 2014


Is it okay to wear a dress printed with Snoop's Doggystyle cover to a wedding? It's a wedding full of people that will either be super into it, or super offended. I'm asking because this actual item is on the way to my house right now. I can't believe it took 21 years for me and this dress to come together, but I can assure you it is going to be 100% life-changing.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Quincy All Day, Every Day Edition):

~sarah p.

p.s. That's Stevie Wonder playing the synthesizer in the second song, and it is just about the most perfect track I've ever heard. Amazing.

Monday, January 13, 2014


Until I had regular access to the internet in the late 90's, I thought I had made up TLC's early morning educational show 'Book Mice', which followed a group of literary enthusiasts that were also rodents, because this was also around the time I started experimenting with hallucinogens. 
I was laying in bed very early this Sunday morning, watching the sun come up over the mountains after a particularly debaucherous evening at the Banff Springs Hotel, and I realized that one day, I may be asking myself if this period in my life was all some sort of wonderful apparition, too. 

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Totally Total Edition):

~sarah p.

Monday, January 06, 2014

Convenience and Anonymity.

I don't know why I care about clothes so much. Perhaps it's that my weekday work wardrobe of leggings and sweatshirts stifles my creativity. Maybe our society puts too strong an emphasis on physical appearances. It's reasonable to say that I just like looking nice sometimes. Vanity is a regular day-to-day thing in my life, really, but for today, let's just blame it on the fact that I'm dating someone whom I find very, very attractive, and I want to show him my hot body in the best way possible/trick him into repeatedly sleeping with me.

I could go down to the mall and try on new clothes. Key word being 'could', because the downtown mall is probably eight blocks from my house, and that feels much too far away at this point. Also, change rooms. What the fuck is up with that shit? The best change rooms in the world are akin to the deepest pits of hell, when it comes to being utterly unbearable and putrid. Instead of grotty change rooms full of random clothes that people don't want after all, I sit at the cozy breakfast bar in my kitchen, on my laptop, wearing my tortoise shell glasses to show that I mean business, and taking care of any and all clothes shopping online.

I usually just shop between one of three stores, and it's any wonder they haven't sent me personal thank-you notes at this point, for putting their kids through college and buying them many a tropical vacation/sports car. You're welcome, guys.

However, all of this convenience and anonymity has an obvious price, beyond the dollars and cents, when you look into one of my three tiny closets. With a, shall we say, 'hard-to-fit' body type, online shopping is a real crap shoot. Hangers full of clothes, tags still on, lay dormant for me to figure out how the fuck to ever wear them in public. Shoes that were a little too high in person, or a little too big, or just looked way less ugly on the model, line the floors of each closet. I am on a one-in-one-out system with garments of any sort, because, yikes, I live in 600 square feet.

With two packages in the mail on the way to my house right now, it's tough to say whether or not my modern shopping system is actually working. Yes, every third item of clothing is a total dud, but at what cost am I willing to do without the bitchy sales associates at American Apparel giving me the stare-down for asking to try on a sweater? The answer, my friends, is currently sitting at the back of my closet.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (ELO Power Hour Edition):

~sarah p.

p.s. Also: