Off the record/ On the record.

I'm just going to go off the record here for a minute.
I love summer. I love essentially everything about summer. For example, it was a stupid work day, but I still feel great! I sat outside on my lunch break, walked an hour-and-a-half home at a leisurely pace (which is totally my new thing to do. Why did I walk so fast for so many years? Where the hell am I ever going in a hurry?). I am going to spend the evening making a salad with kick-ass shit I got from the chinese grocery store, then I might read the paper on the porch or watch Three 6 on MTV if I feel like it. See? Perfect.
Really, there's only one thing about summer in Calgary that truly, genuinely sucks.... The surplus of blue-collar workers. There's construction workers and road workers and city workers everywhere, working without shirts on and whistling at the ladies. Even the ones that aren't working, such as the rig workers, are out and about, on patios drinking Kokanees and wearing their Quicksilver caps backwards... It's like a fucking douche-festival everywhere I go, all the time.
I guess I'm glad that the uneducated fucks of the world have somewhere to go during the day, but the fact of the matter is, most of these guys dropped out of high school at the same time as the 7-11/McDonald's/Tim Horton's guys did, and they make double what those guys do.... The only difference is that your local fast-food worker doesn't get the day off when it rains, and would get fired for making gross-ass comments to girls walking by. I don't usually hear many noises coming from the the millions unfinished condo projects in my hood in the mornings, but it the afternoon, the whistles are unavoidable. I'll never understand it. Like, really guys? I just walked for an hour and a half. I'm unshowered, and in my work-clothes. You're whistling at a sweaty hobbit that just got off of an eight-hour shift of examining hobos. Do you really want to have me go over there and make out with you or something? Oh, wait. You still do. Sick.
Look, I'm sure that there are some really decent blue-collar guys out there, I'm just unsure of whether or not I've ever met one. Someone help me out, because I think I'm a careerist.


Okay, I'm going back on the record now. You know what I've really been itching to hear for a couple of days now? A good set of dancehall classics from the early 90's. Like, Shabba Ranks and Patra and Buju Banton and Supercat. The weather gets hot, and my mind sails off to fucking Jamaica circa 1993. The only problem is, the kids around here aren't advanced enough to know how to bust out to dancehall. Alana says that it's funny to watch people on the floor when dancehall comes on, because they pull out dance moves that nobody has ever seen them do before, and try to act natural. The chicks are popping their white asses awkwardly while the guys do this shrinky little dance where they pull their arms up to their bodys and do pelvic-thrusts. What people don't realize is that trying to dance to dancehall without actually knowing how to dance to dancehall is like trying to program a computer when you don't even know how to e-mail.
....I'm not even trying to pretend that I know how to throw my back out. It's totally okay to get on the floor, and I'd encourage it, but your only option is to joke-dance the entire set (which is way more fun anyway).

Make sure to wear breathable fabrics tomorrow guys, 'cause it's gonna be so, so hot when you're out on the scene... See you on the dancefloor, I'll be the one fanning myself rapidly.

~sarah p.

eta- You know? I just thought of something. I know some pretty rad guys that work at indoor blue-collar jobs. Tradesman are okay, I think. Maybe it's just guys that work outside that I don't like. I don't know. When I was a kid, there were some workmen that were in my alley for a week or so. I caught them peeing on our garbage cans several times, and I think it tainted me. Someone should introduce me to some guys that are both awesome and outdoor workers, and maybe I'd change my mind (but probably not, because there's no such thing).

Dirtfoot and "lobsters".

I drop a crazy amount of dimes in a month on clothes and shoes, and these dirty loafers are still my favorite thing ever (p.s.-yes, that is genuine berber carpet, and this is why I'm hot sonnnnnn). I don't wear them out anymore on a regular basis, because people look visibly disgusted when I do, but I still love them with my whole heart. Imagine the outfit possibilities! When they used to be white, they went with pretty much everything in my closet, which is not saying much because I really don't dress myself very well, but every time I try on an outfit, I find myself thinking: "You know what would make this better?".....

I bought the loafers at Zeller's for $12.00 ($12.84 with tax), and I think it's time for a new pair. So, my question is:
(a) Do you think they still make these shoes? One time a while ago, when I went to the horse track, I saw an old lady that was wearing a black version of the loafers (and a ton of sequins), so there may be hope.
(b) Why didn't I check at the Zeller's when Dylan and I went there for lunch on Sunday (which was essentially the worst idea either of us has had in a while)?

This week, I ended up with a gift card to the mall, so I know what I'll probably be spending it on.

We went out for my sister's birthday last night, and guess where we went? Red. Lobster.
Dylan informed me that Red Lobster is Flava Flav's favorite restaurant, and I had no idea that my sister and Flav had so much in common. The waiter was stoned out of his mind, and looked like he had slept in a dumpster the night before. I don't think the lobster was even real... It was probably some form of red cockroach or something. Nonetheless, I rolled myself out of there when the meal was done.
So, with Zeller's providing lunch, and Red Lobster providing dinner, I kinda wanted to spend the majority of today curled up in a little ball in one of the exam rooms at work. I'm eating nothing but salad for the next few days, guys.

~sarah p.

p.s. Look at my chubby little nubs! It even makes me laugh a bit, and I'm stuck with them for life.

Nuthin' But Llamas.

It had already been a pretty intense week. Work is stressful like every single day, and my dad was visiting from Ireland. So, after spending most of my first day back to work after the long weekend helping semi-illiterate prostitutes fill out CPS reports, I needed a bit of a break.
When my sister came over that night, she suggested that we go out to see her horse, which is on a llama farm.... I jumped at the chance. So long as it's only once a year or so, going to a llama farm is one of the funnest things I can think of that doesn't involve drinking, dancing, or staying up late.

Anyone who grew up in Calgary, especially if you were a stone-cold city kid, will have some memories about Butterfield Acres, which was a farm that my broke-ass elementary would take us to every year as our one and only field trip. You'd go there, and an old-timey man would take you around, and you'd get to see a hog as big as a door, plus you'd weave and bake bread and write with quills and run batshit around with some animals.
They would also let you milk a goat, which honestly always terrified me, because I'd always get the most ass-crazy goat in the joint, and she'd kick over the bucket or try and bite me or kick me in the face. Then, we'd have to go back to the school and write in our journals about it.

Since then, I've certainly grown out of my minor fears of farm animals, and I was pretty stoked to get out to see some llamas.

At farms, there are always haystacks. Haystacks make me sneeze, and usually make my throat start to swell later in the night.

Plus, there's danger around every corner. It's like a rust-party around there.


There were posters like this up all over the wall, and I drank an Olympia beer with a for-real farmer!

Then, I saw a cat on an ATV in the barn, and it made me laugh for a really long time.

I got tired of the barn, so I went out to see some llamas.

It didn't feel like I was getting the true llama experience, so I went inside of their cage, and my sister was all like "be careful".

....and I was all like "don't even worry about it, these suckers are running away from me".

See you next year, llama farm!

~sarah p.

Back to normal (well, as normal as it gets).

I've been trying to deal with the ever-changing weather graciously, because as someone that was born and raised in Calgary, I should be used to this shit by now.
I wouldn't mind snow or rain at all, so long as it stayed warm the entire time. One reason: coats. I'm not talking about jackets, which I actually kinda miss sometimes in the summers because a lot of jackets are so fucking adorable (including Alana's 76ers jacket that was stolen last night. If you see it around, punch the bitch that stole it, and take it back). I'm talking about the bulky-ass parkas that people in this city wear around, and take up entirely too much space everywhere.... They really get in the way of life.

For example, I really don't mind my commute to and from work, despite the fact that it's painfully long. I usually spend the time trying to figure out how to incorporate the word "shawty" into my vocabulary without sounding like a retard, listening to the kid infront of me bump the same Joe Budden jam over and over, or documenting my thoughts in my "moleskine notebook", which is what I call my chunk of liquor store receipts that I stapled together and write on (mostly stuff that's demeaning to either myself or others). No big thing, right? The only thing I ask for is a little personal space. However, when everyone is wearing a huge coat, the chances of me having to feel the heat radiate off of someone's ass are very likely, and that can be more distracting and annoying than you could ever imagine.

This is why I'm so, so stoked for the weather to get warm and stay warm. Let's do this, Calgary!

~sarah p.

p.s. You know what's the most amusing part of being downtown in the mornings? Those free paper guys that fight to give you one every single time you walk past. You know the ones I'm talking about... The people that wear smocks and look like crack addicts or ESL students that try to force you to read free daily papers ever morning. I like to pretend that they're fighting over my affections, and I walk by every morning, waving my hand and giggling to myself, saying "Whoa. There's enough of me to go around, boys". It's nice to pretend sometimes, isn't it?

Sorry.....

Not a lot of time, Dad's in town, but I have stories (most of which are gin-soaked or about llama farms). Be back in yo face on Thursday!

~sarah p.

A Path To The Ultimate Funnest Summer Ever: Step #1

Learn. The. Words.

~sarah p.

Meeting in the BORED room.

Today I went to my very first meeting in our for-real boardroom. Fuuuuuck.

...It's not like I haven't been to staff meetings before at other jobs, but they were usually the kind that were under 20 minutes long, and had topics that included things like: we can't drink Bailey's in the mornings anymore because the boss is catching on, and why it's not okay (or why it is okay, depending on the job) to show your ass-crack at work.
This meeting was a whole lot different. It was three hours full of words like "funding", "fundraiser", and "surgical allotments". People took notes, and they even e-mailed me a summary of the meeting this afternoon (to my work e-mail address, which is something that I totally have now).

Everyone else was pretty amazing at pretending like they were paying attention. I did my best to look interested, but honestly spent most of the meeting picturing my co-workers without clothes (not pretty), thinking about how much I love summer, doing my best to try and remember all of the words to Geto Boys jams, and piecing together this weekend's outfits in my head. I really feel like I accomplished a lot, even if none of it was work-related.
As a matter of fact, it looks as if meetings are really my only downtime at my new job, so I think I might actually kind-of enjoy them afterall.

If you see me out this weekend, dancing around like I normally do (and you will), please pour some extra booze down my throat. I think the stress is already taking it's toll on my weekly fun-quotient.

~sarah p.

Ooooh adult jobs....

1. Get a glass of grapefruit juice.
2. Pour in some vodka... Something in a plastic bottle with a poorly-drawn cartoon of a Russian guy on the front is fine.
3. Finish your Grand Slam and slip out of your booth wordlessly before the Denny's waitress brings the bill.


...That's my classic recipe for a killer Greyhound. I'm going to be ingesting a lot more of those delicious breakfast-cocktails now that I have an adult job. I really don't think I'll have a choice.

~sarah p.

Growing soft.

I walked out of my office tonight for the last time, and I actually felt kinda sad for a minute. What ever happened to the Sarah that would leave nasty goodbye notes to my bosses in places where they would find them a few weeks later? What happened to the anti-authority, spiteful employee that would shake my head in disgust as I walked out the door for the last time, throwing up peace-signs behind my back at my ex-coworkers?

Am I getting soft in my old age? N'doubt.

It really is time for a job-change for me, but at this point, I'm really wondering what the hell I'm thinking. I'm leaving a job I like to go to another job that's full of all of the parts I didn't enjoy about my current job. For example, there will be no more sneaking out for three-hour lunches, no more days where I duck out at 2:30 to have a nice afternoon.... I'm trading that in for more hobos, seniors, and frustrated mothers than I've ever dealt with before (and I've dealt with a lot).
That being said, I always thought that I would need to take up a career in dealing hard drugs in order to make a proper living, so it's nice to know that I'll be doing something semi-respectable to put some fins in my pocket.

Wish me luck (because I'm going to need it... Honestly).

~sarah p.

...and the living's E-Z.

I stepped out of work at three on Friday, and the sun was shining, and the world was mine. I headed downtown to get a gift for my mom, something to say "thanks for not kicking me out of the house all of those times, because you probably should have". I went home, got a slurpee, and prepped myself for the evening.
Crystal finally came out! We popped down to the Marquee and got a few gin and sodas in us. Now, I'm not good at much in this world, but if there was ever some sort of Drunken Chatterbox Olympics, I think I would take home the gold. I spent the entire night blahblahblah-ing all over the bar. The problem is, when I talk too much, I don't count my drinks at all. I started taking pictures at some point, but due to my alcohol-induced retardation, I failed to realize that the 'macro' setting was on the lens. Thus, the photos ended up looking something like this:


For some reason, this one of Crystal and Marco turned out really well.

I woke up Saturday with the worst headache in the world, I tried to sleep in, but it just wasn't happening, so I got up, drank a million litres of water, and tried to learn some fresh new dance moves by youtubing The Boys videos over and over.

At some point, I started feeling better, and decided that I needed to go buy some new kicks. After last week's heartbreak, where I found the raddest pair of yellow and black junior Jordan 1 Retros on clearance at the online Nike store, and then realized that I couldn't get them shipped to Canada, I really needed some footwear-based therapy. I walked downtown, and combed through sports stores and shoe stores, but couldn't find anything I wanted. So, I bit the bullet and headed up 17th Ave. I've had my eye on this pair of purple gator Alfie slip-ons at Gravity Pope for quite a while. I've been trying to work more purple into my wardrobe lately (along with more satin), and I thought these shoes would be a great place to start. However, when I tried them on, they looked really genuinely terrible, and I left the store without them.
The very last stop on my tour was Goodfoot, and thank god Richard is such a patient guy.... The only pair I was digging at all were these Blazers:
I put them on, and proceeded to dance around the store and pose infront of the mirror for an hour before deciding that I actually did like them. Then, Richard laces them up, and asks me if I want two holes or three holes left at the top. I wasn't sure, so I put them back on again, and pranced around the store for another 15 minutes before making a decision. I really shouldn't go shoe-shopping alone.

I came home, had another slurpee, and got ready to go out again.
Remember what I said a couple of weeks ago about Broken City not trusting me with their glassware? Well, this week, they decided to be nice and give me a big-girl glass. Bad choice, guys:

Then, the tigers came out:


Have fun on the East Coast, Lindsay!

I spent most of the night trying my best to get a photo of the guy in the Hawaiian shirt, without him seeing. It didn't work very well, but the point is: I think he was from the Arctic or something, and came down here for a tropical vacation. He was even wearing sandals, and I saw him carrying his money in a passport belt. Awesome!
The main reason I love summer is that I don't have to wear a coat anywhere. Since I've just gone through an entire weekend of coat-free adventures, it finally feels like summer is really here.
Did we even have Spring this year? I don't think so.
The weather took a severe nosedive today, and even after a nice Vietnamese breakfast, I'm pretty sure the majority of my day will be spent getting better acquainted with my couch. Tomorrow is the last day of my optical career, and the start of my hobo-clinic career, so I need all the rest I can get. Hope it was a rad weekend for you guys.

~sarah p.

Mother's Day

This Sunday is Mothers Day, so keep it reeeaaal gully like Three 6 Mafia, and show your moms a little appreciation for giving birth to you and putting up with your sorry ass for all of these years.

~sarah p.

p.s. I AM winning that shopping spree, so you may as well not even bother to enter.

You know what would make me feel better right about now?

This.
I've been washing my face with plain soap and water like a chump for far too long. You guys see me around.... What has soap and water ever done for me? The answer is, obviously, nothing. Anyone have some yen they want to donate? Truthfully, you know and I know that my face needs some fucking carats (so badly).

~sarah p.

Nice things.

I woke up to an awesome surprise this morning.... Another infected eye (so now I've got two!).
I'll be good as new by the weekend (let me rephrase that... I better be good as new by by the weekend), but until then, I'm just doing my best to think about nice things. Things like popsicles (especially the kind with the gumballs for eyes), and sneaking out of work early, and my favorite clothes, and weekend nights, and not ever being sick again (wishful thinking). I'm through with this shit, guys.

~sarah p.

Gangsta, gangsta.

With the temperature rising, I'm feeling like it's junior high all over again.
....I'm back on a serious early/mid 90's West Coast kick, and it feels so good (way better than that time that I decided to try and get back into Jodeci....Yuck). Guess how many times I listened to The Chronic before I left to go out on Friday? Yep, three.
I used to get kinda disappointed in myself when, every few years, I'd dig in my CD collection and pull out all kinds of Dre/Snoop-offshoots, like Tha Dogg Pound and Warren G, because even as a kid, I knew that shit was corny as fuck. However, I'm doing my very best to embrace it this time around.

The best part? I can still remember most of the lyrics, even after 10+ years, without trying.
"Woke up one morning out some bomb-ass cock, my dick kinda limp so I cruise around the block".
...Try and tell me that shit doesn't roll off of your tongue.

Sometimes, when I used to get mad at my parents, I'd secretly wish that Dre and his friends would come and take me away on their tour bus. I did not stop to think about the fact that, if this we ever to happen in reality, I'd probably be used as a juvenile fuck-doll for the roadies. Really, though, I bet Dre's a good fella. Also, one time I saw Snoop on Cribs, and he was baby-talking to his pitbulls. I thought to myself: "Man, Snoop is probably really nice".

Point is, gangsta rap was pretty great, wasn't it? Now that's it's warm outside, pour some gin and OJ in your chalice, put on your all-blue Chucks, get lifted, take yourself back to 1993, and thank me later.

~sarah p.

p.s. I'm still not really feeling very good... I think I may be getting closer and closer to drinking my slurpees at that big 7-11 in the sky. If, by chance, I do happen to pass away suddenly, please do me a favor and make sure that my gravestone is at least as elaborate as the ones that they give to russian mobsters. Thanks.

Pinkeye and Gold Chains.

So after spending last night shouting over the music and having an all-around fantastic time at The Marquee Room, I wake up this morning with no voice and my eye glued shut. Initially, I just decided to forget about the eye until Monday, and have a nice day sitting on the deck and drinking slurpees, but the little adult voice in my head kept nagging at me (bitch), and I realized that I really shouldn't wait on going to the doctor.

Now, I haven't had a family doctor since I moved back to the city in 2004, so that means that I get to go down to the walk-in clinic on 8th and 8th downtown. Every time I've had to go to this clinic, I don't need to bring anything to entertain myself, because that place is plenty lively on it's own.

I walked in, and told them my symptoms, and they immediately handed me a mask. Apparently, the symptoms for having a cold and pinkeye are quite similar to the symptoms for the measles. This also meant that they would fast-track me in to see the doctor.
Still, that didn't mean that I didn't have a little bit of time in the waiting room regardless (AKA-entertainment central).

I sat on the hard chairs and watched in amazement as this tiny man wordlessly consumed an entire large bag of Cheezies, two slurpees, and a can of coke in under ten minutes.... Obviously he was not going to see the doctor about any stomach problems.
Just as the man was licking the crumbs from the bottom of the bag, a nurse wearing a full face-mask and operating gown took me into the back and made me take off my shirt.
She fondled me with wreckless abandon for a few minutes, and then informed me that she wasn't a nurse at all.... Kidding, kidding. She made me read an eye chart, and then told me I could take off my mask. See? I told you guys I didn't have the measles. Fuck.

The doctor came in, looked in my eye for about four seconds, wrote me a prescription, told me to wash my hands a lot and stay in tonight, and sent me on my way.

I started walking home, and on my way, I got a slurpee and bought a vintage gold chain that would make Mr T jealous.... So I guess it turned out to be an okay day afterall.

Hope it was good for you guys.

~sarah p.

Garbage-Flus and Freestyles.

My head hurts, I ache all over, and I can't breathe through my nose... It's been two months, but I'm back to doing what I do best: getting sick.

Spending eight hours a day in an optometrist's office means that I get a lot of face-to-face time with all kinds of people. This means that every day, people's germs make the long trek from their mouth onto my face, where they crawl in through my nose, and leave me wishing I'd just stayed home in bed. My Lyme's Disease-riddled body can't handle germs (yeah, I haven't had Lyme's since 2005, but my immune system is still in rough shape), and things are about to get so much worse.

I've never really thought of myself as a charming person, but from time-to-time, I can trick people into thinking I'm responsible, compassionate, and mature (ssssssssssike!).

Tuesday morning, I went in for an interview at a non-profit non-insured health clinic. To put it plainly, I'd have a job where I'd be assisting with health exams for young mothers, new Canadians, and hobos. They called me this morning and let me know that I had gotten the job.
This means that instead of the normal colds and flus that I pick up on a regular basis, I'll now be catching all sorts of foreign bird diseases and garbage-flus instead. I better stock up on kleenex, guys.

~sarah p.

p.s. To celebrate my passage into a for-real adult job, I'm going to go drop some bills on some new kicks. Now, I want some neon Reebok Freestyles (maybe green or yellow, but hot pink would be best), but everyone says that they're u-g-l-y. I still think that's probably the path I'm going to take (unless anyone has any better ideas... Guys?), because I'm under the impression that Reebok is so uncool that they're actually cool again. I try to apply that theory to most of the stuff I wear, and in my delusional little mind, I'm generally pretty stoked on my disgusting-ass outfits. I apologize to those of you that actually have to be seen out in public with me.

p.p.s. Things have been going really, really great for me lately.... Almost a little too great. If you enjoy me at all, then you might want to spend as much quality time with me as possible in the next little bit, because I'm almost positive that I'm about to get hit by a bus.

Can't beat 'em.

You probably already knew this, but The Food Jammers are so amazingly cool.
I could be making out with the Fonz in the front seat of a solid-gold caddy, wearing a pair of Dinosaur Junior Highs, while a freshly-resurrected Biggie and Three 6 Mafia do a personalized collabo in the backseat just for me, and I still wouldn't be as cool as those guys.

Yeah, they kinda dress like those dudes that spend a lot of time in the mitten section of Mountain Equipment Co-Op, but I'm willing to forgive it... These guys smoked some fucking meat in a file-cabinet (no innuendo here). They have also made a bagel-making machine, a whole city out of chocolate, and this one time, they made shabu shabu in a hot tub.

Also, one of them was on Trailer Park Boys a few times, and you really can't beat that.... Unless you're Gordon Ramsay, then you can do whatever you want, whenever you want.

~sarah p.