Alien Life Form.

The other night, in a single hour of a single TV show, I saw:

-A homeless guy with a dead wife give away all of his life savings and try to commit suicide.
-A dying girl in a hospital that will never get better (and in fact, is going to die within a year).
-A desperate and panicked for a dear, dear friend.

Unsolved Mysteries? Dateline NBC? CSI? CSI Miami? No, friends.
The 1987 ALF Christmas Special.Apparently the writers were going through a bit of a 'dark period' in 1987, because I don't think I've ever seen such a depressing holiday episode (particularly involving a burping, cat-eating alien puppet).

Anyway, YTV has been playing old holiday episodes of shitty TV shows this year, which can be pretty entertaining, so long as you have a reliable dealer. I'm keeping a really close eye out for the Family Matters Christmas episodes, because I love me some Urkel.

If you're looking to bum yourself out this holiday season, here's a clip to get you started.

Seriously, Alf.

xoxo

~sarah p.

Piven's in town...

...So you may want to sanitize any public chairs before you sit down for the next little while (particularly in places like The Saddledome, strip clubs, and any generic d-bag bar).

Even just looking at that guy can cause painful urination and concerning discharge. Better safe than sorry, right?

~sarah p.

The Best Shit Ever- Part 2

Obviously, I'm totally gay for Dolly!
"People still tell me I wear too much makeup in the daytime. I say, 'You mind your own business, I'll wear my makeup when I want to, how I want to.' I don't want to conform to anything."

I feel ya, guuuurl.

I love this bitch, and the fact that she has her own theme park (!) makes her even more amazing.

~sarah p.

p.s. Also, Tim Gunn... Too perfect! xoxo

A letter to my pals at City of Calgary (Snow Removal Department):

Hi Friends,

Look, I understand that it rarely snows in October in this city, and it's totally my choice to try and walk to work each day (heaven forbid someone with a raging fear of driving does the city a favor and stays off of the roads, right?). I get it: it's tough to get your shit together for the first snow of the year, and I can't promise that I wear the most "snow-appropriate" footwear either.

HOWEVER, I am entirely certain that my walk to work would have been 900% easier these last few days if I didn't have to try and scale the unshoveled stairwell underneath the copper church in Renfrew. Really, would it have killed you guys to chuck some salt on this icy deathtrap? As someone who has all of the grace of a drunk hippo, I'm pretty positive that I narrowly escaped a severe head injury this morning. Do you guys want to be the ones that have to feed me my breakfast through a bendy straw each day? Didn't think so.

More importantly, I looked like a total fucking moron trying to slide my ass down those stairs last night (I had to hold on to the rail with both hands like a toddler that hadn't quite mastered the logistics of walking yet). If there's one thing I can't handle at all, it's personal humiliation. Hell, I can't even stand to see others humiliate themselves. The other day, I locked eyes with a guy that was slinking out the door of 'Paradise Exxquisite Massage Parlour', and I thought the mortification might kill me. Yeeesh.

Anyway, enough chit-chat. I'm a firm believer that you shouldn't complain about something without offering some solutions to the issue.
Thus, here is a list of things that you could have done to remedy this situation:

1. Send someone to my home to carry me to work.
2. Set up some Jetsons-like tubes to transport me up the hill.
3. Just do your fucking jobs.

Many Thanks,
~sarah p.

p.s. Guys! After years and years of wishing and praying, I finally saw Jay-Z last night, in the flesh. Besides a corny-as-fuck outro, the concert was near to perfect.... Bless that man and his gigantic ego. I'm still in total awe.....

Dreams do come true...

Today, I learned that there is a type of Octopus called a Wonderpus, and now I feel all warm and wonderful. You know what? On second thought, perhaps that feeling could be attributed to the large amounts of generic PM cold formula I have been taking at home. By myself.

~sarah p.

p.s. Guys! Being sick at home is totally the worst! You guys know how much I love a day off from work, but this is not the way...

Stay classy.

Hey, old lady at the bus stop- I heard your massive foghorn belch, loud and clear (and you could've excused yourself. Manners aren't just for the elite, you know!).

Healthy-looking girl in yoga pants- I totally busted you 'discreetly' ducking into Diva Dave's to buy the latest in stripper gear, so don't look around like nobody saw you.

Chubby gals on a friendly walk in the park- Myself, and everyone around me, could've done without hearing about your latest vibrator purchases. Also you could've at least tried to brush your hair.

Check yourselves, ladies. Have a little class.

Just sayin'.

~sarah p.

HmHm.

I don't know, man. This movie is going to have a real 'Tales From the Cript' vibe to it.
That being said, it's official: Shoulder pads are back, motherfuckers (and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it).

~sarah p.

Thailand.

You may be full of prostitutes and raw sewage, but you sure do know how to make a good meal.

~sarah p.

The Best Shit Ever- Part 1

Kids breakdancing in the 80's!
Observe the following playlist that I made last night:



In music videos! On sitcoms! So great!
Now, I'm not talkin' 'bout the breakers of today. No, sir. I'm not going to offer any promotion for rich Italian kids that started dancing because they wanted to resist Adidas track suits going out of style. I don't want to support the dudes that start windmilling in the middle of a crowded dancefloor to get attention. Would I be unpopular if I said that modern b-boying is bullshit? Fine. That's just how I feel.

Needless to say, my new favorite thing is watching videos from the early 80's of poor New York kids busting out moves in the middle of the streets... The same kids that folks like Lionel Ritchie and Gladys Knight (side note- God damn, bitch can still siiiiiing after all of these years) recognized and yanked off of the streets to star in their early-MTV masterpieces. The same kids that had to head over to the set of Silver Spoons to teach Ricky Schroeder how to uprock, and to the Hershey commercial set to show a group of non-threatening youth how to feign street cred for the sake of hawking chocolate bars.

The best part abut all of this is after some breakers started to make money, and spend their new-found pocket change on bright white shell-toes and gigantic chains that they had thought about buying for years and years. Rags to riches? That's what I AM talkin' 'bout.

Best shit ever, right?

xoxo
~sarah p.

p.s. On the topic of rags to riches stories, I saw Soulja Boy on MTV cribs the other day (Tell Em!), and it was probably the cutest episode I'd ever seen. He took the cameras around his 800 square foot apartment, showing off his Playstation 2 and his Dell desktop computer. He had beanbag chairs, a bare fridge, a duffel bag full of money, and a solid gold Rolex on his night stand. Something about the perfect mix of luxury and poverty had me downloading this track at lightning speed.

p.p.s. Look, guys, I'm not going to dance around the obvious: I'm been a little absent from the online world, but guess what? I've been soaking up some vitamin D outside and drinking in country clubs and going on boats and chasing bunnies, and it's been really fun. However, the hint of crispness in the air today reminded me that there's a whole world of shit I still need to tell you guys about. Friends again?

"Not real".

Bear with me, because I'm about to blow some minds:
I don't think Michael Jackson is dead.

Okay. Let me explain.

If you asked my parents what kind of child I was, they would tell you I was quiet and well-behaved, but had a very tough time living in reality. I didn't like most of the kids in my class, so I would spend my time daydreaming that I was BFFs with Urkel. I often daydreamed that Jason Bateman would come and whisk me away from my miserable eight-year-old existence. My parents put me into swim lessons and classes at the art centre, and genuinely tried to engage me with other children, but fuck that! I wanted to imagine that the fat kid from Small Wonder would come and share his awesome robot sister with me (why wasn't my kid sister a robot?).

A couple of weeks ago, when I heard the news about Michael Jackson's untimely passing, I reflected back onto the first time that I realized that something was fishy in the entertainment industry (psstttt....it's not real!):
The year was 1991, and AM106 had announced that they would be playing 'Black or White', Micheal's first single in over four years, sometime in the evening. My sister sat down in our basement with our boombox and waited patiently. When dinnertime rolled around, my mom brought our dinner downstairs... We were on a determined mission that even burrito-night couldn't compete with.
There was no question about it, the jam was hot, and totally worth the evening of hunching over the radio in the dank basement for hours and hours. However, the video, released a few days later, left me with some big questions. Namely, when the fuck did MJ turn into a pale, thin weirdo that spent abnormal amounts of time kickin' it with the kid from Home Alone? Something wasn't right here.

Even my teeny elementary-educated brain could do the math:

MJ + zillions of dollars + childhood abuse + social isolation + plastic surgery - melanin = Pale, thin weirdo.

MJ + Macaulay Culkin + unlimited access to roller coasters and Bubbles the chimp= Bizarre (but totally plausible) camaraderie.

Parents naming their child 'Macaulay'= NOT REAL.

Shiiiiit. Finally, it was all making sense. All of the hours that I had spent hoping and wishing that Scott Baio would come and babysit me were a huge waste of time. Charles In Charge was a phony, Urkel was a total sham, and nobody on the whole planet had a fucking robot for a sister. I was devastated, but this was certainly not the first time I had been bamboozled in my short little life.

Rewind even further to the age of five, to the time that I found out that Santa was a fraud after stumbling across some gifts in the basement. When I brought it up to my parents later in the day, they shushed me (my little sister was in the car at the time), and promised that we would discuss things later. Near bedtime, I stomped out to the living room and demanded answers. My parents were visibly nervous; they knew I had them by the balls on this one. I had all the proof I needed, and no amount of sugar-coated storytelling would appease my thirst for the truth.

My parents sat me down and patted me on the back. They told me that Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy were not real. They kissed me on my forehead, and told me to go crawl into bed.... Nice try, mom and dad.

I needed more answers: why would they ever lie to me like this? My parents were sweating pretty hard at this point (and probably questioning why they bothered to have kids in the first place). They mustered all of their courage, and in the parenting move of the year (1987), gathered together an outrageous tale that satisfied me until I was well into junior high.
"You see", my mom began, "Santa Claus was a real person a long, long time ago. He was a kind and generous man that supplied all of the children around him with gifts at Christmas time". My father stood behind her and nodded confidently; it was clear that I was definitely buying their bullshit. "When he passed away, parents around the world agreed to carry on the tradition in his honor". I went to bed that night without a care in the world. Who the fuck cared if Santa wasn't real, the fact of the matter was that there were folks out there carrying on his legacy.

To this day, I often apply the same mentality to guys like MJ. Sure, he was a real guy at some point. A sad story from the beginning, Michael was a very talented young man (did you know that all of his dance-moves were self-taught?) thrown into the spotlight at a young age. You know that sinking feeling you get when you wake up on Monday morning? Some Mondays, I consider jumping into the river on the way to work, so that I don't have to drag my ass into the office for another lame week. Imagine if you had to feel that way when you were eight years old! By your mid-twenties, you'd be ready for full-blown retirement.

However, no matter how badly he needed it, the public couldn't handle life without MJ in the early nineties. With total dicks like Color Me Badd and Amy Grant tearing up the airwaves, we couldn't stand to lose the guy. What to do, what to do?

Cue up "Michael Jackson", imposter extrordinnaire. MJ leaves the spotlight for the first time in his life, "Michael" steps in and pretends to be MJ, and the rest, as they say, is history.

While "Michael" was totally fucking up that Oprah interview in 1993, MJ was spending time relaxing on his very own island in a rhinestoned speedo, drinking Pepsi out of pineapples and prank calling Liz Taylor. When "Michael" was holding young children over balconies in Berlin, MJ was over at Tupac's Thug Mansion, BBQing and throwing down some tracks with Biggie.

Really, is MJ dead? As far as I'm concerned, he's just started living.

~sarah p.

Sprung.

I have been holding out for this post for way too long, but I think it's finally safe to say that spring is here! The other day, I saw two slugs having sex, so it must be true.

For me, this spring is going to be all about cheap running shoes, getting assimilated back into the inner-city lifestyle, and these three songs (side note- Fuuuuuck.... How perfect is that Ambassadors track?).

Also, nothing screams spring like this Luther jam. Dudes on roller skates and gigantic boom-boxes? Come on now. This video is the exact opposite of winter... Matter of fact, the only way to possibly make this video any spring-ier would be to pop a few blooming tulips into Luther's ass (and you know ol' L-Boogie wouldn't have minded at all)

Anyway, we're making the big move to our inner-city dream home today, wish me luck!

Updates soon, okay guys? I feel like we're strangers......

xoxox

~sarah p.

Shameless Promotion.

Look, I'm not here to tell you what to do. I really can't force anyone to do anything. However, just do me a quick favor and look at this photo of Dylan and I.... Such a promising young couple. Look into our bright little eyes; so full of hopes and dreams. Our import beer bottles are full, we've got high-quality food in our stomachs, we've got new shirts on our backs, and we're probably about to hit the town with our pockets full of coins. We'll head home late in the evening, laughing as we fall into our soft queen-sized bed covered in luxurious sheets. Do you want to take this away from us?

How's this for shameless promotion:

Go to Dylan's store and buy things, or we will starve to death. We will end up naked on the streets. We won't even be able to live in a cardboard box, because Dylan is too tall, and we will need the box for it's nutritional value (mostly fibre). They probably won't let us stay in the homeless shelter, because Louise is too loud. If we want booze, we'll have to make it ourselves out of rainwater, the donuts we fish out of the dumpster behind the Tim Horton's, and some old ripped underpants we found on the highway. Nobody will speak to us because if you're drinking booze that you made from old underpants, you're going to smell like booze made from old underpants. Pretty soon, we'll lose all of our limbs from our poor hygiene habits, and we'll have to crawl around like slugs.

Just try and ask people for a "little bit of spare change" when you're dirty, homeless, naked, slithering around on the ground, reek of underpants-booze, and have a screaming old cat following you everywhere.... Not gonna happen.


Anyway, the point of all this is to promote Frontside's fresh new blog!


http://www.frontsideboardshop.blogspot.com/


Check out the blog, then turn fantasy into reality by hopping in your car and making the breathtaking drive from Calgary to Okotoks to buy some fantastic merchandise. We've got a mortgage to pay, son.

~sarah p.

p.s. Did I tell you guys that already? We bought our inner-city dream home!
Get ready for a summer full of BBQs and backyard get-togethers.
Fuck the suburbs.

G'head Mr Phoenix (You go, boy!).

I'll be honest, I like where this guy's career is heading. Really, I think you can only a mega-attractive actor for so long before you decide to just go right ahead and chuck your reputation in the dirt.

I could be wrong, but it must be fucking boring to be a mega-superstar. Your hair has to look nice all of the time, you can't beef up on delicious Los Angeles tacos, you can't get busted with any paraphernalia in your pocket, or get fall-down drunk in public. You have to date dull model-types (way less fun), and pick your movie rolls very carefully. I don't think any sane person could keep on this path forever (look what happened to Tom Cruise, right?).

Truthfully, I could probably stand to be a do-gooder celebrity for about a month, and not a second more. You know.... The type that shows up to charity events in tasteful attire without even a hint of booze on their breath. You know what? Scratch that. I don't think I could do it for even a month. I'd probably show up at those types of events and make some sort of distasteful comment or something, and then what happens?!? Exactly. Perez Hilton won't get off your ass, and you're stuck giving an apology to the whole world on a 'very special' episode of Oprah. Awful.

It's a well-proven fact that do-gooder celebrities fall much, much harder than celebrities with previous drug charges, sex tapes, and/or other various scandals. This is where Joaquin Phoenix really shines. It's not like the guy has a rap-sheet a million miles long or anything, but he started off his career with just enough dirt to allow him to take any future path that he may choose (whether that be a fruitful high-profile acting career, or a Lohan-style jump off the deep end).

Let's do a quick rundown:

Bizarre cult upbringing? Check.

More than one legal name-change? Check.

Overdose in the family? Check.

PETA affiliation? Check.

Sounds to me like all of the recent weird-ass rap stunts put this fella riiiiiight on track.

So what if he was the hottest guy in the world for a while in the late nineties? So what if he had an Oscar-nominated performance in Walk the Line? Now's really the time for him to go buck-wild, throw some EZ combs in his hair (by the makers of Turbi-Twist and Hairgami!), and start a homeless rap career. If you ask the average person on the street about the curent state of Joaquin's career, they will shrug their shoulders and say: "I ain't mad at that".

Could this all be some sort of wacky publicity stunt? Possibly. Is there a chance that he is just fucking around, and is in the middle of making some sort of brilliant mockumentary with Casey Affleck? Well, those celebrity siblings do tend to stick together (plus, I bet there's a 100% chance that Ben Affleck's brother has access to great weed).

Anyway, the whole point of all of this needless rambling was to offer my full support of Joaquin's newfound lunacy. Perhaps I need an engaging hobby (beyond geeking out on Eastbound and Down, getting trashed, and youtubing 80's disco videos).

~sarah p.

Life in the 'burbs.

We've been out in the middle of nowhere for a few months now, and it's starting to take it's toll on me. This is the first time in my entire life that I have lived in a place where I couldn't walk downtown whenever I want...
It's safe to say I'm far, far out of my comfort zone at the moment. The lack of bricks and concrete, and abundance of fresh air and empty fields and SUVs and families and condos have kept me in a constant state of bewilderment since we moved to this end of town. How could anyone want this for themselves?

Life is too inaccessible out here. On quiet Saturdays, I used to spend the weekends downtown at the museum or library, or wandering some shops. Nowadays, I rarely venture out during the daylight on Saturdays, and the majority of the day is spent cleaning our gigantic house, trying to devise a plan so that Dylan and I can escape downtown for the night. I play a lot of Wii Tennis (sometimes until I feel a little faint), read books that I didn't want to read in the first place, put together outfits, and spend time wandering the big-box grocery stores. Other than this, I've been filling up my time by watching movies like a motherfucker.

Now, I like movies, don't get me wrong, but I don't typically have the patience to sit down for an hour and-a-half. Now, since I don't have anything better to do, I can even watch two in a row (wow!).
I guess, if the suburbs have given me one good thing, it's tons and tons of time to think about things that I wouldn't have ever had time to consider before.
For example, if you would've asked me about my favorite actor a year ago, I would've looked at you and shrugged my shoulders.

Nowadays, I can tell you that, without a doubt, this is my favorite actor:

He is my favorite because:

(a) He plays the same guy in pretty much every movie, and he plays it so well that you know that he's really not acting at all. This phenomena has also been seen in some of my other favorite actors, such as Woody Harrelson/McConaughey (these two are pretty much the same guy), and Tray-Mo.

(b) If you invite this guy over to your house to hang out, he's going to show up with an eighteen-count of Natty Ice, six dollars worth of sour soothers, and an econo-bag of Funyuns . Then, when you ask him what he wants to do for the evening, he'll pull out a copy of Donkey Kong Country for the Super Nintendo out of his jean-jacket pocket, and get genuinely baffled when you don't have the necessary equipment to play the game. You'll end up watching House Party 3 on VHS, and telling each other about the grossest thing you'd ever found on the Internet. Fun!

Anyway, I guess that living in the 'burbs isn't all bad (just mostly). I officially have a favorite actor, can keep up with movie references, my arms are tennis-tight, I have that twinge of pretentiousness that comes with reading a lot, my outfits are better than ever, I know where to get the freshest ethnic produce in the entire city, but I'm not happy here. Every time I have to ride the morning train with cocky suits coated in Axe body spray, and women carrying 2000 calories worth of Frappuccino in their re-usable Starbucks mugs, it kills me a little inside.

There's some good news in all of this, guys... A light at the end of our suburban tunnel.
We're breaking out of here. Soon.
The money we have saved by living in this hell-hole has allowed us to get a mortgage. At the bank.
We've been searching high and low for our perfect inner-city dream home. You heard me: we are putting real money into actual property. Prior to this, my real estate experience consisted of buying the railroads in Monopoly, and watching 'Flip This House' on A&E. The search has been slow and fruitless so far, but something's gotta give. Be prepped for the greatest housewarming party of all time.

Your pal,
~sarah p.

p.s. How are things going, guys? Good?

It Ain't Easy Being Bobby Brown.

They say the grass is always greener on the other side.  

For years and years, I would cram myself onto the bus in the early morning, where a stranger's clammy hands would brush against my ass and a crazy lady would try and involve me in some sort of conversation about how she thinks that the birds can hear her thoughts, and I'd find myself staring off into space and thinking: "I bet Bobby Brown doesn't have to deal with this shit".  

Let's face the facts, if you strike all of the "black marks" off of his record, Mr. Brown has had the perfect life. Let me break it down for you:

Girls? Check.

Money? Check.

New Edition? Check.

Recently, after much thought, I've realized that Bobby Brown is an actual living, breathing human (and not some sorts of sweaty R&B robot). Thus, he has his good days and his bad days just like everyone else. Instead of clammy hands grabbing his ass on the bus, he has aging groupies trying to stick their hands down his pants at the casino. Instead of being forced to listen to crazy ladies yammer on about spy-birds, he has Whitney calling to screech at him about the child support cheque. Believe it or not, Bobby has his woes too. 

Here are the top ten pitfalls of being Bobby Brown:

1. You are so outrageously fertile that you can essentially get a girl pregnant just by looking in her direction. This rule does not exclude your manager, random girls in the line at Popeye's, or even Whitney Houston (who, after years and years of ingesting any chemical that gets near her face, has a uterine environment similar to a balloon filled with drain cleaner).

2. The constant phonecalls from Ralph Tresvant, begging you to let him clean your pool for a reasonable price.

3. Still can't talk Rice-A-Roni into giving you royalty payments.

4. There isn't enough Ajax in the world to scrub the last of Whitney's crack-residue off of the bathroom counter.

5. For some reason, 'Humpin' Around' doesn't have the same charm when you're over 40 and have a heart condition.

6. When you're out in public with your daughter, and somebody yells "Bobby", you always get confused as to which one of you is supposed to turn around.

7. Only get picked for reality TV shows after Gary Busey falls through.

8. Say what you will, they just don't make bike-shorts like they used to.

9. Despite an almost-all original cast, producers told you it was 'too risky' to let you write a song for the Ghostbusters 3 soundtrack.

10. Just too handsome for your own good.

"Everybody's talkin' all this stuff about me, why don't they just let me liiiiiiivvvveee".

-My Perogative, 1988

...And with that, I'd like to extend a formal apology to Mr. Bobby Brown. I guess that life as an international playboy superstar isn't always fun and games. Lesson learned.

With Sincerity, 

~sarah p.

Finding Inspiration.

Granted, for being featured in a fashion blog, this fella right here doesn't have the finest outfit in the world. Matter of fact, he kind-of looks like some sorts of dickish European computer programmer with a terrible blowdryer addiction that would inappropriately fondle you and everyone you care about if given the chance.
However, anyone that can find inspiration in a flash-in-the-pan, wuss-hop duo that doesn't shy away from cheeseburgers, gold space-glasses, and Spandau Ballet samples is my kind of guy.

See for yourself:


Could you throw together an ensemble based on this video?
.....Didn't think so.

~sarah p.

p.s. This song was the opening track to Dance Mix '92, which means that every time I hear it I think of playing truth or dare on top of Amber May's trampoline, bubble gum milkshakes at Peter's Drive-In, and kicking it in the wave pool at Village Square Leisure Centre (the coooolest place to be in 5th Grade). 

Lohan! You got your very own category on Jeopardy last night!

Finally...

Welcome to stardom, kiddo.

~sarah p.

A good day.

Guys! Here is my favorite video of the week:

As it turns out, Public Access TV and 80's New Wave mix together like a deep Merlot and a bright Cabernet.... Absolutley, perfectly delicious.

~sarah p.

p.s. Today, when I arrived at work, the first song I heard on the radio was Toto's 'Hold The Line'... What a fine, fine way to start a day.

This time you've gone too far, Intervention.

I was laying in bed the other night, and mentioned to Dylan that my favorite shows are as follows:

1. The Sarah Silverman Program (or any other show about Sarahs)

2. Intervention

I work with addicts all day. It can be sad, sad, sad sometimes, but it can also be downright entertaining... A fine concept for a TV show.

The world works under the assumption that all addicts are bummed-out and want to turn their lives around. The truth is, a lot of addicts are quite content with their lives, and spend most of their days 'walking on sunshine'. That's not to say that most of the same addicts aren't totally ruining the lives of their loved ones, but most addicts are too junked-out to care, and spend most of their days in a shiny wonderland.

Intervention is a really amazing show, because it shows you both sides of the story. My favorite episodes are typically the ones about alcoholics, because drunks can do some pretty funny shit sometimes, and the families aren't usually as hopeless and desperate as the families of the people that are constantly poking themselves with needles.

That being said, for the first time ever, Monday night's episode of Intervention was all about a guy that should have been poking himself with needles a hell of a lot more often. The week prior, I had seen a brief preview of the episode, and all I had been able to discern is that there was a young diabetic fella that was somehow abusing his insulin. This piqued my interest.... I have seen addicts abuse just about everything that could possibly be abused. Between Intervention and work, I thought I had seen it all. In fact, just yesterday, I had to have a gentle discussion with a couple of gentlemen about how it's really 'not very cool' to be drinking mouthwash in the bathroom of your doctor's office.

All week, I tried to figure out how someone could possibly get high off of insulin. Growing up, we had a diabetic cat. Every once in a while, he'd get a bit of an overdose of insulin, and would start acting a little funny. We'd give him a little syrup to balance out his sugars, and he'd be good as new, but this was the first thing that came to mind when I started pondering insulin-abuse.... I couldn't have been more wrong.

Monday rolled around, and I stayed up late to watch the episode. I have seen a few non-drug episodes of Intervention before, and they are typically less watchable than the drug-based ones. There have been some people with eating disorders (which are more disgusting than entertaining), and there was the one episode about the obese guy that ate a million cheeseburgers every day, but at least those guys were enjoying themselves in some form....

I was shocked to learn that Monday's kid had no joy at all. No getting high, no fun drunken antics, no beautiful vomit-sculpted bodies, no delicious cheeseburgers... He was just not taking his insulin, and not following a proper diet for no reason at all. Proper diabetic care is all about routine. I firmly believe that a little bit of routine is good for everyone. Each day, right as I arrive home after work, I cue up Kris Kross' 'Jump' on my Ipod so that I can listen to it in the morning as I walk to the train. I only ever drink Coke Slurpees, and do all of my morning grooming in a very strict order (teeth come first, obviously... 27 years, no cavities!). These things keep me balanced. If you are diabetic, your whole life should be about about balance, so you don't die. Some people don't realize this, but if you die, there is a strong chance that your family is going to be pretty bummed-out (p.s.- this kid's family was the most bummed-out family of all time).

Anyway, for the first time ever, I couldn't even finish an episode of Intervention. The episode is up on Youtube, and I guess you guys can watch it if you want, but I'll warn you, it's a bit of a downer. Hopefully next week's episode is easier to watch (it's all about meth, yessss!).

As my second favorite show, I'm counting on you, Intervention. Don't let me down ever again, or you're off the list.

~sarah p.

p.s. Check out this 'Message from AETN' on the bottom of the episode synopsis. Whoops!