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.