White Christmas? No Thanks.

As a true Calgarian, there is nothing I love more in the entire world than a brown Christmas. It's supposed to be +8C this afternoon! There is something so wonderful about looking out the window and seeing melted, dirty remnants of snow with dead grass underneath. It is a very special gift to be able to forget, even if just for one day, that we still have five months of horrible, depressing winter weather left... Santa must've really been looking out for me this year.

Now I'm off to my mom's house to hammer down thirty shortbread cookies and half a gallon of eggnog. Have a good holiday, guys.
xoxo

~sarah p.

p.s. On last night's brand new episode of Lockup: Raw (Christmas Eve Edition?), the inmates were wearing all-red jumpsuits with big white buttons. I'm not sure if MSNBC played that particular episode on purpose or not, but it was just adorable to see prisoners dressed up like little criminal Santas nonetheless.

Sundance.

At this time of year, my work is very busy, and my lunches, if they exist at all, are minuscule and rushed. Wednesday's lunch hour, I had to run off to Safeway, where I bought a pre-packaged lunch of hummus, crackers, trail mix, and some sort of couscous salad... I buy these packages once in a while, mostly when I need a break from my usual "cookies and donuts" lunch, in an attempt to feel healthy, or when need to feel a little smug about my diet. I distinctly recall the couscous salad tasting a little too vinegary, but I had no time to dwell on the details... I had to get back to work! I should also note that, despite the smart lunch, the (less than sanitary) teens at my work baked cookies and I probably ate seven throughout the afternoon.

On Wednesday night, I came home from work and had a bath. Halfway through the bath, I started to feel hungry and full at the same time, hot and cold at the same time, and totally, totally unwell. At first I thought I recognized the feeling as being way, way too hungry- a feeling that had a certain familiarity from my tragic teenager days where I would skip lunch in an attempt to impress the cool, eating-disordery girls that hung out in the smoke pit. After half a carton of blackberries, I knew I wasn't famished- it was food poisoning. I don't know if it was the couscous, or the cookies, but I was about to go on a unstoppable psychotropic journey of illness.

After throwing up for about six hours straight, I was attempting to get up off the floor when I started feeling tingly. Next thing I knew, I woke up on the bathroom floor, my head narrowly missing both the claw-foot tub and porcelain sink. I had never passed out before. It was weird.
Dylan was in Vancouver, so I was all alone, so I did the most un-independent thing I have done since I moved out of the house at the age of seventeen: I picked up the phone at 3AM and called my mom to come over and help me. I was too weak to lift a spoon, so she fed me ice chips and helped me off the floor of the bathroom several more times, well into the early hours of the morning. Mother of the year, that woman.

I took the next two days off of work. The first day, I floated from the couch to my bed. I ate three popsicles and drank a bottle of water, took several tabs of Gravol, and generally prayed for the sweet release of death. The second day, I was back in my sick day groove. I read magazines, ate freeze pops, attempted (fairly unsuccessfully) to introduce solid food back into my diet, and, of course, took more Gravol. I watched several episodes of Maury, and tried to count how many times a guest called him "Murray" by accident (at least three). I was feeling better, but I was still weak.

Now, I'm not one of those preachy anti-pharmaceutical people. If I'm sick, drug me up. Hell, double-drug me up. Whatever gets me through. Sometimes, this slightly backfires on me, and after two straight days of regular doses, I was a bit of a mildly-hallucinating zombie.... A non-nauseous zombie, that is.
I laid down, in a Gravol-induced stupor, in the late afternoon. I fell asleep with the TV on softly in the background. I drifted in and out of consciousness, wrapped in blankets on the sofa, and had filthy dreams of being spanked by James Spader. I awoke to the credits of 'Secretary' scrolling across the TV screen.
I fell back asleep, and dreamed of a man comprised of the combined body mass recently lost by Seth Rogan and Jonah Hill (Jeth Hogan?). He was a pretty cool guy. I woke again, as 'Funny People' was in it's closing scenes.

Point is, we have been getting Sundance Channel for free all month, and it took me until December 15th, and a very violent stomach bug, to figure it out... They should really advertise these things better.

~sarah p.

p.s. This little incident has also had the unfortunate consequence of turning me completely off of cookies, and this is the absolute worst time of year to be nauseated at the thought of baked goods.

Waking Up To Exotic Animals.

I don't know why this guy's wife is being so difficult- he sounds like he'd be a good guy to hang out with. Like, chill out. It's just a bunch of old dead zoo animals and fake cavemen. And teepees. No big deal.

~sarah p.

Fur Coat.

When I become a millionaire, I am going to walk around wearing nothing but expensive lingerie and a really obnoxious fur coat. Until I become a millionaire, I'll just have to settle for the fur coat.

~sarah p.

p.s. Is vintage fur evil? Considering that it's just second-hand murder? I don't have "new fur" money anyway. I work in non-profit, and I'm the breadwinner of the house. I barely have fake fur money, and fake fur is horrrrrrrible.

p.p.s. Every time I'm downtown at The Bay, I walk past the fur storage to try to catch a peek at a real, live rich person wearing beautiful, envious amounts of fur. I haven't seen one yet, but it really give me something to look forward to.

p.p.p.s. Am I evil? I feel a little evil.

Ginger Ale.

When I was 20, I worked at a small restaurant in Victoria, where the owner told me, on the first day, that their ginger ale was just Sprite mixed with a little bit of Coke.
I had mixed feelings about obtaining this knowledge.
On one hand, I was privy to some sorts of super soda secret, but on the other hand, what else in my life is a total fallacy?

~sarah p.

So, there was a point in the early 90's where this happened:

Learn about why Marky Mark hates to perform (besides the obvious!), sneak a peek at one of Kris Kross' moms (it doesn't matter which one), and the secret behind TLC's condom-hats.

~sarah p.

p.s. Also, I am (almost) tattoo twins with a guy I saw on COPS last weekend!

Montana.

This weekend I bought four of the same t-shirt and learned about the surprisingly intoxicating effects of "herbal incense", which we bought from a strange hippie guy that tie-dyed Members Only jackets for a living.

I waded through several bizarre Montana thrift stores, and rode around in the car for hours and hours with Dylan and my sister... Poor Dylan.

I learned how to play Keno (and lost a total of $3 while doing so), and ate a steak that was so rich it almost killed me.

I brought back approximately three pounds of American candy (note the imperial conversion for my American friends), and genuinely remembered why I love my wonderful family so much...
It was a good weekend.

~sarah p.

p.s. I think I figured out something over the last few days: it will be easy for me to evade the natural aging process, so long as I continue to act like an immature asshole for the rest of my natural life.
It's fool-proof!

2007.

I found a large stack of magazines from 2007 this weekend.
2007 does not seem like a very long time ago, and, save for a few failed beauty products, the pages were very similar to every other magazine that I've read in the past month. I guess only thing that really stood out was the distinct lack of open-toed boots...
Man, I miss the good old days. The days where boots had toes, no question.

~sarah p.

p.s. I've been enjoying the odd karaoke evening over the last little while. I have also recently rekindled my love of rap. In fact, there are many places in the world where the two combine into some sorts of hip hop karaoke night. The catch, however, is that most of these rap karaoke nights have a stipulation where the N-word can't be used. Now, I am by no means an advocate for casual racism, but what is left to sing? Backpack rap, LL Cool J, Big Willie Style, and songs made before 1987? Noooo thanks, guys.

p.p.s. I am leaving in a few days to go down to the US for Fruit-Stripe-Gum-a-palooza 2011... I know a place in Kalispell that sells it by the case. My breath will be delightfully fruity, and my arms will be covered in sassy zebra tattoos, for months to come. Can't wait.

Tonight.

Tonight I'm feeling this album:
Lush. by Karmessiah

Tonight I'm reading FFWD on the floor and thinking about picking out a new pair of boots. Tonight I'm staying in to protest the snow.

~sarah p.

Cloner Brothers.

Does it unnerve anyone else to know that, despite decades of heavily-funded scientific research by the world's top geneticists, the fucking Wayans brothers were the first dudes to be able to hammer out the fine details of human cloning?

~sarah p.

p.s. I went on a pretty major (think I might be diabetic, one last hurrah before I drag my dizzy ass to a doctor) Halloween candy binge, all while watching the Problem Child Tantrum Pack (Problem Childs 1 and 2, in one convenient DVD), and I'm still not sure which one of the two actions should make me feel guiltier. On one hand, I'm not feeling well and could cause more damage to my health with a heavy dose of sugar right now, but on the other hand, I sat through two Gilbert Gottfried movies in a single afternoon... Both seem kinda shameful at this point.

Dogs In Costumes: "Yo! It's Halloween!" Costume Ideas

~sarah p.

p.s. After last year's costume incident, I think I will be playing it safe in a skeleton costume. I found one for an eight-year-old boy that fits me very, very well (if not a little comically snug), and the bones glow in the fucking dark. I'm going to be super spooky, and also try not to piss anyone off this year.

Jerky.

I thought I might've bought dog jerky in the pet aisle by accident, but I've checked the package twice now and nope... Just terrible jerky.

~sarah p.

p.s. If I could go to sleep and wake up anywhere in the world, at any point in history, I would wake up here for sure:

True fact! This is my second favorite song of all time (the first, of course, being Rockwell's 'Somebody's Watching Me'), and whenever I can't get motivated to have a good time, I will play it on repeat until I leave the house in hopes of hearing it somewhere that is not my bathroom... There is always a chance, no matter how small.

Thankful.

The turkey has been picked-over, I've taken my traditional post-meal three-hour nap on the couch, and it's time to reflect over the last year, and give thanks for all of the things that I am so grateful to have. Plus, it's a good distraction from the whole "raping and pillaging the Native Americans" part of the holiday. Here's my list for 2011:

I am thankful for my talents in putting on liquid eyeliner.

I am thankful for PBS, particularly Antiques Roadshow and Nature (but only the episodes where all animals involved stay alive through the duration of the program).

I am thankful for Fresca (also, gin mixes with Fresca very, very well for some reason).

I am thankful for my patience during pants-shopping. I tried on probably thirty pairs yesterday, and walked away with two. I'm also thankful that I am able to overlook my regular clothing overspending on my bank statements.

I am thankful for the delightful Jeffrey Steingarten, who is the sole reason that Iron Chef America is a watchable show.

I am thankful for mini-meatballs, apple pancakes, and butter pecan ice cream. Not together.

I am thankful for my wonderful little cat, who just puked up a bunch of grass all over the hardwood floor.

I am thankful for the fifteen perfect red lipsticks I own... It takes your look from "unkempt hungover mess" to "arty french intellectual" in no time flat!

I am thankful for the ten pounds I just gained so that I'll be warm walking to work when the temperature hits the -30C mark. No amount of goose feathers could ever offer as much protection from the elements as a hefty amount of donut-and-Slurpee weight.

I am thankful that I have a partner who does not seem to question (or care) that I regularly lock myself in the bathroom for hours on end to listen to disco, paint my face, and curl my hair.

I am thankful I have a family that thinks that it's funny to feed me scotch and Drambuie until I black out (hence the three-hour nap part of my day)...

I am, most of all, thankful that I start work at 10AM, so that I feel like I am sleeping in every single day. I am a much better person for this reason alone!

What are you guys thankful for? New episodes of South Park? Chicken pot pie? Non-surly cab drivers? Oh, there is so many wonderful things in the world!

~sarah p.

p.s. Also, I'm obviously super thankful for Prince. And loose-fitting lounge pants. And liquid foundation. And gummi worms- can't forget those guys.

Old Habits Die Hard.

I'm going to admit, the closer I get to thirty, the more I catch myself mildly freaking the fuck out. I think it has something (everything) to do with the fact that every single person over thirty finds out that I'm twenty-nine-and-nine-months old, and looks at me like I'm on my way to my own funeral. They look sad and disgusted, and tell me that everything goes downhill from here... "Good luck", they say.
Like I'm going to need it.
Listen here, geezers. I've got a pattern of keeping it real since the day I was born. I am essentially the same person I was thirty years ago- I even have the same habits! I'm still the same ol' G, and if you need more proof, here's the evidence:
I've been addicted to gossip since the day I was born. We were probably talking shit about Elmo or Grover here.


For a special treat, my parents would give us candy. It wasn't so much a special treat for us, but rather for them. It meant that our mouths were shut for a few minutes, and the adults could enjoy the sweet release of a silent house... You're welcome, mom and dad.
To this day, I still can't say no to a box of Rainbow Nerds. I'm not made of stone over here.

I still make strange noises whenever I see strange animals on the sidewalk, even if I am entirely alone. I love animals! Sometimes it borders on creepy!


From day one, and for the rest of my life, I promise I will always have a penchant for dressing for the occasion... Even when I was two, and the occasion was "underpants day", I've got the perfect thing to wear. No problem.

I loved UV rays then, and I love UV rays now. I was probably wearing negative thirty-five SPF in this photo. I have since learned that the true secret to the perfect tan was something I was already using back then, without a clue to it's benefit: baby oil... No wonder I was such a babe.

Thanks to my genetics, along with a heavy Diet Coke habit from the age of three, I did not ever reach the five-foot mark on the height chart in our hallway. Thanks, aspartame. No, I'm not being sarcastic. I mean it... Thanks for the years of deliciousness that I enjoy on an almost-daily basis. Your lack of calories makes me feel falsely entitled to include more actual sugar into my diet, and if that means using a step-stool the rest of my life and growing a gigantic tumor, so be it.

Check me out here. This photo was taken at the wedding of Paul Hackman, deceased guitarist for Helix. I guess that makes me Canadian metal royalty or something... And you know what? I still know how to rock a party with ease.


See? I'm not worried about getting older. I'm mostly just worried about winter coming soon. And poisonous spiders. And people yelling at me. And running out of Fruit Stripe Gum... My supply is getting low, you guys.

~sarah p.

p.s. Bonus Parsons family photo!
My dad's power-mullet and argyle sweater, my mom's unintentional hipster glasses, our upset cat, my sister's fixation on our homosexual dog, and me, holding it all together (while wearing lace tights). This was the only photo I could find of us all together (no wonder my parents got d-i-v-o-r-c-e-d?), and I think it was part of a school project that I didn't want to do.
These people made me who I am, and I love these A-holes like crazy, no matter how old I get.

Mini.

This weekend I went to a wedding in the mountains and made close friends with a crazed brown mini horse. No big deal.

~sarah p.

In case you're inquiring.

Wednesday, while at work, I had to talk one of our kids down from digging up her father's grave, while the police drove around the graveyard attempting to locate her. Thursday, my credit card number was stolen. Friday, I was late for work because our deaf and senile cat escaped and went on a "catventure" (don't worry, she's home and safe).

...With a week like last, I was so thrilled to meet up with Lebbert on Saturday. We had fancy cocktails at Milk Tiger, and she brought me Lemon Heads and Fruit Stripe gum from the States. We got into deep conversation about eyebrow pencils, walked all over downtown, caught up on all the gossip, danced to all of the good songs, and made fun of sloppy pickup attempts at the bar.
Going out for breakfast on Sunday mornings with Lebbert is an instant hangover cure. One time, we had a mixtape contest. I can always count on her to split a bottle of wine fair and square. We have a faux DJ troop called "Pals and Gals". She wears pretty shoes, and inspires me to wear prettier shoes. We have, together, mastered the art of subtlety. We both hate potlucks.

Great friends like Lebbert are basically priceless, but in case you're inquiring, the going rate is $89,000,000 firm (while still allowing me full visitation rights and weekly catch-up phone calls). Hell of a deal for a BFF for life. She's the best. Really. Call me.

~sarah p.

p.s. MY CREDIT CARD NUMBER WAS STOLEN. Did you read that part? Holy fuck. Metal wallet, here I come.

Positive Steps.

I recently read a statistic that 25% of people are directly, and 100% are indirectly, affected by mental illness. After Colin's post tugged at my lil' heart-strings this morning, I thought I would also share my story.

I tried my first medication for a "mood disorder" when I was seven years old, and days away from starting the third grade. The chemicals in my brain were not working in my favor. I was a sad kid. I had great parents, and did okay in school, and nothing made me happy. Not birthday parties, not cartoons, not even Wacky Wafers. I distinctly recall feeling like everyone else in the world lived their lives like they were in DeBarge's Rhythm of The Night video, and I was stuck behind some invisible fence and couldn't join the fiesta. I would listen to my dad's BeeGees records, Stayin' Alive on repeat, and used to think, "yeah, we'll see about that". At ten years old, I was already positive that I did not want to make it to my eighteenth birthday.

I went on and off of medication through the rest of elementary and junior high. Different kinds of medications. Different combinations of medications. The hurt didn't go away, but sometimes it manifested itself in different ways. Stupid ways. I couldn't get up in the morning. I would burn myself to a crisp in the sun, hoping for skin cancer. I would hit and cut myself. My hair was messy and I wore plaid and stripes together, because I couldn't stand to look in the mirror. It didn't get better when I got into high school. I thought the change of pace would be good, but I just felt inadequate and shy and unhappy every day. I didn't get much of an education throughout those years. I just got more and more scared of myself.

In twelfth grade, I graduated high school. Early. Despite everything that was going on in my head at the time, I finished my classes and got enough credits. In my eyes, I was still a complete failure.
I wanted to leave high school early so that I could be alone. Away from everyone. I thought it would make it easier to disappear in the future. I thought that if I at least graduated from high school, it wouldn't be as hard on my parents when I was gone. At least they would be proud of me for something. Then one day, enough was enough. I was exhausted and couldn't go on any longer. I checked myself into hospital, got new meds, and started a heavy counselling regime. I wanted to snap out of it. I was ready to feel better.

I ran away to France at the age of seventeen, and felt wonderful for a while. I took myself off of medication while I was there, my language skills were not strong enough to go get prescription refills anyway. I turned eighteen by myself on the fourth floor patio of the villa where I was staying. I wrapped myself in a blanket and drank a bottle of wine, smoked a pack of Pink Elephant cigarettes, and dangled my feet over the edge. Part of me was really disheartened. This should've been a monumental occasion, but I felt I shouldn't have made it to this point. I had made a promise to myself. I thought about ending it all that night, but instead I went inside and set a new deadline for myself: I did not want to see my thirtieth birthday. Despite my morbid coming-of-age, I convinced myself I would never have to worry again... I wasn't taking pills. I was still alive... For now. I was "cured".

After I returned to Canada, I moved around a lot. I moved back to Calgary, then Victoria, then Vancouver, and, after a bad breakup, back to Calgary. I was in a bad relationship on the west coast with someone who was also depressed, and I wasn't feeling so great when I got back to town, so I started back on medication. Two weeks later, I was told that my ex-partner had been on a self-prescribed drug holiday, and had thrown himself off the Lion's Gate Bridge in Vancouver. It was a real wake-up call for me. His mom still secretly checks this blog on a regular basis, and it breaks my heart.

I stopped meds again about six years ago by choice, and have been off ever since. At the current moment, I feel like the skills that I have obtained from years of counselling sessions have given me the ability to want to wake up in the morning, and eat a couple of meals a day, and laugh when something is funny. Like all human beings, I am still a work in progress. I still have my "off days", but I know what I need to do when I feel myself slipping. I take a lot of baths. Speaking to an understanding friend helps a lot. Quiet walks by myself help me organize my thoughts. Sometimes, all I need to feel better is a bag of Tropical Skittles. However, if one day the Skittles cease to work, you can bet I'll be back at the doctor, begging him to drug me up. No need to be bashful. My life is at stake here.

I was worried when, five years ago, I started working with mentally ill youth. I thought that it would, somehow, trigger some of those feelings I'd worked so hard to control. It didn't take long, however, to learn that this was certainly not the case. As I hand a kid a pack of tablets for the first time, I always give them the same speech: "If you had hypertension, you'd take a pill without question. If you were diabetic, you'd take your insulin with no problem..." Mostly, I want to alleviate some of the shame that comes with the diagnosis. There should be no shame involved. It's a medical diagnosis like any other. Working with these kids gave me a purpose I didn't know I had. I am no longer standing here today as Sarah, the saddest girl in the world. I am just regular Sarah. I love music and candy and animals and writing. It can get better, with effort. I'm proof.

It is of note that I work in a fantastic environment where we are encouraged to speak of our own experiences with depression, manic depression, borderline personality disorder, and other mental illnesses. I can't tell you how many times in a week I'm able to nod and let one of the kids know I've been there... Trust me, I've been there.
The only way to overcome society's deep-rooted stigma of mental illness is to talk openly and honestly about it... Open a few minds. If not you, it could be your mother or brother or best friend or neighbour. Mental illness does not discriminate, and nobody should feel alone or hopeless. I'll be thirty years old this year, and I'm not worried about making it to sixty-five. No deadline. No problem. I've got this.

When one person gets up the courage to admit to struggles with emotional disorders, it allows others to feel like it is also okay to share their story. This is how we make progress. Way to be brave, Colin.

~sarah p.

Cleaning Out My Closet/Red Pants

I'm not going to lie, I have not worn pants much over the last few months.
It has been a summer full of cutoffs and tailored shorts. It has nothing to do with the warm weather. I guess are shorts are more socially acceptable in the summer, but I'll take any excuse I can get. No, my dear friends, the truth is that shorts make your legs look longer, and, as we all know, I need all the help I can get in that department. I tell most people that I am five feet tall. I am lying to those people. I am almost five feet tall.
Also, recently, I obtained the ability to cut off shorts to the perfect length. After years of accidentally cutting beautiful pairs of pants into the tiniest, ass-bearingest hot shorts, the kind only suitable for 2 Live Crew videos, I have finally gotten to the point where I can wield a pair of sewing scissors with confidence. There is no bigger bummer than looking down at the floor at a pile of shorn fabric that could've been an amazing pair of shorts, if you'd just cut a little straighter, and with less reckless abandon. These moments were so traumatic that I had to learn how to do it the right way. Finally... Fifty pair of pants later.

Right now, my closet is full of a million great pairs of cutoffs, loose tanks, and deck shoes. Jumpers, adorable bathing suits, and leather sandals. By this time of year, I have a full summer wardrobe, ready to go. This would be a dream come true, if it weren't for the fact that we are exactly ten days away from the beginning of fall. I'm saying this through gritted teeth, but it's time for me to clean out my closet, and put on some fucking pants.

I try to start every season with a good closet cleaning. 'Try' being the key word, because I have a really hard time letting go of clothes. I am so anal about avoiding clutter in every other aspect of my life that I have thrown out my healthcare card mid-cleanup three times, and yet check out my closet- it's full of a bunch of old Cosby sweaters from when I was going through a "wacky phase" about five years ago. Any hint of common sense would be telling me to get rid of the sweaters. Give them back to the thrift store from whence they came. They'll never come back into style....
Or would they? I still think they look totally fabulous with high-tops and a thick gold chain around around my neck (truth be told, if I wore this out somewhere, I'm sure my ass would get laughed back to 2005). Who knows, in a year or two I might want to rock the Cos' again. Things come back into style. Sometimes I force things to come back into style. I do what I want.
This is where my resistance to tossing of old clothing grows it's strongest, because it never fails: two weeks after I get rid of a piece of clothing, I am apt to figure out a fine way to wear such piece. Then, I spend an hour scavenging through the house, hoping and praying and wishing that I did not donate donate said piece to charity. It's always too late. I always learn the hard way.

On the positive side, it should be noted that cleaning out a closet is an excellent time to ditch all of the shirts that are stained and full of holes. Normally, I save these clothes for "work shirts", but I think I'm starting to blend in a little too well with the street kids. Mostly, though, I am making room for my new fall wardrobe! Let the shopping begin, fools.

Last weekend, I tried on one million pairs of pants. Maybe one trillion. You see, my body is of the "hard to fit" type. My inseam and waist are roughly the same size. True story. 27 inches. Every pair was too long or too tight or gave me a "pants boner" when I sat down. I was getting pretty upset about the whole thing, and that's when they appeared. Like a mirage in the dessert, a pair of red slacks rose from the racks and saran-wrapped themselves around my legs. I thought they may not be real; perhaps I was dreaming. I wasn't sure a perfect pair of pants existed in the world, but here they were, making me look ten pounds thinner and three inches taller. With heels, I might be able to pull off 5'3"!

At first I was wary; I'm not normally comfortable with the attention that crimson trousers may attract. Painfully shy people should be mindful of bright clothing. It may not surprise you guys to know that I am a bit of a lone wolf... I often show up to things by myself so that I can disappear into the crowd. Hide. Fade away. However, I feel different in these pants. Bolder. Louder. Stronger, I guess. Ready to take on another autumn, no matter how much I wish it was still July. Man, I wish it was still July.

~sarah p.

p.s. Yesterday, I considered, briefly, writing a post with some sort of reference to 9/11 programming "hyjacking" the airwaves. It was cute, it was clever, it was a terrible joke that I feel sort-of bad about ever cultivating in my awful brain. I left it alone, and got a little mad at myself. I guess this new found restraint is some sort of proof that, after almost thirty years, I have acquired some sort of maturity, however minimal. Maybe I should go buy some reading glasses, eat some oatmeal, go to bed at 9PM, read The Financial Post, and stop buying penny candies while I'm still on a roll...

The last to know.

I guess you could say I feel like a total idiot. I'm always the last to know things. For example, I'm pretty sure I'm the last person on the entire planet to learn that Mike Tyson is an avid pigeon enthusiast. I feel like an even bigger dick, because I didn't realize that Spike Lee would be directing a reality television program regarding said fact... It seems so fantastically absurd that it should, somehow, be plainly obvious.

Even more impressive is the courage it takes to be one of Mike Tyson's pigeons. You'd be constantly on edge, worried that ol' Iron Mike was going to fly off the handle and "Holyfield" one of your delicate little wings. The fear of seeing your filthy pigeon feathers sticking out of the mouth of one of boxing's greatest legends would have you wearing little bird diapers and tiptoeing around the coop and keeping the gentle coo-ing to a minimum.
You'd go to bed every night wishing you could be one of those pigeons that hangs out at the subway station and eats cracker crumbs off the sidewalk and does not think twice about shitting on a prominent statue or someone's shoulder.
Instead, you've got Spike Lee yelling in one pigeon ear that your acting is not "believable", and Mike Tyson licking his lips in your other pigeon ear, and you just had to sign the contract to be part of the new Spike Lee joint. Tough break. Tough pigeon break.

~sarah p.

p.s. Is this real? Please let this be real. If this is some kind of joke, I'm going to be very upset.

Success.

Well, I did it. I took a vacation. It's been almost a year-and-a-half, but I packed a suitcase, hopped on a plane, and stayed far, far away from my home, my work, and my daily responsibilities for a whole week.

The first couple of days in Ontario I had to try to keep work out of my thoughts. I considered signing into my e-mail every fifteen minutes... Thoughts like "maybe I should call work" crossed my mind. I sat on the plane on the way to my destination, and thought "I might just see if I can come home a few days early", because I'm a crazy person. Then, I hit the beach and forgot all about the fact that I even had a home in Calgary, let alone a job. I was "Beach Sarah". I was tanned and sleepy from the sun. My hair had bleached out, and I hadn't even put on even a hint of mascara. I hadn't brushed my hair in two days. I'd had a few Caesars with dinner, of which was plentiful and fattening. I couldn't use my brain if I tried.

From then on, it was easy to relax. I drank a million beers on the beach, and laid in the sand every day, and stayed with my dad in his tiny place near Lake Huron. After I left him, I went to Toronto and went on long walking adventures when got horribly lost getting to (1) the museum, and (2) the market. I went to two movies (A Tribe Called Quest: Beats, Rhymes, and Life, and Terri), and ordered room service every night in my 18th floor suite (4 1/2 star for $124 a night- Hotwire, baby). One night I just had a bottle of wine for dinner. I bought tiny little (Sarah-sized) dresses in Chinatown. I took the longest baths in the jetted tub, and read two books and every current issue of every magazine in rotation. Sounds nice, right?

Not to say that the past week did not have it's downfalls; I tore up every layer of the skin on my feet wearing cutesy sandals on a 6-hour walk in 32C weather. I re-sprained my ankle. I probably gained 5 pounds. The really bronzy parts of my tan started to peel. I got eaten alive by bugs at the lake, so badly that I had to wear pants for the rest of the trip. A 7-foot tall Nigerian wearing braces tried kicking game on me in a Sears. The Toronto Streets have turned my white canvas sneakers to a greige tone that will not fade, no matter how much bleach I use.
However, it's easy to overlook those things now that my shoulders have resided to their normal position (under my ears, not beside), my heart rate is back to normal, and nobody has given me a "you need to manage your stress and take care of yourself" talk in over a week! Success!



































Holiday. Celebrate. Probably won't do it again for a very long time.

xoxo
~sarah p.