Rize (or, how I learned to stop hating clowns, kind-of).

As of last week, I have been wrapped in an overwhelming personal crisis.
This Sunday, I decided the best way of clearing my mind was to traumatize myself in a totally different way- with clowns.

I have always had the assumption that all clowns were scary ex-cons and annoying dicks, but after a couple of hours watching the David Lachapelle documentary Rize, I guess I've changed my tune a bit. It turns out that, although 100% of clowns are still ex-cons, the krumping variety of clowns is actually pretty alright by me.

The movie is filled with dance battles between hip hop clowns and krumpers, strange birthday parties, and mid-2000's Flii Stylz tracks. There are old men and tiny toddlers and even girls, and there's something so inclusive and positive about the whole thing that makes me just want to run away from home, paint my face, learn how to dance really fast, and attend birthday parties for the rest of my life.
It may not be perfect, but let me tell you: it's significantly better than my current reality.

 ~sarah p. 

p.s. What is it about David Lachapelle's direction that makes everything he touches look so colorful and shiny, and yet so disgustingly filthy at the same time?

p.p.s. Just so we're clear: the standard beer-breathed, balloon animal-making, inappropriate-poking, John Wayne Gacy-type clowns can honestly rot in hell. I still hate those guys.

E!

I often close my eyes dream of an E! Network where Joan Rivers and Joel McHale rule the airwaves in a 24-hour, 7-day-a-week bitchfest, Kathy Griffin and anyone with the last name 'Kardashian' are not allowed to have their own shows, and where I never have to hear about the real housewives of anywhere ever again.

~sarah p.

p.s. I have an okay tan and a bag of strawberry marshmallows. I am full of workplace stress. Every third drink is of the "blender" variety. There are patio parties and there are quiet nights on the front stoop. I stopped wearing pants on the weekends. My hair is blonder. I share my house with a cat, a dog, a giant dude with two injured legs from two separate accidents, and about fifty thousand mosquitoes. 10% of my diet is currently "on-the-cob", and 30% is "freestone". I'm not sure I remember what it feels like to have blankets on the bed. Everything in the house smells like coconut. I am going to a wedding this weekend wearing a dress I hate.
...It could not feel more like summer right now. 

One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others:

Due to an overgrowth of trees in our neighbourhood, otherwise known as "dead baby bird central", I can't see the fireworks anymore, which means that my only forms of entertainment during Stampede are corn dogs, sheep in flamboyant unitards, and this game I play where I step outside my door, and try to decipher what concert is going on on the Stampede grounds, then I go look it up on the internet and see if I was right. I am just out of the range where I can hear things clearly, so it's kind-of like when I try to eavesdrop on someone's conversation at the airport or in the doctor's office, and I can't quite figure out whether they are talking about picking up salad at the grocery store, or some sort of deviant sex act. Believe it or not, Shawn Desmond, Loverboy, Snoop Dogg, and Dora The Explorer all sound about the same from a distance. I reward myself with marshmallows if I get it right, which is approximately 16% of the time. The other 84% of the time I admit defeat and drown my sorrows in, you guessed it, more marshmallows.

~sarah p.

Hello, Summer!

After months of chilly rainstorms, summer has decided to make a solid appearance in this city.
I live all year in anticipation of days where it is too hot to do anything but eat rocket pops in the yard, and dream of having an outdoor pool. There's so much to do around the house right now, but I am totally certain my time is best spent thumbing through foreign magazines, slathering myself in coconut oil, and trying to get away with as little clothing as possible. Sometimes, if it gets too warm, I take a cool bath or hang out in the refrigerated section at the grocery store, but mostly, I take a lesson from the dog and cat, and move from sunny spot to sunny spot all day long. I am not a religious person in the least, but I have an unwavering belief in the power of hot weather that comes close to sacerdotal.
I often remind myself that in the dead of winter, there is nothing that I will want with greater passion in the entire world than to be roasting on my front step with a blender drink and a full supply of Vitamin D.
I am truly a better person when the temperature rises. I stop feeling sorry for myself, I don't worry as much, I don't work as hard, and my skin and hair look phenomenal and unfussy for once. Actually, you know what? Maybe they don't look phenomenal after all. Maybe I'm just too hot to care.
The housework can wait, I can eat popsicles for dinner for days on end, and I am genuinely unconcerned with the harmful aspects of sun exposure (sue me). This is the one time of year I can say I'm happy, and nothing else really matters.
All too soon, the first flake of snow will be falling to the ground, and I don't ever want to feel like I ever, ever took this beautiful weather for granted. Happy summer, friends. Enjoy it while it lasts.

With love,

~sarah p.