Wig.

Whether left by a sassy large woman, or a tiny goth in a ruffled jacket (or during some sort of lover's quarrel between the two?), the story leading up to this colorful wig, dangling alone on this branch outside the Children's Museum, must have been absolutely delightful/totally upsetting.

~sarah p.

Ten Sassy Costumes For Halloween 2012

1. Hologram Tupac.
2. Tim Gunn in a totally bitchy mood.
3. One side of your body? Brandy. The other side? Monica.
4. Sexy Chucky doll.
5. The guy that ate everybody's face. Make that, "ONE of the guys".
6. A filthy, abandoned Occupy Wall Street baby, complete with junior dreadlocks, some really half-baked political ideas, and a wicked case of tent-rash (but do beware, baby-related costumes can stir some pretty serious pots).
7. Zombie Phyllis Diller (too soon?).
8. Undercover Boss (coveralls, a sense of dumbfounded innocence, and a terrible wig of your choice).
9. A saggy and depressed Norm Macdonald in one of those ads for old-people insurance.
10. Angry Bieber (all you would need is a pair of neon Supras and a really girly punch).

~sarah p. 

All Day I Dream Of Solitude.

I was raised in a small, quiet house by two small, quiet people. Even so, we had three cats, two dogs, and a little sister. Sometimes I would escape my quiet surroundings in search of even quieter surroundings, and would wander to the park down the street to read my Tiger Beats on the bench. For  an inner-city park, it was always unusually quiet, save for the odd troupe of LARP-ers that would gather in one corner and admire each other's wooden swords and handmade armor.

I guess you could say my life is one big quest for serenity.
ADIDOS: All Day I Dream Of Solitude.
Amongst the chaos of my day-to-day life, where I get bottles of nail polish whipped at my face and break up drug deals in the hallway, my desire for calm and quiet burns bright. My job feeds the panicky, high-strung side of me, but evenings and weekends are very important to my sanity. The juxtaposition between the two makes the eventual tranquility even sweeter.

I have a ton of failed attempts at balancing my non-professional life with my wild weekday life.
I almost got scabies at a massage.
I took too many anti-anxiety pills, and I couldn't properly recall the events of that night if I tried.
I stopped cooking dinner to save time. There came a time where I couldn't tell the difference between a meatball Hot Pocket and a broccoli cheddar Hot Pocket anymore.
What am I not going to pick? Hot Pockets. For real this time.

This weekend, however, I was determined and focused on peacefulness.
I ate a space-cake and went digging in the basement for real-deal 1998 lipstick after reading that 90's colors were back in style. You see? Hoarding beauty products pays off once in a while.
I watched countless episodes of The Jetsons, and watched a few weirdo indie movies that nobody else will watch with me.
I perfected rag-curls to the point where I gave myself a full 'fro, which I swept to one side like a backup dancer for Salt 'N Pepa.
I wore all black and carried the wine-colored leather bag I swindled on crazy-sale from the TopShop kiosk at The Bay, just so I could brag about it ($273, down to $56).
I bathed several times in fancy tinctures and spent a lot of time alone.
I bought a bag of peach marshmallows with liquid centres, and ate them on a plate beside raspberry pancakes. This was lunch and dinner (Linner? Dunch? It's the meal I have late afternoon after the first meal of the day, "Coffee").

Solitude is, clearly, wherever you find it in the world.

~sarah p.

p.s. Though it is still too warm to don such a dark color on my face, that 1998 lipstick is going to rule the planet this fall.

Gaggle.

Although I don't usually get down with the whole girly/indie thing, because that kind of stuff is mostly reserved for cute ladies that have bangs and sew their own clothing and don't eat as many steaks as possible (also, there are like a million rap EPs to keep up with nowadays- where would I ever find the time!?!), there is really nothing more unifying to the entire female species than gathering a small gaggle of girls together and pouring your hearts out to some classic Taylor Dayne.

~sarah p.

p.s. In that one dream I have where I find a pot of gold or something, and have enough money to own my own building like Donald Trump, this gets to be the elevator music. This and any pre-1990 Phil Collins, including the Genesis years.

p.p.s. Speaking of rap EPs, I just cannot wait to see what this guy has up his sleeve.