Rare And/Or Northern.

Kurt and Courtney never sounded right in my ears. I couldn't hang with NWA (have you seen me?!?). Unlike most of the kids I knew, I didn't really have a musical outlet to stroke my early adolescent mood swings. My musical taste just wasn't deep enough, and instead I tried to wallow along to TLC and Jodeci and Bobby Brown. The only time I ever felt anything to the songs I was listening to was when my seventh-grade boyfriend, Randy, got stiff while attempting to awkwardly grind on me to CeCe Peniston's 'Finally'.

We can all feel fortunate that I didn't discover the joys and sorrows of Northern and/or rare soul music until my mid-twenties, thus saving everyone from the world's angsty-est teenager. Nothing conjures up happier and sadder feelings at the same time, and I didn't need to throw any gas on the coals of unrequited love, bad skin, and hormone-fueled turbo-emotions during my pre-adult years.

I love being an adult, because I'm finally emotionally balanced enough to handle feelings and soul music at the same time.

~sarah p.

Chiclets (& Bonus Summer Mem'ries).

Here's a fun game: go grab yourself a package of these Tiny-Size Chiclets, and then do your best to bum yourself out. Just try it!
I usually imagine sad tigers pacing their small cages at the zoo, or an old-timey British orphanage with mean owners where all the kids are chimney sweeps, but you any unpleasant thought of your choice will do.  
Try to make yourself sad with a package of these delightful confetti-like sweets by your side. 
... Of course, you can't do it. Of course. Come on now. You're not a monster.

~sarah p.

p.s. Here's what I did all summer:

So Long, Sweet Summer.

So long, summer. It's been real.
...Real hot out too, which meant that I had a phenomenal bronze tinge to my skin, my Ipod was full of sassy New Jack Swing, I ate a truckload of strawberries and raspberries, and I read every magazine in current existence (and some vintage ones, too!). We went to fun parties, and spent a few nights out on the town with exciting cocktails and bruised knees. Quite frankly, summer 2012 ruled.

And my hair? Dear lord, that shit has been on point this year. Most summers, I spend with braided/subsequently waved hair blowing all over the place. This year, I perfected heat-less styling, which sounds much less of an achievement than it actually is. You try to iron your hair while it's a million degrees out. No dice. Meltdown city.

I had tried, and failed, at about a dozen different summer styles over the years, and that's when I discovered rag curls, bitch. Also, the lifesaver of all lifesavers- it looks good when it's drying AND when you let it down- the sock bun. Both involve strips of old clothes, and a solid bottle of mousse, and that's it. I had video-ho curls almost every time I left the house this year.

One of the kids at work told me that my hair is too light for my age, and sometimes I agree, but there is going to be a time in my life when I'm I am going to wish my disgusting grey locks would just turn blonde again. Every time I go to get my haircut, I anxiously ask if the stylist can see any grey hair yet. I'm terrified that my hair is such a shade that I will not notice as my hair silvers, and will wake up one morning and realize that I have been grey for years. My stylist thinks I have severe personal issues, which is seriously only half true.

Once, in the middle of an identity crisis, I died my hair red and cut it short. I don't know what I was even trying to accomplish, but if it was "making my face look unnecessarily chubby", then it served it's purpose. Luckily, my hair refuses to hold dye, and I eat enough Jell-O that it grows unusually fast. I also learned of the pitfalls of Sun-In a few summers later. Here's a hot tip: Sun-In was made for trailer moms, 80's teens, and Vince Neil's girlfriends, and that's all. I can't take my current hair situation for granted, y'all.

Honestly, I'm overjoyed when my hair changes from it's winter hue. All too soon I will be trying to figure out how to hold a style under a hood while running between cocktail joints in a blizzard. Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. That and popsicles. Those don't hold up past Halloween.

~sarah p.

p.s. Can we all stop wearing orange lipstick now? I know did it all summer, but secretly, I didn't like it.
p.p.s. This mix was on heavy rotation all summer:

DJ Nasty - New Jack Swing - Tribute Mix from Psyk on Vimeo.

Totally Tubular.

I went to the zoo last week. The day after, I went to the lady-doctor and demanded a tubal ligation. I don't want to say the two days were in any way related, but come on.
You spend a few hours at the screamy-est/tantrumy-est place on earth and tell me you still want to breed.

Prior to visiting the new penguin exhibit at the zoo, a staff member stopped me and gave me the harshest speech ever about not touching the penguins or getting too close to the penguins, and rightfully so- I would probably have a house full of penguins right now if the opportunity had arose. However, two minutes in the penguin enclosure with a bunch of small children and stressed parents, and my heart was full of panic and frustration.
Pets are no big thing to me (even probably penguins). You feed them a couple times a day, hug them when you feel the need for warm contact, and they pretty much take care of the rest. Kids, on the other hand, what a commitment. Yiiiikes.

I have the utmost respect for those who can value the happiness and well-being of their offspring over their own, but I am never going to be one of those people. A large chunk of my friends and acquaintances have produced the most lovely of children. I even enjoy being around said children, to a degree (so long as they don't touch my stuff). Hell, I work with teenagers, who are just like children but significantly less likable in all regards.

This bears mentioning: there are people that do my job and also have children. Those of you who have children and work high-stress jobs are downright saints. There much be some sort of magical reserve of energy, brought forth by the joy and fulfillment of parenthood, because I can barely make it through a full day at work without dropping dead from exhaustion, and sweatpants and "alone time" are my only saving grace.

Here are some things I love about kids: when they wear mini high-top Jordans, when they ask totally inappropriate questions, or when I get to watch them annoy the living shit out of you. I even enjoy babysitting, but as much as I enjoy a few hours with a little person, I dually enjoy handing the child back into the loving arms of their parent, who has to love them, no matter how upset or covered in body fluids they may be. You take him. I opted against this.

I recall staying up at night when I was very young, and dreading my adult years. I hated the thought of paying bills and going to work every day, but more so, I hated the thought that at some point, I would be unwillingly coerced into give birth to something that would attach itself to me for eighteen full years. I was panicked at the thought of feeding this thing and clothing this thing and making sure that it didn't ditch school sometimes to go hang out at McDonald's and drink milkshakes all day. It all felt awkward and unnatural and concerning.

It wasn't until somewhat later in life that I realized that nobody was forcing me to do anything. The reasons why I was terrified and concerned with my abilities to parent a child were because I was not supposed to ever parent a child. Call me selfish. It's true. It is much more important to me to have a full nights' sleep and the freedom to be a selfish dick than to pass along my (not-so-desirable) genes to another human being. This is reason enough to be sure that I am not suitable mom material. This and the bi-monthly wine binge I am not willing to do without, ever. Check and check.

Major surgery was not my first option. I'm not a fucking moron, you guys. I've been on birth control of some form or another for my entire adulthood. I've gained weight and had to deal with moodiness and cramping and all kinds of other marvelous side effects, but that's not what made the choice for me.
It's that breathless few days every month, the ones where I wait and see if I am safe for another four weeks, or going to become that 1% birth control failure rate statistic... This has been my strongest motivation.

I don't want kids. Not now, not ever. After years of butting heads with doctors that did not agree, I found a doctor that told me my request "sounded reasonable", and booked me for surgery in November, the day after the US elections. The TV viewing during my recovery period will be dull at best, but hopefully with a mix of Rx painkillers, and the thrill of being able to have irresponsible sex for the first time in my life without the worry that I may unintentionally make another human, I will be absolutely, totally ecstatic.

This will not be the first time I have taken a stand against Mother Nature's best laid plans, but certainly the strongest, and also probably the only time I will even be remotely successful. Wish me luck.

xoxo

~sarah p.

p.s. Friends: please continue to procreate without me, preferably mixed-race and/or well-behaved children. Or don't. I don't care.

Truth Time:

 Although I appear to be an outstanding member of society, it's somewhat (mostly) because I am terrified of John Quinones jumping out from behind a plant and informing me I'm on an episode of "Primetime: What Would You Do".

~sarah p.