Turn The Speakers Up.

I always hoped that if I was ever asked to speak in front of a very large audience, it would be on a topic that I was very knowledgeable and passionate about, like how much I love Phil Collins. 

Hell, I could talk for a full day alone on how 'Easy Lover' is such an amazing song. Alas, the world does not always spin in my direction, and my very first public speaking engagement had nothing to do with 80's pop sensations, but rather barriers to health care. 

 

Are you still awake? Good. I know low-income health solutions are not the world's most interesting topic, but it's a fight I've been fighting for six whole years, and something I believe in with my whole heart. I spent hours and hours perfecting a speech, and performed it, last night, for 350 local physicians and clinic staff. 

 

I'm not sure why I ever agreed to speak in the first place. I am terrified of crowds and my regular, everyday voice is barely above a whisper. I guess I was flattered that they asked me. I should have known I was in over my head when I had to Google speech-writing. I can recall, in elementary school, writing the book report to end all book reports. I had a lot of faith in the material I had written, but as soon as the teacher mentioned that the report would have to be read aloud in front of the class, I faked a sore throat and went home to watch Sally Jesse Raphael. 

 

Last evening, on the way to the venue, I was sure I was going to pass out, throw up, or some sort of horrible combination of the two. I was offered a free dinner, which I have never turned down in my life, but I could hardly eat. They called my name to the podium, and the rest is a blur. I may or may not have been conscious for the majority. I don't know. They say that a great way of combating nervousness is to picture the audience naked, but they could have actually removed all of their clothes, and I wouldn't have known. Hell, I could have been naked myself and I wouldn't have had a clue. I finished, and a warmth spread over me as applause filled the room. I forgot, for a very brief moment, that I was in front of 350 people. Note that I said 'brief'.

Two days ago, somebody asked me if I was excited about my speaking engagement, and I told them I was not excited about the speech, just excited for it to be over. I threw my tattered notes in the garbage as I left the building, and vowed to, next time, think a little more carefully before I agree to things.

~sarah p.

The Art of Bathing.

Some people live for a crisp morning shower. Not me, friends. I prefer the long, drawn-out process of bathing... It's the one time where I could be doing housework, and yard work beacons from outside the door, and these rap lyrics are not going to memorize themselves over here, but alas, "I can't", I whisper to myself, "I'm too naked".

~sarah p.

Things That I Own For Some Reason: Vintage Perfume Sample Collection.

I have no need for a vintage perfume collection, particularly because perfume does not age well. Each vial smells like a mix of rotten flowers and a bar bathroom after a long, hard night, and yet I can't force myself to throw them away. Somebody call 'Hoarders', or 'Hoarding: Buried Alive', or a similarly useless show, so they can publicly shame me into ditching half my stuff, because no matter how whimsical it is to own 30-year-old Dynasty perfume, it's also kinda fucked-up. 

~sarah p.

p.s. First long weekend of the summer!!! Let's all wear bathing suits and make blender drinks!

Your Age Is Showing.

This weekend, more than any other weekend in the history of my life, I really felt like my age was showing, because I did five hours of yard work (in a row!), made a bag of cotton candy last for four days, and researched 'Mermaids: New Evidence' on the internet instead of just ordering Animal Planet from the cable company for a single show. This is my 31st summer on the planet, and I intend to make it count, friends.

xo
~sarah p.

p.s. Just so everyone knows, I think I am now obsessed with people that are obsessed with mermaids.

Rest In Peace.

In a time before I had smoked my first cigarette, long before I had learned to process feelings of any kind, I fell in love. I know what you're thinking because we all had crushes when we were kids, but I assure you this was no crush. This was the type of love that most adults would consider creepy and obsessive.
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 My radio sat beside my bed in my tiny bedroom, and each night, I would lay in bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, and listen to AM106's Top Ten at Ten. Often, the ten songs would be the same as the evening before, sometimes in a different order, but one night, a song I had never heard came on the radio. It was Kris Kross' Jump, it was non-threatening and catchy, and I was instantly head-over-heels.
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The next day, I found myself at the corner store, snatching up teen magazines with reckless abandon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guys I had heard on the airwaves the evening prior. Every other page was a Kris Kross pictorial, and I was in heaven. My closet was soon plastered with posters, and I had decided that the last name 'Kelly' would suit me fine. I often stood in the mirror, with my Ikeda jeans on backwards, hoping that one day I could get the courage to shave stripes in my eyebrows. One day, I would say to myself.
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That summer, I found myself feeding quarters into a phone booth in Washington State while I listened to pre-recorded messages about Kris Kross. The hotline was only open to American citizens, and was the first thing on my list, even above obtaining Fruit Stripe Gum, when I crossed the border. My heart sank a little when one of the guys didn't personally pick up the line.
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I had no idea how far away Atlanta was from Calgary, and I didn't care. Chris Kelly and I were meant to be. I wrote a letter, and got a pre-signed glossy in return, which still sits in the basement of my house somewhere, along with a VHS from when Kris Kross was on A Different World and I had to get my tonsils out, and about a million notebooks filled with hand-drawn arrows and hearts.
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I was sad when I heard yesterday that Chris Kelly, my first love, had passed away at the young age of 34. I guess after all of the stuff that I have survived in my own life, I often forget how fragile we all are. The world is a fucked-up place, and very few of us last as long as we should. 

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No matter how delusional and awkward my love was, it was pure and real and probably more meaningful than most of my adult relationships, and in my heart, I still hope that I can get up the courage, one day, to wear my pants backwards in public.

~sarah p.