Archive | September, 2009

Some Stuff I’ve Been Doing

Talking. A lot. To anyone who will listen.

Luckily, I have a super-cool friend (or “cohort”, as he prefers to be called) who runs a pretty nifty little podcast called “The Inexplicable Dumb Show”.  The title kinda lends itself to moi, doesn’t it?  I know.  While the podcast tends to circle around professional theatre, they wanted to delve into the sordid and incestuous world that is community theatre.  I had a lot of fun, and we talked about buffalo wings.  And Mackenzie Phillips.

You can listen to the IDS Podcast by clicking on the graphics below.  Many thanks to Tee and Jo(h)n for having me talk and then letting EVERYONE listen.

dumbshowcom2-half

Considering cutting my hair.

Y’all, it has been YEARS since I have subjected you to the daily drama that is my hair.  I know you’ve missed it.  I have too.  Mostly because it means that nothing is happening to it or with it or in it or ANYTHING.  I’m dying over here.  And DYING WITH BAD HAIR.  Not that it’s bad, necessarily, but it’s definitely boring as hell.

Enter my new coveted hairstyle:

Well.  Shit.  I can’t find the damn picture.  It’s NOWHERE.

Like, seriously.  The first time I googled “short hair”, it was on EVERY freakin’ page and now it’s NOWHERE.

Lemme look again.  MAYBE THIS IS A SIGN FROM GOD.

Hair

Okay, there.  I tweeted it while we were heading to the game on Saturday, and all of you peeps were VERY supportive, excepting my husband and Elaine, who thought it looked like 1) Kate Gosseline and 2) it came out of a wood chipper, respectively.  And I feel you, I feel your honesty, and Imma let you finish but JENNIFER ANNISTON HAD THE BEST SHORT LAYERED CUT OF ALL TIME!

Anyway, now I’m all conflicted because while I was searching for that picture, I found these pics, all of which I would love to have on my head:

short-feminine-hairstyle

And then.. there’s this oddity:

Which, um.. made me wet my pants out of fear..

And then there’s this:

Which seems to have replaced my first hair picture as the Picture that Appears on All Pages of Search.

Anyway, so I may just get crazy and stop in somewhere and do it.  I’m just OVER having this much hair to worry about.

Getting Ready to Run for Boobies

When I was 21, I found a golf-ball sized lump in my left breast.  Thank all beings above that it was benign, but it was life-alteringly scary.  Which is not a real term, but I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT I’M SAYING HERE.  The point is: I advocate Breast Cancer research and fundraising and think everyone should.

With that in mind, I’m running a local 5K here that will benefit our local Women’s & Children’s Center by providing services to local women in terms of diagnosis, treatment, and recovery of breast cancer.  I’d LOVE for anyone to donate who may be so inclined; you can find my personal donation page here. It’s a great way to kick-off October (which is Breast Cancer Awareness month), and I’m all about any organization that allows me to wear pink.

EATING SOME SWINE FOR LUNCH

I was fortunate to be married to Bryan because he totally scored some GREAT seats to the Alabama vs. Arkansas game.  Bryan, Jack, my dad, and myself all drove in the pouring rain to Tuscaloosa, where the weather then cleared, clouds parted, sunbeams danced, and THE TIDE ROLLED!!

My dad, in particular, was excited to be there.  BEHOLD:

Alright, alright.  I can’t judge.  I had mine poised the entire time too.

Anyway, we had a fabulous time.  It made for a great family memory.

Whatchall been doin?

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For Hire

For Hire:

Italian redhead.  Spunky.  Right-brained.  Compassionate.  Self-motivated. 

(Possibly ornery at times.)

Can type 100 wpm.

Prefers to work virtually for maximum productivity.

PowerPoint engineer wizard SORCERESS.

Knows how to properly utilize SpellCheck. (See “SORCERESS”, above.)

Speaks engineer.  Fluently.  Can translate to usable English.

Has marketing, media, and organizational skills out the wazoo.

Administers sensitivity in using euphamisms. (See “wazoo”, above.)

Needs creativity.  NEEDS CREATIVITY.

Not good at Excel.  Kinda proud of it.

Experienced in online media and web-savvy with networking.

Feeling like the grass is greener.

Guess I need more fertilizer on my side.

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A Nice Plate of Crow

An ex-boyfriend of mine found me on Facebook (don’t they all?), and of course, while I was agonizing over all of my pictures (before I knew he knew I was there, I didn’t care so much that this was available or GOD FORBID THIS and why do I post this shit?), he was looking over my life and was all, “Wow, Sarah.  You did it.”

Of course, I was immediately thrown into Yeah, you went and got old and fat and bred and married when he finished: “You made a perfect life.”

::cue Sarah sitting there dumbfounded::

::possibly drooling::

He continued.  “I’m just.. I’m so proud and jealous of you.  Look at all you’ve got.”

And just like that, Wayne and Garth appeared and went all DOODLE-LEE-DOO-DOODLE-LEE-DOO, and I was back sitting in a car with him.  We were both teens, about to start our lives, and I was head over heels in love with him.  Would have done anything for him, seriously.  Everyone expected us to end up together.  Our parents expected it, our peers expected it.. and, obviously, I expected it.

We were sitting in his car, after dinner but before .. bowling?  A movie?  Something.  Something that would require me to focus on a project, rather than how every breath I took seemed to be completely saturated with him

The car was warm, although I remember it being February.  It was close to Valentine’s Day, actually. 

“Sarah,” he began, leaning in.  I shuddered.  He did that to me.  “Do you know how much I love you?”  It was everything I had been waiting to hear.  He leaned in and kissed me, deeply.  I remember thinking This is a kiss I could have forever.

He pulled away and put his hand to my cheek.  “I love you very much.”  He started to shift in his seat, and I really, honestly, truly thought that something .. SOMETHING .. big was about to happen.  And I was right.

He took a deep breath.  Subconciously, so did I.  And he said it.

“.. but I think I’d get bored with you.”

I hope a little piece of y’all just wanted to crawl in a hole and die with me, because OHMYGOD, I almost went all Firestarter on his ass and ignited flames with the sudden turmoil within my SOUL where he killed all of the tiny kittens and bunnies and unicorn foals.  I just sat there, stunned, as he continued:

“I mean, you’re great and all, but I want something bigger and better, you know?  And if I could, I would wave a magic wand and I’d make myself be satisfied with you, but I just don’t think that could happen, so..”

A magic wand, he said.  IT WOULD TAKE A MYTHICAL STICK INVOLVING SORCERY OF THE DEVIL FOR HIM TO BE *SATISFIED* WITH ME.  You know, little ole country bumpkin me.  Boring little mousy ole moi.

I still remember (VIVIDLY) that evening.  I remember wearing a purple sateen shirt (from the Kathy Ireland line at KMart), pants that were tight in the right places, and L’Air du Temps.  I remember being very, very angry.  But really, I remember being very, very hurt.  And beginning a spiral of self-exploration that would be very ugly and very truthful but ultimately very amazing.

Ten or so years later, I have “the perfect life.”  And I hope.. against hope against hope.. that he knows every single day that my life has been ANYTHING but boring.  And that he missed out on a fabulous lifetime with me.

What was your one BOOYAH moment with an ex? (I really can’t WAIT to hear these!!)

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In Defense of Boys

First of all, if you have a daughter, then this post is about all of the OTHER daughters out there.  Not yours.  Yours is all that and a bag of chips.  I know this because, well, I *am* a daughter, so I can spot it in others.  Yours?  Dude, yours is THE BEST DAUGHTER OUT THERE.

I think that’s sufficient preface on this post, so please please please don’t send me hate mail about your daughter.

When I was pregnant and before we knew the gender, Bryan and I were both hoping for a girl.  I’ll admit it.  My family genes run predominantly on the XX side, we already had a boy, and Bryan has always had this longing for a little girl.  I had hand-me-downs from the cutest-dressed girls EVER waiting on me, and, um.. I knew how to french braid. (That was really all the qualifications I had for being a parent, really.)

And then?  We saw a penis.  And not even “hm, well, that MAY be a penis”; more like “HOLY CHRIST, YOUR CHILD’S SCHLONG IS OF MASSIVE PROPORTIONS AND WE MAY CONSIDER EARLY DELIVERY BECAUSE IF WE LET THAT GESTATE TO FULL TERM YOU MAY DIE DURING LABOR”.  I’m not even exaggerating.  Even the ultrasound tech was like, “Um, wow.  May I suggest the name Dirk Diggler?”

Yeah.  A boy.  Suddenly, I became very aware of the fact that I was growing a penis inside of me.

You’re welcome for that visual.

I was actually kind of downtrodden about a boy.  I had no clue what to do with that!  I was prepared for hairbows and My Little Ponies and (God help me) Dora and (OH JEEBUS) Disney Princesses.  I was ready for all of that.  But now?  Now I was inundated with links from friends for PeePee TeePees and HOLY HELL, why would I NEED that?!

I didn’t know rough & tumble.  I didn’t know peeing while standing.  I didn’t know .. puberty.

So I’m here to defend the gender that gave me terrors for the final months of my pregnancy.

I love being the mother of boys.

First and foremost, there is nothing on earth as cuddly as a little boy.  Not even panda bear cubs.  Dare I say it: not even unicorn foals. NOTHING is as cuddly and warm and gangly and enveloping as a little boy.  I don’t understand it, I don’t question it, but I swear to you that it’s true.  Boys will often ASK to come and cuddle with you, and they just FIT in the crook of you, and they’re always warm, and randomly during this cuddle, Tony will rub any part of me his little soft hands can find.  I often hear this from mothers of boys: boys are tactile. They want to play with mom’s hair, rub her arm, pat her shoulder.  Contact is important to them and they cherish it.

Boys are trouble-makers.  But they also let it go after the trouble is over.  I remember learning this with Jack when he was five and had started kindergarden.  He was suspended from being a bus rider for starting a fight on the bus (such a badass, that one!), and after the tears and punishment and whatnot, he dried his eyes and asked if he could go play.  Even older boys do it.  Even MEN do it (for the most part).  They want to fight it out, hug it out, then have a beer.  There is no grudge-holding, there is no moping.  Tony will do something naughty and volunteer to go to time-out just so he can apologize and we can be done with it.  I love boys for this.

BOYS LOVE THEIR MOMMAS.  Yes, it’s true.  And while I wouldn’t call Tony a momma’s boy.. mostly because Bryan would argue.. he and I are thick as thieves.  He inspires me to never be tired.  And when I am tired, finally exhausted and beat down from work or life or whatever, he notices.  He notices, he snuggles, and he wants to make it better.  Sometimes, we will be so busy with a routine.. bath, bedtime, mornings.. and he will grab my arm, forcing me to stop, and then most gently rub it.  He can’t say “I love you” yet, but he never lets me doubt that he means it.

Boys are good for physical labor.  There’s a bottom line there.  And look, equality for the sexes and women can do whatever men can and BLAH BLAH BLAH, but it’s nice to know that I have three strapping young men in my home that can do things that need to be done.  Judge me if you must.  I’m cool with that.

Boys work well in parameters. Dude, I remember when I was little.  I hated chores.  I hated them because they took SO MUCH TIME out of my life that I could be doing something WAY more important, like peeling off my Tinkerbell nail polish. (Y’ALL REMEMBER THAT SHIT?  THAT WAS THE BOMB.) So we have a rule in my house: we only do chores once a week for thirty minutes.  That’s it.  And those parameters make all of the boys EXCITED to do it because there’s a beginning and an end to the chores.  No hemming and hawing, no dragging of feet.. just get as much done on this list as you can in 30 minutes. (Almost always, they finish with time to spare and get rewarded.)

Yes, I understand that writing this post pretty much dooms me to have a girl next go-round.  Which, you know, whatever.  That just means you’ll be reading an “In Defense of Girls” post in the future.

Do you have boys in your house?  What’s your favorite part of mothering boys?

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Do Not Acknowledge

I saw this post and I just HAD to write something about it.  Because I see two sides of the fence on this one.

Go read it.  I’ll wait.

To sum up: the question arises, “Who is on your Do Not Acknowledge (DNA) List?”  Like, people that you know .. sometimes, very well .. but you NEVER acknowledge in public?  Or people who do the same to you?

In my defense, I really REALLY! really suck at faces. 

It used to be a joke when Bryan and I started dating.  I can recognize someone’s voice by something as small as the way they breathe, no lie.  Bryan is CONSTANTLY amazed at how accurately I can identify a person’s voice.  Like, seriously, should work for the FBI.  I’m THAT GOOD.

But when it comes to recognizing people?  Ooh, lawdy, I suck.  Big ole donkey balls.

At first, it was just people I only saw on occasion.  Or people that I did a show with umpteen years ago.  Clearly, it’s more difficult to remember those faces, you know?  But then it became people that I know.  People that I work(ed) with or people that I did a show with last month.  I couldn’t recognize them.  Bryan began to nervously joke that maybe I was afflicted with some disease*.  Then I had Tony and couldn’t RECOGNIZE MY OWN CHILD AT DAYCARE.  It was bad.  If I didn’t see his outfit that morning or God forbid they changed him midday, I would have to find an excuse to mill around until one of the ladies would point to him and go, “There’s Tony!”

One day, honest to Jeebus, I picked up a little girl and tried to take that baby home.  Because she had blue eyes and chubby thighs.  (All rights reserved® on that as a country song title.)

(It’s easier to recognize him NOW, because well, he’s got a brace on that one leg.  And I’ve trained him to identify ME before I have to identify HIM.  “MOMMA!”.  Ah, *that* one is mine!)

So, really, if I know you and I see you out in public, it’s almost 99.9999999999% reality that I won’t acknowledge you.  It’s not because I don’t like you, as my made-up statistic right there would quantify, it’s just that I don’t recognize you.  So PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE be the first to come up to me and try and make SOME reference as to how I might know you.  Or just breathe like you do most of the time, and I’ll TOTALLY get who you are.

Side of the Fence, Part Deux:

Dude, you know what pisses me off, though, for REALS?!  Is people who only acknowledge other people in public when they themselves need something.  I think it’s so incredibly awful and vile that I spit on them when they leave.

You think I’m kidding.  I’m not.  I’m a SPITTER.

Bryan runs into this more often than I do (seeing as how I never recognize anyone enough to be offended by it), but he mentioned a particular case to me that embarrassed him so much that I immediately decided to hate those asshat people.  When Bryan was working in a position that helped them out, he made a point to help them.  He stopped what he was doing on a particular project to escort said asshat through closed areas so that asshat could go above and beyond in HIS job.  Bryan gained nothing from it.  Yet, a week later, Bryan had a new employee of his company with him, saw Le AssHat out in public, said hi, and was blatantly ignored.  Cold-shouldered.  In front of this new guy.

Asshattery is not only rude, it creates some majorly bad karma.  There’s a golden rule, you know?  And it is NOT the same as the golden shower. (Mom, don’t look that one up, okay?)

I’m all about maintaining a civil, cordial relationship if there’s a “working together” need.  Or if there’s not, I’m cool with not acknowledging at all.  But don’t do it in such an asshat fashion. 

Let’s face it: asshats look good on no one.

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