~Thursday, August 25, 2011


I have been sick the last couple of weeks. Really sick. As in last night I coughed up blood sick. This morning I was in the shower with the water on hot trying to steam the fluid out of my lungs. I had a shot of whiskey in one hand and a spoon of honey in the other. Only it worked too well and I was clutching the tile and trying to hold on because I finally know what it feels like when you're drowning in your own lungs.

Also, I'm leaving the country in two days. And I'm trying really hard to get healthy before I leave the safety of first-world doctors.

I have a bunch of posts saved in draft mode that I was going to schedule while I'm away, but I don't know that I have the time to get to it. If not, consider this a short hiatus. I'll be back on the 6th of September.

~Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Scab's here!

It was a scab.

By chance, he was standing next to me at the bar. I tickled his elbow and he turned around. 

"My girlfriend and I were taking bets on what happened to your leg."

"Ah." He angled his calf so I could see it in all of its glory. "I slid into base last week while wearing shorts."

I whistled in empathy.

"Yeah, it hurt. I was so afraid to get in the shower and wash it." 

He was talking about being naked in front of me so soon after we began talking. Within three sentences he was naked. My face and chest flushed.

"But all it needs is soap and warm water," he continued. "Don't use alcohol or hydrodren peroxide when you slide into base."

I laughed, "Do I look like a girl that slides into base?" I had cut up my kickball t-shirt and created bows to cinch the sleeves. I was wearing bows. BOWS. Only a rhinestone bedazzler would have made my look complete. "One time I tripped over the first baseman and somersaulted over the base. The good news was that I knocked the ball out of his hands in the process, so I slapped the base with my hand and I was safe. That's the extent of my sliding career."

He gave a cursory laugh. Mr. Sports Illustrated didn't think it was as funny as I did.

"So it's not an AIDS lesion," he winked.

I shriveled up on the inside. I could feel my stomach and intestines being pulled into the center of my abdomen where they were being sucked into a black hole. Surely my physical being would follow. 

"Yes. Um, sorry about that. I have an inappropriate sense of humor."

"It's cool."

We chit chatted. He grew up in the neighboring suburb from me. He's a year younger. He's got that Georgia twang in his voice. 

The band began to set up on stage. Lawyered took his cue and immediately left the bar. He has the same attitude as me. "Ugh, I hate that they have a band here on kickball night. The bar is best when it's just the league and everyone flits around all the tables and talks to everybody. As soon as the band sets up, people leave or are forced to vacate half the bar. I'm here to socialize, not listen to some jackass with a guitar and a bad Johnny Cash impersonation."

Mr. Sports Illustrated took a swig from his beer bottle. "Actually, I like going to bars to listen to music. Zac Brown got his start here, you know."

I hate that argument. Yes, we're home of Zac Brown and yes he's all kinds of amazing and yes I used to hear him for free every Thursday night while I drank my $2 beers. But every bar within 8 miles can use the Zac Brown argument because that's how the guy got started. Zac Brown is the exception, not the rule.

I gestured to the stage. "Do you think this guy is as talented as Zac Brown?" 

"No, but I like to listen to music all the same."

I frowned. The more I spoke to him, the more I realized we had nothing in common. He wasn't Valdosta. I wasn't disappointed; it was just matter of fact. 

~Friday, August 19, 2011

Define: disconcerted

Every time I see him across the bar, my breath stops. He is the most beautiful boy I have ever seen.

He is Valdosta's doppelganger. The same 5'8" stature. The same beard. The same blue eyes. The first few times I saw him, I was convinced it actually was Valdosta. Except he's Valdosta minus 20 or 30 pounds. He is beautiful.

I don't have the guts to speak to him because if I ever opened my mouth, I'm pretty sure "You are the most beautiful boy I have ever seen" would come tumbling out. But to be honest, I'm not sure if I ever would have noticed him had I not had the relationship with Valdosta that I did. I fully realize that I'm attracted to boys that look like him in order to recapture what I once felt. 

When we played against his kickball team, I pointed him out to Lawyered's fiancée. "That right there is a beautiful boy," I said.

"Which one?" she asked, craning her neck to look at the outfield.

"The one with the calf tattoo."

"Um, Sarah. You must have really bad eyes. That isn't a tattoo. It looks like a large scab."

"Or maybe its his AIDS lesion," I cracked.

Except my voice tends to carry. And he looked over to us on the sideline. The beautiful boy had heard me joke about him having AIDS.  Lawyered's fiancée doubled over laughing.

So that happened.

~Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The Truth about Schmoozer

After a night out, Schmoozer's BF and I were sitting in his darkened car in his driveway. I had set him up with a girlfriend of mine from kickball and he had been giving me a play by play of the progression of the relationship. He states quite often that he isn't a good conversationalist and that he's awkward around women, but tonight, in his car, he's doing just fine. We talk easily. He confides things in me that he doesn't tell Schmoozer. People often scold me for introducing him as Schmoozer's friend, saying it's time for me to call him my friend. He is.

He retold me a story he had told me the previous day about a date with my friend. Maybe this is what he meant about not being a good conversationalist. Either way he obviously needs to talk about it so I sit quietly in his passenger seat and listen to the story for the second time, nodding and murmuring at the appropriate places.

He relaxed and leaned against the headrest, letting a sigh escape. He turned his head and looked at me, "You know you're worth more right? Your worth more than what you project."

I've taken a self-depricating, matter-of-fact approach to men lately. There  aren't any and I'm not looking. The girl who is always good for a dating story has none. People ask me for updates and I shrug. I'm shocked with how accepting I've been about it. I'm tired. I want someone to text goodnight to. I want someone to make sure I get home from the bars safely. I don't want to deal with a lot of mediocre dates and set-ups to get there.

"You sell yourself short with guys. You deserve $100 dinners instead of spending your first dates getting non-commital drinks," he continued. He spoke kindly, like a big brother would.

He chuckled at himself, deep in thought. "You know what Schmoozer's standard first date is? Beer and darts, and he splits the bill."

I furrowed my brow in the dark car. This seemed familiar to me. Why did this seem familiar to me?

Beer and darts.

It was what he proposed the first night we ever hung out. It was a date. I was right and wrong about that night all at the same time. We went out and seemingly had an easy time. He said my friend was cute and I was horrifed. We split the bill and I was even more horrifed. He unbuckled his seat belt to walk me to my door, but my own insecurities and fear of rejection had me dashing out of that car like my hair was on fire. And then to overcompensate, I placed him in the far depths of the friend zone.

By not paying for my two drinks, I didn't know his intentions. It set the basis for our entire friendship.

Let that be a lesson in manners.

~Monday, August 15, 2011

A Lady Doesn't

There are certain social structures in the South. For instance:  A Lady doesn't drink out of a bottle. That was pounded into me by my mother back when the bottles were Coca-Cola and root beer. She'd grab it out of my hand, pour its contents into a glass and hand it back to me saying, "A Lady doesn't drink out of a bottle."

When I was 18, my father gave me the first of many diamond earrings for Christmas. "A Lady doesn't buy her own jewelry," he instructed.

There's another one about how a Lady doesn't stand while she smokes. I don't know much about that one, but I've heard of it. Truthfully, I think it should be amended to  A Lady doesn't smoke.

And then there's my favorite one: A Lady doesn't pour her own drink.

This has less to do with a Lady's behavior than it does a man's. I learned it at my first kegger at the university. I stood in the back of the line for the keg. Some guy approached me, grabbed my red Dixie cup, pumped the keg and filled my plastic cup, blew off the foam and handed it back to me.

"A Lady doesn't pour her own drink," he smiled.

And that was that. I've never poured my own drink. I hand my bottles to the closest guy to open for me (and then promptly dump into a glass, mom). I'd hand my wine glass to the guy standing by the bottle and I push my pint glass towards the guy sitting by the pitcher. And they always refill me, no questions asked. Valdosta would monitor my glass and refill it on his own. When I'm out with South Carolina Bestie and her boyfriend, he pours my drink. I'm not going to lie; it's a nice little perk to being a Lady.

The other weekend at the lake house, Schmoozer was standing in the kitchen making himself a Red Bull and vodka. I was seated in the other room with a book in my lap.

"Make me one too?" I called.

"No," he said simply.

What? What is this behavior?

"A Lady doesn't make her own drink!" I gently reminded him. "It's a Southern thing."

"I'm not from the South!" he called back. "And you're not a Lady!"

I put my book down and padded into the kitchen and stood by him as he poured.

"You're seriously not going to put down another cup and do the exact same thing you're doing now?"


"You don't understand. Guys always pour the drinks. Even when I'm stinky and sweaty in my kickball team bar playing flip cup, boys always fill my cup." Even when Hot Douchebag told me he didn't like me as a person, he stilled poured my beer.

"No! You women preach gender equality and then you want things like doors opened for you and your drinks poured. If you want equality, you do it yourself! This is why you don't date!" He was laughing, but he was serious.

It's not equality. It's manners.

"But I've never had a Red Bull and vodka and I don't know what it's supposed to taste like."

"Here," He pushed the bottle and can towards me. "You'll figure it out."

And then I made myself the strongest, nastiest drink I've ever had and it knocked me into drunken oblivion for the rest of the night. Joke's on him though because he had to deal with my drunken Lady ass. He really would have been better off pouring me a proper drink with the proper amount of alcohol in it.

However, when it was time for drunken sandwiches, Swayze and Government Mule—who had been fetching me my drinks—got one and Schmoozer didn't. Because Ladies may not pour their own drinks, but they do make awesome sandwiches.


Last weekend I was out with South Carolina Bestie, her boyfriend and his friend. We were enjoying a really nice dinner in honor of the boyfriend's 30th birthday and big promotion. Boyfriend ordered an appetizer and several bottles of wine for the table, and when the bill came, he paid for them.

We teetered out of the restaurant and walked a block to the next location. It was Friday night in Midtown: the sidewalks were brimming with people spilling out of the bars. The boyfriend's friend turned around and located me maneuvering across the crosswalk. He then slowed his pace until I passed him. I knew what he was doing—it's a safer position for me to be in front of him than behind him. Just like how Ladies walk on the inside of sidewalks and men walk on the outside.

This is the Southern man. Silent, strong and protective.

At the bar I asked where the two boys had grown up. Sure enough, it was the South. And when I bought the first round of drinks to show a sign of appreciation to the boyfriend for buying all those bottles of wine, he asked for a three-dollar beer. The boyfriend's friend noted I bought the first round, and then bought my second round.

"Tell them about Schmoozer!" called South Carolina. She had received a long e-mail that week from me detailing all the ways in which Schmoozer had behaved lately that did not make him a gentleman. It ended with me being so annoyed that I canceled happy hour with him.

I recounted the non-drink. "When we were at your beach house, I made your drinks all weekend," noted the boyfriend.

"I know!"

"It's manners," said his friend.


Another boy showed up to celebrate with the boyfriend. When I discovered he was from out of state and staying in a hotel, I bought him a round of three-dollar beer as well. It's Southern hospitality for our guests. As I slid the pint glass towards him, he looked at me. "It's supposed to be the other way around. I'm supposed to buy your drink,"  he said in all sincerity.

I whirled around and shot South Carolina a pointed look. She laughed. He had no idea about the previous conversation; he arrived after it transpired.


Saturday night I was out with Schmoozer's best friend and we headed to a party at Harvey's house. We stopped at the grocery store to buy courtesy beer to leave at the hostess' house. We rang up separately. As we exited the store, the BF reached his hand out. "Here, let me carry your beer for you."

"Where did you grow up?"

"West Virginia."

I rest my case.

~Saturday, August 13, 2011

20 Questions - The Accident

The motorbike accident Scott had. Was he drunk / high on drugs at the time?

Also, it was very good manners of you to send a thank you note for the donation I made towards helping Scott out with his medical bills, but what I'm really curious about is this: did you handwrite a thank you note to EVERY single person who sent a donation, regardless of how small the amount was? -Anonymous

True story. I mailed a handwritten thank-you note to everyone that donated during that time, regardless of the amount and regardless of location in the world. And each letter was unique; it wasn't a form thank you. That outpouring of blog love meant so much to me that I had to do something special in return.

However, there was one person who made a donation who didn't have his name or address on his PayPal account. He merely asked that I forward his donation to an animal shelter when I was financially able to do so. I had starred the e-mail and kept it in my inbox for two years, waiting to thank him one day. This year, I figured out who it was and thanked him accordingly, although he never received a handwritten thank you. And I did forward his donation to a local no-kill shelter.

Really, thank you everyone during that time. Thank you for reading, thank you for commenting and thank you for donating.

Now for the hard part. I don't know, Anonymous. I don't know whether he was drunk or high on drugs. I have my suspicions. He had told me at the hospital, "Thank god I only had one beer," but it turned out he lied to me about anything and everything, so who knows whether that was true. When he was in rehab, he sent me a letter saying he was drinking a case a beer a day that he hid from me. So it's possible.

I didn't know. I hope you believe me on this. I didn't know about the drugs until my friend had sat me down and told me months after I had moved out. She knew the behaviors because she used to do them. I didn't. I grew up in a rich bubble in suburbia where everything was okay all the time. I didn't know that people could drink and hide it. Or that people could do drugs and hide it. Or that people could lie to the extent that he did. I mean, it all sounds so easy. How stupid do you have to be to not recognize someone on drugs? He'd throw up every morning. "It's irritable bowel syndrome," he'd tell me. "It's an ulcer." Who am I to distrust him? I am a trustworthy person, after all.

And this is why my friendship with Mel is so important. She grew up five doors down from me in the same rich, suburban bubble. She understands what it's like to be naïvely out of touch with the real world. The epiphanies we have shared since we went to the same university and lived in adjacent dorms would make others shake their heads. But she understands that naïve part of me because she is the same way. That helps me forgive myself.

If you've paid attention, the moment I found out about the drugs was the moment I stopped using his name. I wiped him clean similar to how Egyptian pharaohs would methodically remove the previous pharaoh's name from temples in an attempt to remove him/her from history. For months I would write only using pronouns, confusing everybody until they read the post label. Then for clarity's sake I started using his initial. But I have never once used his name after that.

The weird thing about the accident that I never told anybody: when he got in the accident, he was coming from the wrong direction. He told me he was going out for something generic: beer or cigarettes or something. I had asked him to stop at a sandwich shop and pick me up a sandwich while he was out. And when he got into the collision, he was not at the part of town where my sandwich shop was. There was no real reason for him to be where he was. So was he out doing something he shouldn't have been doing? It's likely.

A year later, the judge had ruled that both vehicles were at fault.

That accident cost me thousands of dollars. He was suddenly out of work and I was supporting him. He wouldn't look for work because he was recovering. He had medical bills: for surgery, for doctors' appointments, for medications. I wasn't a person to just not pay people and let things go to collections. Then he couldn't find a job he liked. He got fired from here. He got fired from there. He gave up looking for the month of April.

And then I had to spend thousands more to get out of that relationship. I had to break my lease to move out while he was at work. I lost all of my deposits and I had to pay a $900.00 fine. It was the most expensive lesson of my life.

~Monday, August 08, 2011

20 Questions (4)

Has your blog ever been discovered by 'acquaintances' in the 'real world?' How did you deal with it? -Northern Lass

One character that knows about the blog is Mel. She's my oldest friend in the world: we've been friends since 7th grade when I threw her towel in the neighborhood pool. Okay, so that didn't actually make us friends, but we both came around. She's very trustworthy.

Other than that, the blog may have been leaked this weekend. I was drunk tweeting all weekend and sat down in front of the computer at the lake house to check my e-mail. Harvey came up to the computer and stood behind me and read the responses to the tweets over my shoulder. Other bits of information that Gmail proudly displays: my blog name, my Twitter account, and all sorts of other tells. I didn't want to close the window and make it look like I was doing something I shouldn't have, so I let her read over my shoulder. I don't think Harvey actually cares enough to actually Google and discover the blog, so I think it'll be fine. And there's a good chance she was drunk too when that happened.

If she did locate the blog, I still think it'll be fine. Like I said, she probably doesn't care enough.

I'm also very careful with how I write. I never mention certain details that can be plugged into a search engine (for example, I always write "The City" instead of the actual city name). It's worked so far.

Goose or Kettle? -Maura

Fuck vodka. Seriously. This "No Brew August" has not been going well, and it's only the 8th of the month. Instead of beer, I've been having vodka sodas and Red Bull vodkas and I start slurring after one drink. I've been drunker and sloppier and I've been spilling my heart across the state. Fuck this.

So to answer your question: Kettle, the Devil's Urine.

Bucket list... what's the craziest thing on yours and what's the most sentimental one? -Charlotte (Lilly)

I actually just finished my 30 Before 30 list and it was exhausting and tiring and I've been enjoying not having a to-do list. But here is a list of other things I would like to do when the opportunity arises:

  • Ride an elephant
  • Go to the Kentucky Derby (I was so close this year!)
  • Run at 10k for real
  • Visit Asia
  • Actually, just do more international travel in general.

"What's the song that you love but people would cringe if they knew you liked it?" -Scrumps

I have terrible taste in music, but I wear it proudly. I listen to 80's hair bands in my apartment (I have tickets to see Journey, Night Ranger and Foreigner next month!!!), pop punk when I'm at work and hipster/indie stuff when I'm driving. I run to Ke$ha and 3OH!3. I'm a mess.

Valdosta said he noticed me because I quoted Michael Bolton in my dating profile. And last weekend, I was dancing in a bikini and a Falcon's hat on the back of a speed boat to this song:

See above re: vodka.

~Friday, August 05, 2011

Clemson's Closure

I'd been watching Clemson at the other side of the table. A nervous habit, I grabbed the straw in my highball glass and stirred the ice cubes—the vodka soda had long since disappeared. As had the two vodka sodas before that. In what seemed like a good decision at the time, I'd given up beer for the month of August to cut down on my carbs and calories before Mexico. Hence the vodka sodas, which have very few calories. And taste. And it turns out there was a special on vodka, so lucky me.

After whatever that didn't happen between us happened, Clemson had disappeared from the social outings for what seemed like a couple of months.  He'd only returned in the last few weeks. I never asked about his whereabouts, but I heard other people say that he had been strangely absent as well, so I'm not so cocky as to think he was doing it to avoid me.

We've exchanged a few words since his return. It was never a deliberate conversation; we'd just be talking to the same group of people at the same time. The most surreal part about the whole situation is that I could hear him talk about me intimately without actually talking to me. For instance, last night the band began playing Van Morrison. As Clemson is talking to someone else, he points to me. "She loves Van Morrison. Her favorite song is 'Sweet Thing.'"


So now I'm stirring my empty vodka soda and turning around and looking at him every so often. It's weird, right? That he talks about me, but not to me. I want to know. I want to know what the hell I did for him to stop talking to me. I want closure on this.

This creepy stirring and staring behavior of mine isn't that atypical. I've done it ever since he returned. However previously I've always managed to talk myself off the ledge. I only want to talk to him because I'm tipsy and my inhibitions are lowered. He doesn't want to talk to you, Sarah. End of story.

But that was always when I was drinking beer. Vodka does weird things me to me.

I looked at him again. He was sitting by himself at the bar. It was late and most people had cleared out. If I ever were to approach him, this would be the time.

I set my highball down on the table and walked over to him. I planted myself directly in front of him so he would have to acknowledge me. "Can I talk to you?"

Clemson squirmed, clearly uncomfortable.

"Look, it's a conversation we only have to have once. Then it'll be over and we never have to talk about it again."

For some reason this made sense to him. He relaxed a bit and nodded.

"I want to know what happened. I want to know what I did to make you so angry with me. If it's something I can apologize for, I'd like to do so." And because I'm a girl and I have a vagina, my lip already began to tremble.

"Let's not talk about this here." Clemson stood up and pointed to the other side of the bar. As we crossed the room, he put his hand on my lower back and guided me into the restaurant portion of the establishment. I took a seat at a booth. The restaurant was shut off and closed; the only light we had streamed through the windows from the bar next door.

"I'm not good at holding grudges and I'm not good at ignoring people. I don't want us to be fighting. I want to know what happened," I repeated.

Only Clemson took this to mean that I wanted to address the entire story of us: the sleepovers, the cuddling, why it was heading one way and then so suddenly stopped.

"What were you feeling towards me?" he asked.

"At the end, I liked you. It just took me a long time to get there."

He winced. I didn't mean for that statement to hurt his feelings, but it obviously did.

"You liked me the first night you met me," he countered defiantly.

"Oh! Well, obviously! I flirted with you the first night, but I became very slow to pull the trigger. And when I was ready, you were over it."

"I was on the fence with you too," he admitted. "What killed it for me was the drunk dial. I was trying to sleep that night and you called. It was all I could do to not pick up the phone and cuss you out."


The timeline on this seemed weird to me, because I didn't do that until things between us were already broken. I let it go.

I covered my face with my hands in shame. "I'm sorry, Clemson. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I screwed things up"

His face changed. "Actually, I lied. I was never interested in you," he said.

He was lying. He was right about that. However he was lying about never liking me. That's just not true. The first night I spent at his place, he was seated on a futon and I was sitting in his computer chair scrolling through his music collection on his laptop. I found Van Morrison. I clicked on "Sweet Thing" and turned the volume all the way up on the tinny speakers.

"This is my favorite song," I sighed. "It's my song to myself."

Clemson reached forward and grabbed my feet clad in gray leather boots and put them in his lap. It was springtime back then and I wore the calf-skimming slouchy boots over bare legs paired with a very short dress.

He rubbed his hand up and down my bare legs. "I like your boots," he said.

"You do?" I smiled coyly.


In the background, Van Morrison crooned:

I'll be satisfied not to read in between the lines
And I will walk and talk in gardens all wet with rain
And I will never, ever, ever, ever grow so old again.

He tugged off my boots and kept trailing his hands up and down my legs. A computer programmer, they were tender and uncalloused.

The song ended and we left his office and got into his bed. He pulled me to his chest and I laid my head on his shoulder. He inhaled and said he could smell my hair forever. Then he plaintively commented that we hadn't kissed yet. That's when I froze.

And here he is in a bar five months later telling another guy about the song we listened to that night. He had liked me. I suspect I put him on the defensive when I said it took me longer than him to get there.

"Even if you had never liked me, we still had a connection. We were friends at one point. And then you stopped," I said pointedly.

He sighed. I could hear people laughing in the other room. Here, in the restaurant, it was so dark and silent. "We did have a connection. And we still are friends. I just put some distance between us when I realized things weren't going to happen."

"But you ignored me. You pretended I didn't exist," my lip began trembling again and my eyes welled up. "I don't like being treated as if I don't exist. I got knocked unconscious and you just stood there. You didn't care. You didn't care whether I was okay or not." I looked down at the table and choked on a sob. I put my hands to my face again and began crying.

Clemson instinctively grabbed me. He laid his cheek against the top of my hair and wrapped his arm across my shoulder and held me.

"I didn't think you remembered that," he said softly.

"Well I don't remember being hit, but I remember you not saying anything. Even Nameless asked me if I was okay," I cried.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. That was terrible of me and I knew it at the time. I should have been there for you; you are absolutely right. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that." He was genuine in his sorrow.

It was the first time I had been touched by another human in months. Crying in a dark, empty restaurant and being held by a boy who claimed to have never liked me.

"I'm on your side now, okay? I'm on your side," he repeated as he rocked me with his head pressed against mine. "I'm on your side. That won't happen again. I'm on your side. Things will be different from now on."

I opened my mouth and I let everything inside me empty. How I felt when Clemson ignored me. Nameless saying what he said to me. Statham pursuing me and sleeping with me and subsequently starting the rumors that it was Clemson I had slept with. "And I've just been sitting here and letting people treat me this way. I'm better than that. I deserve more than that."

Clemson was shocked. He didn't know any of this. "You mean to tell me it was Statham who started those rumors about us? Because he was covering his own ass?!" he growled.

I sniffed and nodded. "I have the e-mails to prove it."

"That lying, little weasel! I'm going to kill him! I'm going to have a talk with him the next time I see him. I'm going to corner him and call him out on it."

"Just promise me that [the ex-girlfriend] will never know. I don't want to hurt her."

"I won't tell her." He calmed down. "I'll keep this between you and me," he reluctantly said. I don't believe him.

"I can't control other people's actions," he said, referencing Nameless. "But people do like you. I am so glad you came up to me tonight to talk."

"It took a lot of courage," I sniffed. "I was afraid you were going to ignore me again."

"No," he said softly. "I'm glad you talked to me," he repeated.

"I want to be friends again," I said.

"We are." Clemson paused. The he told me some devastating news in his life. "You're the first person I've told."

It was like the last three months of silence never happened.

"Are you okay?" I didn't want to look like I was flirting with him or hitting on himbecause I wasn'tbut I covered his hand in mine. That's what you do when someone is hurting; you reach out and touch him.

"I am now. I haven't talked to my mom yet," he said. He pulled his hand away and used it to drain his pint glass.

The spell was broken. The conversation was over. We left the dark restaurant and headed into the brightly lit bar decorated in grass skirt curtains, multi-colored Christmas lights and leis spinning from the ceiling fans. The bar is decorated in a different theme every week and it was luau week.

I walked past the surfboard to pay my bill: three vodka sodas and my dignity.

~Thursday, August 04, 2011


I write.

I write in the shower. I write while commuting. I write constantly. Seriously. I even think in the narrative. This usually leads to me writing on unusual items. If I died unexpectantly, my mother would be shocked upon cleaning out my apartment. My scrawl would be all over discarded receipts, DVD instruction books, stock quotes, magazines, the mirrors, a pad of paper on my bedside table, a small notebook tucked away in my purse.

This invariably will come as quite a shock to her. My parents think I have given up writing.

My diary is stuffed with pieces of scrap paper of entries yet to be written or blog posts that have never materialized. Most are unpublishable because I used real names. Here are a few one-liners I've managed to dig up.

And I'm not going to tell you who they are about. What would be the fun in that?

(Click for big)

~Wednesday, August 03, 2011

20 Questions: The Crazy/Hot Continuum

I have a raging crush on one of my co-workers and I am fairly sure it is not reciprocated. How do I get over it so I can go back to working! -Anonymous

I'm a girl who takes pride in my, well, pride. I'm really big on not crossing the Crazy/Hot Continuum. If you haven't heard of the Crazy/Hot Continuum, it's basically a theory that you can't act crazier than you are hot. So if you're real smoking, have at it and set his shit on fire; it'll probably be cool with him.

As an average girl, I'm only allowed an average amount of crazy. This includes: surfing his FB page late at night and looking at pictures, not keeping his number in my phone so I won't drunk dial/text "OMFG! My bra just fell off! Oopsies! Luv U 4 EVA!!," analyzing details for a little too long with my friends to see if he loves me/loves me not, and sending his picture to them so they can rate his hotness. I am not hot enough for late-night drive-bys past his house, nor showing up on his doorstep randomly, etc.

So as an average girl, my advice would be to organize a group happy hour with coworkers. Sometime during the night, sit next to him. Talk about things you have in common, which you already know because you were up late last night gently stalking his Facebook profile. Let's just say you both love planting trees. Say to him, "Yeah, I have been wanting to get up early and join that bitchin' tree-planting organization, but I don't want to go alone."

LET HIM TAKE THE LEAD. If he says, "Hey, we should plant trees sometime," congrats! You are in! If he says nothing, changes the subject, or says something to the extent of "I'm sure you can ask a friend to plant trees with you," then game over. He's not into you. The key in this is to NOT suggest you two go tree planting together, even if you think it'll increase your chances of him saying yes. You are merely providing an opening for him to take the lead. (This is a very Southern way of dating, by the way, but it's very effective.)

So let's just say the boy was stupid and said, "I'm sure you can find someone to plant trees with you." Now you have to get over him. That's it. Shut it down. You are a lady of class. This means your behavior towards him can no longer be anything but friends. No more taking the long way to go to the bathroom at work just so you can walk past his desk. No more coordinating your lunch times so maybe he'll ask you to join him while you are both in the elevator. And no more looking him up wistfully on Facebook. Stop torturing yourself. You can e-mail your girlfriends about it, cry in your car as you listen to that song that makes you think of him and watch sappy movies. Eventually your heart will catch up to your head. It sucks. It's painful, but that's the way it goes.

Other people would say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Not me. It's not the best way; it's the easiest way. There's a difference. You should only run towards people, never away from them. Because then you find yourself silently crying after sex on some random guy's shoulder because he isn't your crush. And that makes you cross the Crazy/Hot Continuum.

Unless you're really hot, then you could probably set fire to his shit as well.

~Tuesday, August 02, 2011

20 Questions (2)

Team Edward or Team Jacob? -FreckledK

Would you believe me if I told you I've never read a single Twilight book, nor have I seen the movies? Same with Harry Potter: never read the books or seen the movies.

I actually don't read much these days. I read so much heavy duty stuff for work that my eyes are strained at the end of the day and I'd rather be staring at the bottom of a pint glass or at some bad reality TV where I don't even have to pay attention.

I feel like I have completely let you down.

How do you feel about your readers? Do you like it if they leave comments or are ok if they lurk? Do you recognize most of the commenters' names? -Emma

Readers for the most part are a vast unknown for me. I have a lot of readers from all over the world, but mostly in the U.S., Canada and Australia. Really only about 1% comment, which I find shocking. I absolutely recognize ones that do because I read their blogs as well!

I'm okay with people not commenting, but I do love hearing from people that have been reading for years or have gone through the great undertaking of reading the entire blog. It's comforting to feel like there is a witness to my life and that people are invested in me and wish me well.

EDIT: Yes! If you are following me on Twitter or read my blog, send me yours so I can read you too!

Have you ever posted a picture of something handwritten? I've noticed more people doing that lately. -Angela

Ask and you shall receive. I think it's a neat concept too and provides a more intimate perspective into the author. Be forewarned: I have terrible handwriting that looks like a left-handed, five-year-old serial killer. I don't think my As look like Zs, but the post office and everywhere I fill out my race applications do.

Don't you feel judged by your readers sometimes? Do you ever feel like quitting your blog? -Bathwater

I do get a lot of hateful comments. Most I shrug off because the person is so far off base from my reality. However this day was really frightening: http://desperatesarah.blogspot.com/2011/04/oh.html

I quickly noticed people were concerned for my welfare, so I popped up in the comments fairly early in the day and announced that I was safe and sound. Then someone said she bet that I was raped and that "it was only a matter of time" or something as threatening sounding. Then the entire comments section dissolved into a debate as to whether or not I deserved to be raped.

That's right.

I never returned to the comments section, but I was pretty shaken up. I have felt unsafe for most of my life and my blog has always been my safe haven until that day. That day the world was an awful place.

And for the people that think girls can have it coming, please watch a little 1988 film starring Jodie Foster called The Accused.

~Monday, August 01, 2011

Playing my Part

Saturday night I had two amazing seats to the baseball game. I get them once a year at the beginning of the season, thinking positively that by mid-season I'll have someone to take with me.

Last year I took Government Mule.

This year I took Schmoozer.

I guess next year will be Swayze, but he doesn't even like "not football" as he calls it.

After the game Schmoozer and I headed to a house party. It was the first time I had seen Harvey and company since some random happy hour last month. At that happy hour Katie had gotten extremely drunk, as is the case has been the last 9 months or so.

"Now where is... that thing with the writing on it?" she slurred as her head bobbed across the table.

"You mean the menu?" Harvey passed it over to her.

I used to think Katie getting really drunk was cute, but it just didn't seem that way anymore. We had only been there an hour and a half. It was still daylight out. It wasn't cute anymore; instead it reeked of a cry for attention.

Schmoozer and I had gotten into a slap fight, slapping each other's sun burns from river rafting the previous week. Then I giggled as I received texts from his best friend. It was obvious that my life had moved on without the rest of my group of friends. It was obvious to them as well.

Schmoozer stood up to leave, meeting up with the best friend.

"That's my ex," Katie slurred as he walked his way through the parking lot.

Funny, I don't associate him as Katie's ex: he's my friend.


After the baseball game, Schmoozer and I walked into the house party. We found everyone—predictably—by the beer pong table. Harvey was seated with a glass of wine, her husband in front of the laptop, alternating Journey, Poison and George Strait. Swayze and the host were playing beer pong and Katie was on the other side of the table watching. Everyone greeted me warmly. Katie kind of nodded at a distance.

Our friendship has become strained. Normally she'd shout my name from across the room and tell me she loves me and misses me. Instead I got a nod and a high five at my initiation. Last week she organized a night out. Schmoozer asked if I was going; I told him I wasn't invited. When I confronted her about it, she said that I just must not have received the text. It's 2011, how often does a text just not arrive?

I took a seat next to Harvey and we talked about how weird this summer had been. I admitted that I'm nervous about our trip to Mexico at the end of the month. I'm rooming with Katie and Jenna, two people that I have not spoken much to for most of the year. Swayze will have an empty bed in his room now that Government Mule has backed out; I'm thinking of staying with him instead.

"Soooooo..." Harvey started hushedly. I knew what she was going to say before she even said it. "Are you and Schmoozer dating?"

"No." I opened my mouth to provide further explanation, but I realized I didn't owe anyone one. I closed it again.

"I think he thinks you're dating," she whispered.

I paused, trying to decipher whether that "he" was a "we." That's what the true sentence was. Harvey and Katie and Government Mule and Jenna think we're dating. It was the first time I realized Harvey was saying something completely untrue just to say it.

Schmoozer is not confused as to whether we're dating or not. He knows all about my life and I know about his. Schmoozer had passed out my number to one of the guys in the backyard on guys' night without my permission. We go to bars where Schmoozer thinks he has the best chance with girls.

Harvey was wrong. Katie was wrong. I could have explained the situation in more detail, saying that I see him two or three times a week and that's why we seem chummy. Because we are. We have the bond that is now broken between us and the rest of the group. But really, it's none of their business anymore. If Katie wanted to distance herself from me based on her perception, that's her decision. I have stated over and over to her that nothing is going on between us. I'm tired of being on the defensive as if I'm doing something wrong. I am not.

Rhett Butler: You're going to that party, if only for her sake. Now get dressed! Wear that! Nothing modest or matronly will do for this occasion. And put on plenty of rouge. I want you to look your part tonight.

And Saturday night I did.


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