Not very hungry right Mao.

Manners{Mah-NERS} NOUN! Definition: Not puking in the company of others.


I've always really liked Chinese food. It's tasty, it practically floats in delicious sauce, and comes with copious amounts of rice. What's not to love? I'll tell you. The Chinese food they have here is NOTHING like real Chinese food. We've all been lied to, friends. While visiting New Yawk last month with my boyfriend, we decided to meet up with a friend of my mom's to have some "real" Chinese food. Oh man.

I have to be honest though--most of it was exceptionally tasty. The smoked green tea duck was delicious, the chicken was very tasty, and the Chinese beer (even though I do not normally care for beer) was also wonderfully palatable. However, there was one notable exception that may have scarred me for life: the fish.

Normally I really dig fish. It's supposed to be really good for your skin and when prepared well just tastes good. Our friend pointed to something on the menu that said "Whole Fish." I nodded okay. I assumed "whole fish" meant "a whole fish except for the head and tail and guts and stuff." Nope. They mean EVERYTHING. Bones, fins, eyeballs, lips, face. Remember goldfish crackers? "The snack that smiles back?" Yeah. That was dinner. Not wanting to upset our host, I had a few bites. It might have been good, I have no idea. I felt like I was on Fear Factor and it was just mind over matter to keep from being ill. I don't like it when my food smiles at me.

So what have I learned? The Chinese are very literal when it comes to their food. When they say a "whole fish," they mean it.

DIY Haircuts & other bad ideas

Irony {eye-RAW-nee} NOUN! Definition: Buying a pair of scissors because you have no scissors and then realizing that you need another pair of scissors to open the packaging.

Enough said...though, the blessing in disguise here is that because I was unable to open the aforementioned scissors, I actually paid for a bang trim today instead of doing it myself and regretting it A LOT later. Impulse at-home haircuts are pretty much never a good idea.

I'm Growing Up Against My Will

Doom {Dew-MM} NOUN! Definition: When your parents starting giving you practical things for Christmas.

My mom and I had a very important talk some time ago. You know, that one that every daughter has to have with her mother at some point--the one where you kindly ask her to never buy you clothes again. It was tough. I love my mom dearly, but she has no idea how to dress me. Instead of spending another Christmas returning clothes, or worse, letting them sit in a drawer until I can take them to the Goodwill without her noticing, I told her plain and simple that I did not want any item of clothing whatsoever under the tree.

So what did I get instead?

-2 sets of dishes

-a set of "Forever Sharp" knives

-a set of cutlery

-a coffee maker

-a Magic Bullet (!!!)

I think she might be trying to tell me something.

I expect on my next birthday I will be receiving luggage. Or I'll come home one day and the locks will be changed.

In any case, perhaps the scariest thing about all of these "GTFO of my house" gifts is that I'm actually old enough to appreciate them.

An Honest(ish) Evaluation of 2008

Failure {Fay-UL-yer} NOUN! Definition: Me in 2008. See also: Last year's resolutions.

I suck. Now that school is out for the semester and I have three glorious weeks, I am pissing them away. Looking back on a diary I started last year and stopped writing in, I realized I compiled a list of resolutions that have been complete and utter failures...for the most part. Let's review.

*Get published (No such luck. I also didn't submit anything.) DOUBLE FAIL

*Write more. (I have not posted in this blog since September, but wrote lots in school & for The Gateway.) PASS & FAIL

*Lose 20 pounds (I gained 8) FAIL

*Save money (hahahhahahahahahhahahahahahahahaha) FAIL

*Be nicer to Mormons. (I cannot respect a religion that requires magic underwear.) FAIL

Instead of dwelling on these failures indefinitely, I have formed a plan of attack to correct these areas of suck in my life.

Proposed Solutions:

Publishing Problem: I have to submit things.
Writing Wreckage: I have to quit reading so much Perez.
Weight Worries: I have to step on a treadmill more than twice next year.
Money Mess: I have to stop buying shit off TV and the internet.
Mormon Malevolence: Maybe I'll start picking on the Mennonites?

I wish more doctors were hypochondriacs like I am.

Doctor {DOK-tor} NOUN! Definition: (see: gambler, risk taker, high roller where the stakes are whether or not I live or die).

After a series of fairly intense headaches that were lasting a day or two each and seemed to be confined to only one half of my head, I finally went to see a doctor. It went a little something like this.

Sarah: I've been having these headaches lately. It doesn't seem to have to have anything to do with my coffee drinking or my periods. They're quite intense and last a day or more.

Doctor: Does it hurt when I poke you in the temple?

Sarah: No.

Doctor: Does it hurt when I poke the back of your neck?

Sarah: No.

Doctor: Are you pregnant?

Sarah: Only if it's the second coming of Christ.

Doctor: I see. (scribble scribble).

Sarah: Well?

Doctor: You probably don't have a brain tumor. I'll write you a prescription for some pain relievers.

Sarah: What if I do have a brain tumor?

Doctor: You don't.

Sarah: But what if I do? Can I have a CAT scan? MRI? Both?

Doctor: No. You don't have a brain tumor. But I'll see you in 6 months for your next PAP smear!

I don't pretend to know as much as doctors, but I always feel like they're hedging their bets a bit. In conclusion, I "probably" do not have a brain tumor. But if I do, I guess I can go back to this doctor later and say "I told ya so."

Only 127 Days Till Christmas!

Inappropriate {IN-ahh-PRO-pree-YIT} ADJECTIVE! Definition: the fact that Costco is selling Christmas Cards in August. Synonyms: Obscene, wrong and gross.

I want to start by saying that I'm not an asshole. I actually really like Christmas. I like hanging out with my family and giving gifts and over-eating and tinsel and all that other jazz. I dig tacky holiday sweaters with Reindeer on them and crowded malls and the colors red and green. I even kind of like creepy mall Santas with glue-on beards. (I know they're not real... they're only Santa's helpers). Despite liking all of these things, I find it borderline ridiculous that Costco is selling Christmas cards this early. Christmas is still more than FOUR MONTHS AWAY. I found it mildly concerning that they were selling bulk Halloween candy already.

This can only mean 3 things:

1) Other stores will soon follow suit.

2) Some freakishly over-organized people (not me) have their shit together and are already sending Christmas cards.

3) It's going to snow soon.

Write Your Own Obituary

Funeral {FEW-nur-AL} NOUN! Definition: basically a "surprise" party other people plan for you: you don't get to pick what to wear, or who comes, and it sucks.


I have been thinking about death a lot lately. (Note to friends and family: this is not a cry for help; keep reading). The front page of the paper is spattered daily with news of murder, war "casualties," and the back of the paper is full of obituaries. I smack bugs on my windshield on my way to work. Pets die, plants die, and nobody gets out of here alive. On a daily basis we're surrounded by, practically bombarded with death: but nobody really talks about it, save poets and musicians.


I had the pleasure of taking in the Bodyworlds exhibit a few weeks ago, and it got me thinking: what do I want to have happen to my skin and guts when I pass away*? When, because, it's not an if. I don't think I want my corpse plasticized, and since I planning on donating any useful organs, should there be any, I doubt Bodyworlds would want it anyways. Plus, if I expire* in a car crash, which is kind of likely considering the way I drive, there won't be much left.


There's not really much point in thinking much about HOW you're going to punch out* for the last time, because suicide aside, you can't really pick. Though, I have always kind of hoped I might be eaten by a shark or an alligator, so my family will at least have a cool story to tell, and I'll have an obituary worth reading. So, I have decided to focus my energy into what happens after I kick the bucket*.

First of all, you can't spell "funeral" without "fun." I want festive invitations and only people who actually liked me can come. I insist that I'm cremated for two reasons: 1) If I'm eaten by a shark like I plan, it won't be pretty; 2) I want to be positive I'm dead. Seriously. The idea of being buried alive freaks me out.

Hymns are a total downer, so I'll have none of them at my FUNeral. Instead, I would like the soundtrack to Purple Rain played on repeat. All guests, no matter how old or prudish will have to sing along to Darling Nikki. Following that, everyone will go glow bowling and ice cream cake will be served. Anyone crying will be asked to leave, 'cause it's MY party, and you can't cry if you want to (lame Leslie Gore reference).

I'd like my obituary to read something like this: Sarah Studmuffin (1988-2188) was a kick-ass daughter, sister, friend, and lover. From an early age, Sarah lied a lot and decided that she'd better become a lawyer or a writer. Because she preferred wearing her housecoat to a pant-suit, writing won out. In third grade she was published in a dinky community anthology for her tear jerking piece, "The Christmas without Presents." In that story, Mrs. Claus steps up and kicks ass when Mr. Claus succumbs to a common cold. This was an early indicator that she would grow up to be a feminist. In her adolescent years she grew into a pretty fucking awkward young woman and stayed that way most of her life, but she was still kind of rad. Ask anyone. Though she was sometimes a bitch, and did not always smile, she made efforts to patch things up when she was in the wrong (even if it wasn't often). Sarah dated two dick-heads that her parents hated, but eventually smartened up and fell in love with a wonderful human being who loved her passionately and unselfishly for the rest of her life. Sarah published 27 best selling books in her life time, including several memoirs. Sarah was a life long Prince fan, and before her face was chewed off by that wayward shark/gator, her last words were, "tonight I'm gonna party like it's 1999." She will be missed. In lieu of flowers, send Nutella.

*Number of annoying euphemisms for death in this post: 4 (in italics, for your convenience).

Peeing a lot is really healthy, sometimes.

Hydration {HI-dray-SHUN} NOUN! Definition: a nuisance. Antonyms: convenient and fun.

Why must trying to be healthy be so much work? I guess anything worthwhile takes effort. My current target for self-improvement is my kidneys. I've been nicer to my liver lately by drinking a lot less alcohol, so now it's time to treat my pair of little bean shaped organs with some TLC. I've decided to drink more water. A lot more.

I suspect I might be part camel. True story, I pee like two times a day, no matter how much water I drink (which is usually very little). I must store it somewhere. Or, maybe I'm like a plant and I secretly undergo transpiration and release it into the atmosphere. I'm not really sure. When I pee though, it's usually dark yellow which (I've heard) means I'm not getting enough water. But how much are you supposed to drink?

Sometimes I wonder if doctors all hate each other. They all seem to recommend different things. Same with dentists. Only 4 out of 5 recommend Crest. You know that 1 other dentist probably recommends eating a lot of candy and not brushing so that he can keep making payments on his BMW. Well, Wikipedia (the ultimate source for everything) says to drink anywhere from 6-13 glasses, based on a bunch of conflicting medical literature. I also have no idea what the proper unit of measurement is for "a glass."

So, for the last few days, I've been drinking about 9 "glasses" (red plastic beer-cups) of water. I set a personal record of about 9 pees in a day. Which is impressive, but also kinda of annoying. Peeing so often means you're in a constant search for a washroom. At work or home it's easy, but having a phobia of public bathrooms does not help. I nearly peed my shorts on the hour long bus ride home the other day because I was too much of a princess to use the toilet at the transit center and I forgot to go before I left work.

In short if I want to keep up this water project, I've come to two conclusions:

1) I will have to perfect a way of peeing standing up as to not touch anything in public bathrooms.

2) I am going to have to keep going to Yoga so I can improve my balance and perfect the "hovering" method of public bathroom use. I think this also means I need to stop farting in Yoga class.

Yoga and enlightenment are probably mutually exclusive after all

Yoga {yoh-GAH} NOUN! Definition: embarrassment dipped in lycra.

My life is a sum of failed attempts at self improvement. Since about the age of ten I've had it in my head that I'm only 20 pounds away from true happiness. As all two of my faithful blog readers may recall, I once purchased "Hip Hop Abs" DVDs in an insomnia induced state of gullibility (by the way, I cancelled my Magic Bullet order. We can talk about commitment issues later). After unwrapping only one of the DVDs and watching it while eating candy, I decided the DVDs were for entertainment purposes only.

A few months back while I was at HomeSense, I randomly bought a yoga mat for ten dollars. It came with a trendy mesh carrying case and a 20 minute CD of animal noises that is supposed to help you become enlightened. Or reach Nirvana. Or be Zen. Or something. Until today it was sitting (unused) in its bag beside the shelf where I keep Hip Hop Abs, a jump rope, several diet books (which I am getting rid of), and a tape measure. A friend asked me to come to Yoga with her and I figured it was a sign and that the buying of the mat months prior was a prophetic vision, not a waste of money.
Hip Hop Abs out, Yoga in. Yoga seems like a really cool way to get in shape because it's (supposed to be) relaxing, low impact, and you're trapped in an air conditioned room full of hot soccer Moms... certainly better than bouncing on one leg breaking lamps in the privacy of my own basement*

*In theory, had I actually decided to do the Hip Hop Abs DVDs.

As a beginner Yoga-ist, I listened and watched attentively as the instructor called out pose names and did perfect examples of them at the front of the class. I can't recall which pose it was, but we were twisting and wringing air out of our lungs, and my body decided the air had to go somewhere. Just as I was cleansing my body of toxins and listening to a CD of bird noises and bending and twisting and yogaing--I farted. Loud. Like, really really loud. Which would have been okay, except I was next to my friend who started giggling. So, I started giggling. Then chuckling. Then laughing. Then shaking and twitching on my mat trying to stifle my noises. And then I snorted. Loud. Like, really really loud. Approximately everybody looked at me.

Well, I think it's safe to say nobody in that class reached Nirvana or Zen or centered their Chi or got enlightened today. Maybe the bird noises should have been louder. Just saying. Namaste!

Insomnia is dangerous

Insomnia {in-sohm-nee-ah} NOUN! Definition: a chronic condition in which I stay up late at night watching infomercials, often ordering ridiculous crap because the sexy voice-over tells me that I only have twenty more minutes to get the surprise gift (which is also useless).

Sometimes I have trouble sleeping at night. I lay awake for hours counting squares on my ceiling, reciting the alphabet backwards, anything to make me sleep. Like many people, I sometimes turn on the TV, and every time I do...something bad happens. I rarely watch TV, but when I do, I don't watch Lost, I don't watch Battlestar Gallactica, and I don't watch House. I watch infomercials. I love them. I want to put them in my mouth and chew their sweet tasty goodness, but I can't. So instead, I sit there and I listen and occasionally (often): I buy shit. In a December bout of insomnia Shaun T sold me Hip Hop Abs. After I got off the phone with the operator (who convinced me to upgrade my order), I sat on my computer refreshing my email inbox every thirty seconds until I got the confirmation reciept. I stayed up for another two hours, standing sideways in the mirror and sucking in, and flexing, imaging my six-pack and all the compliments I would get. I checked the mail every day.

Three weeks later, a brown box arrived from BeachBody. I opened the box and stared at the DVDs which promised I would lose 10 lbs the first week. I read all the instructions and realized that I was only allowed to each 1000 calories per day and spend several hours exercising each day. "This is fucking gross," I thought, and now $100 in work out discs I will never use are sitting on my bookshelf.

In a January bout of Insomnia, I ordered a vacuum off TV. Honest to God, a fucking vacuum. When I woke up the next morning, I knew I had done something horrible. I called the company back in the morning and begged to cancel my order. I can't tell you what I was thinking, because I have no idea. Insomnia is dangerous. And occasionally, expensive.

Last night, an infomercial came on for the Magic Bullet. And let's be honest here: who doesn't want a blender that shares its name with a sex toy? So I ordered one. Yup, it's going to be on my doorstep in 2-3 weeks. I can't wait to blend and shred and chop and perform any kitchen job in 10 seconds or less. In the meantime, maybe I'll pass the time getting Hip Hop Abs.