Thursday, December 17, 2009

murphy's crotch law

Ever noticed how undies always land crotch side up? They're like toast, but less buttery and more embarrassing.

Try it. Throw your undies around. Then invite guests over and see how many crotches are visible (undie crotches, not visitor crotches).

Also, ever wondered how many times a person could use the word "crotch" in a blog post? Not enough times, I'd say.

Crotch crotch CROTCH.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Santa hates poor kids. Obvs.

*note: most of the following is not true.

It's a well known fact that Santa hates poor kids. That jolly red bastard may seem fun and fair with his bottomless sack of elf-selected toys, twinkly eyes and belly laughs, but trust me, he is an unsympathetic tyrant with no pity and even less charity in his fur-lined, peppermint flavored heart.

How do I know this? How do I know this irrefutable fact? Because, my dears, I was a poor kid. Ol' Santy fell through many a time during those little years of wonder, and I have not forgotten. Nay, I WILL NOT forget. How hard is it to find a FROG PIANO Santa? HUH?? Three years on the list and NOTHING. Dammit Santa! Give a poor kid a break and go pick up a GD frog piano!!! SEARS. WISH. BOOK. It was there. You know it and I know it. LOOK AT ME KRINGLE. Yeah, more like KRINGE-LE (for "cringe", eh? hey?).

You (the reader) may be thinking "oh boo hoo, poor you!", in which case, I ask that you grab a hanky and dry your non-sarcastic tears. Don't cry for me, Christmastimers. The truth is, it was good for my character. I'm only slightly scarred, and maybe still a bit sad, but over all, I'm doing okaaaaayy (you should have sang that whole bit to the tune of that Evita song). I'm not actually going to make this post about my past crappy Christmases (I did that last year, and trust me, they were a buuuuuummmmer. Both to live through and to read about), and since I've blacklisted Santa, Christmases have been tops (except for the boxing day at West Edmonton Mall. Hell on earth).

Why does Santa hate poor kids so much? Well, the thing about poor kids is that they're dirty and stinky. That's an obvious truth right there. I spent a lot of my childhood rolling around on dirty floors, picking lice out of my hair, throwing my rotten teeth at my siblings – our education was focused more on hoarding bread crusts (we called them "croutons" to feel fancy) and hissing at each other. Who would want to enter a shit box of a house only to have six little gollums clawing at his velvety (and expensive) red coat? Best to steer clear, hey Santa? Poor kids are GROSS.

Now go fifty years back and you'll see the Santa who cared. Things were strictly naughty or nice, and poor kids got cool little sticks or lasting friendships with friendly rats. You know, SOMETHING. These days, the more of an annoying, rotten twirp you are, the more presents you are likely to receive. In fact, if you were to graph this phenomena out, the delinquency of the child would directly corrollate to the increase in wicked awesome presents. Kids don't give a sh*t about being good these days, because their parents are close personal friends of Santa's, a fact that, combined with their guilt for being crappy parents, adds up to major present overcompensation.

So I'm deliberating how best to break this down to my kids. Because I don't want them to become brats, I won't mention the whole devilkin-reward system currently in place. I may just have to explain to them that, unless we can send up the smoke of burnt money from our real, limestone fireplace in our elegant, brand new infill house, we won't register on his sleigh's new GPS. He's also started an exclusive registration system that we've missed out on because we're renters. I'll just have to tell them to hope for a miracle, like maybe Jesus has a few extra candycanes or something. With any luck, next year we'll get that big line of credit... THEN Santa will notice us. I PROMISE.

Sunday, December 13, 2009

sunday diaryah #29

"Dec 3, 92,
Dear Diary,
Boy do I ever hate Jill! She competes with me in everything in school! She is sooo conceited! I have discovered a new feeling inside of me. It's love. A wild love that is just aching to come out. I wish it would go away because I don't have the slightest idea who the love is for. It always seems he's just around the corner, I've always imagined him with black hair and fair skin, tall with a big build. I don't know what color his eyes are though. I don't really want to meet him until I'm older though. Maybe when I go to Lethbrige.

*me note: Prince Eric had black hair and fair skin...

"Dec 8, 92
Dear Diary,
I think Colbey is starting to like me. Because first, he was looking at me lots in gym, in L.A. he was pretending to write on my back, and in Math I was walking to my desk and he ran up and tickled my ribs. It may not mean much, but it makes me feel like a somebody. I know I'm higher than the "Geek Group" and people like Kathy and Jasmine. I think I'm around Jennifer. Except I'm spiritually cleaner. This may all sound conceited but I had to write it down. That's the best way to forget something you know.

*me note: as a mom I'm reading this thinking "a boy was tickling my 13-year-old ribs and drawing on my back???" Funny how the slightest clues from my big crushes were like the hugest deals ever, and these really obvious crush clues apparently barely phased me. Also interesting that I HAD to write down my social standing so I wouldn't forget.

"Dec 10, 92,
Dear Diary,
Today was pretty boring, Deanne got her braces off though. I have to wait for one to straighten for 6 more months. My bite is perfect though. I got christmas elastics. At school Colbey and I are starting to be friends. He's so funny, I can't help but laugh at his jokes, I must admit some of them are kind of rude. But not as much as before. We talk alot. He's really nice. He seems to understand alot. Today in Health he made a rather strange statement about girls, he said, "if everyone would go through metapause, nobody would be grouchy." He looked at me and laughed so I looked at him and laughed. That's the best way to keep him from teasing you is to laugh with him. And he really likes it.
Well, I'm tired,

"Dec 12, 92,
Dear Diary,
Well, I just seem to hate Jill more and more. She hates my guts too. In Math I'm on page 153 and every day she asks me what page I'm on. Today when she asked I started to hum the tune for "I like big butts." Not that I do, I just figured I'd get her off my back. I seem to like Colbey more and more too. He tries so hard at school to fit in. Shilo says he's very different at school than at home. He's so funny! He talks to Pam and I lots, but I think Pam likes him so naturally she'll likely get his attention. Man, do I ever wish I was just a little prettier. I hate my face! It's so short and wide, and with little pink pimples every square inch! My braces don't help much because they make my cheeks poke out every time I smile. Then I've got my pitiful excuse for a nose. And my hair is so dry! Plus all the split ends are on the short hairs so I can't cut them off. And all the curly frizzes don't help much either! Maybe when I get a perm, get off my braces, and grow out of my zits I'll be at least noticeable. I know this sounds pretty pathetic but, what can I say, it's only the truth.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

love letters and naive delusions

As a young teenager who fell deeply in love every three seconds and had nothing but The Little Mermaid and Kevin Costner movies to refer to for examples of romance, I spent a lot of time imagining complex romantic fantasies involving my crushes of the week. Most of them took place in the summertime – a chance meeting at girls' camp (boys were FORBIDDEN), a secret rendezvous during a game of "capture the flag", the tapping of small rocks on my bedroom window at night, or a bashful encounter during a wandering hike in the hills (he'd be enchanted by my beautiful rendition of "part of your world").

I used to fixate so arduously on these fantasies that it was basically as though they had actually happened. The pimply, sweaty boys who occupied my sheltered social circles had unknowingly declared their love to me in an unending variety of ways; a treasure hidden in a pile of sticks where only I would find it, brash acclamations during family day beach picnics, sneaking out of church for discreet meetings in the abandoned outhouses – in my delusions they were all Romeos, Don Juans, and Prince Erics of my heart. My attempts to bring these fantasies to life were carried out by writing myself love letters from them. I would pen some jumbled prose about how they had always seen something "special" in me, how I was "different" from all the other girls, how they wanted to sweep me away to our island of solitude, buy me a horse, plant a garden of roses in the formation of my face, or at the very least, take me to Boston Pizza for dinner. I'd throw in some casual references to things happening in their actual lives ("I'm sorry I didn't see you at the dance, I was grounded for not doing my homework – how could I when all I can think of is you?"), and once the letter was complete, I would crumple it, fold it, make it look as "real" as possible, and act out the scenario of it being handed to me by a secretly jealous friend. Then I would read it, clutch my heart, weep at the injustice of our hidden love, curse the universe for keeping us apart, and write back (using a different color pen):

"I'm so flattered! I think about you ALL THE TIME and really want to go to Boston Pizza with you. Let's meet on Sunday behind my grandma's trailer, there are blueberries in the trees back there. I'll bring chips."

I'd continue these correspondences until I had a small collection of folded paper wads, and then once I had run out of ideas of secret places to meet (I had no idea what else a romantic encounter would entail other than face gazing and snuggling, and making out was still some abstract idea of movie stars mushing around together. My self-esteem was still low enough that the thought of myself doing those things was weird and totally off-putting), I would shred, burn, and bury the notes into "safe from my brothers" oblivion. I WISH I had kept them though. My diaries have some good laughs in them, but the secret letters held all my truly unbridled adolescent angst. Having five siblings was like living with the thought police. Any vague expression of real feelings equated taking the risk of ultimate, suicidal humiliation. The stories of my ridiculous and warped illusions would spread to my cousins, then to their friends, and then to every boy featured in my silly little stories. At the time, thorough destruction of my innermost desires was an unquestionable necessity.

As an adult, I'm still prone to losing myself in elaborate fantasies, but of course they're grounded in a stronger sense of reality now. If I were to write a letter to myself now, it would be from a wicked awesome employer rather than a pubescent boy. It might go something like this:

"Dearest Sarah,

We're big fans and we regularly read your blog. We think you are amazing and we would be damn lucky to have someone like you working for us. We'd like you to join us as "awesome consultant". Job duties would include: sharing all of your crazy original ideas and helping us turn them into stellar and hilarious products, books, films, and tv shows, keeping it real and in turn, keeping us real, "working it" on a regular basis, and helping to make our already awesome office environment ever more awesome through amusing banter, telling hilarious jokes, and wearing amazing clothes.

We will pay you anything, anything. You are worth more to us than our quarterly earnings. If the initial 3-month probationary period goes well, we will name our company after you. We've employed that lady from Super Nanny specifically for your child care needs, and have several top childrens' entertainers and educational activity experts on call for cold or rainy days. The job will entail much family-friendly travel, which we will cover, as well as any expenses along the way. We like to think of life experiences as valuable research for our company, and will happily support your life lessons financially. You may expect retirement a the age of 40, afterwhich, our pension plan will ensure lasting financial security for ever after.

Please call us or facebook us or whatever, and we'll get you started at whatever time is convenient for you.

Sincere, Kind, Warm, and Adoring Regards,
The Most Awesome Company of All Time.

PS. We are in love with you."

My response would be:

"Dear Most Awesome Company of All Time,

I'm so flattered! I think about you ALL THE TIME and really want to go to Boston Pizza with you. Let's meet on Sunday behind my grandma's trailer, there are blueberries in the trees back there. I'll bring chips.


PS. I can start on Monday."

Thursday, December 10, 2009

congratulations, you're a weiner

Admittedly, I have been lost in introspection the last few days. I'm pretty sure it relates to the usual suspects of sleeplessness, momsolation and cabin fever, and I'm anxious for it to end not just for my sake, but for the sake of my husband and anyone else who is sick of my moanings (hollah!). I know from experience that becoming caught up inside of one's own head inevitably leads to depression, and some external social exposure is way overdue. That said, I'm going to go ahead and indulge in a little more "me me me". Just a bit more, I promise, then I'll get back to ideas that circle around things more interesting than myself (if that's even possible).

A brief facebook comment about my being an Aries (wink wink, Kim), and alluding to my indomitable competitive spirit, led me to google "astrology Aries" (I don't keep up with astrology, although I do know that I'm about as Aries as it gets). The first result led me to a cheapo astrology site (this one, if you care) that described me WORD FOR WORD. It was so accurate that I choked up a little (right around the "crappy childhood" part). If you are obsessed with me (and who isn't?), I highly recommend the read.

Anyway, the part that always comes back to me is the competition bit. I'm really competitive. I like to win and be the best at everything. Even though I might act modest at my victories, there is a Little Asshole inside of me that does the hands-on-knees-leg-switch victory dance pretty much all the time. The Little Asshole laughs and points at others' weaknesses, waves its tiny fists at people who get in its way, and throws epic tantrums when someone else gets the job or award that I applied for. One of my biggest personal challenges is suppressing the Little Asshole. Sometimes I win, sometimes it does. I think most of my close friends know this about me.

That isn't to say that I'm one of those people who are intolerable to play games with. With Christmas holidays coming up and board games soon-to-abound, I feel that I need to air this out. I mean I don't think I'm intolerable to play games with. In MY opinion, I'm really fun to play games with. I will make you laugh while simultaneously mildly insulting you (not personally, just your strategies), I will assuage my aggression with self-deprecatory remarks in order to make you view me as harmless and light-humored, I will form alliances with you and inflate said alliance by bolstering any joke or trash-talky commentary you may provide, and then, in the sweetest, funnest way possible... I WILL CRUSH YOU

If, by some dark miracle, I don't win, I will make more self-deprecatory jokes, praise your strategic prowess, and perhaps offer you a drink. Later, once I am alone with my thoughts, drifting off into my sweet slumberland, I will plot my revenge. You got lucky, and the likelihood of it happening again is NIL-ish.

The upside to knowing this about me is that, if you ever do play against me, and if you ever DO win (phfft), your feelings of self-satisfaction at seeing me lose will make the win all the more special. See? In fact, every game should have an extreme aries. Without us, winning and losing is nothing more than a hollow, empty contest of mediocrity. Am I right Arians? Can I get a hell yeah? ... anybody? Yeah? No? Whatevs.

Aannnnywaaaay... who wants to play Settlers? Risk? Monopoly? No? That's okay, I didn't want to play anyway. I'm too busy kicking ass at a little game called LIFE. The actual game. My real life is kind of effed right now.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

skinny sexy face

While I'm on the subject of faces (and while my babies are still asleep), here's another one: it's the "skinny sexy face" employed by EVERY girl in every picture from every bar ever.

The skinny face starts simply enough: chin down. The angle has to come from above in order to accentuate the cheekbones, make the eyes seem bigger, and hide any double chin or waddle flappage. This is an easy trick, and since learning it, I'll admit that I use it, and I've ruined far less pictures with it. We are not all graced with everyday photogenic mugs, so it's good to have a way out of looking like a puffy awkward cushion face.

From that point however, bar girls have taken skinny face to a land far, far away. The chin is tucked down, and any chub under it is sucked up using highly developed back-tongue muscles. They turn their heads to an almost complete profile view, barely turning their faces and exposing their necks as much as possible. They smile without using their cheeks or eyes, moving their lips into a weird loose pout in order to make their lips look fuller and... about to kiss something? Their eyes squint ever so slightly, I think to look "fierce".

Try it. Try to smile while pouting and sucking your chin up (while tipping it down as well), then hold a camera up over your head, turn your face so you're looking at it from the corner of your eye, squint a tiny little bit, and then take a picture of yourself. Do you look like every bar girl in every picture ever? Probably. Do you also look weird and idiotic? Yes.

The best (see: worst) is when girls start using this face outside of the bar. Like, while holding babies in family photos, or in Christmas morning photos. Some girls have their skinny sexy faces so excessively practiced that if you were to pull a camera out and aim it at them, their face would instantly freeze into skinny sexy face. So much for trying even a little bit to look natural. I guess we all just gotta look fierce all the time now. Just can't be in a single picture without looking like we wanna sex you up. I mean, if you actually do wanna sex everyone up than for sure use skinny sexy face with wanton abandon, but you might also want to be remembered as a nice person with human feelings too, so maybe relax sometimes.


  During my time as an older sister of three guys and a girlfriend/wife of a few others, I've discovered that there is a face that guys make during particular times of concentration. Let's call it the mancentration face. I'm not talking about perviness either, (pervs), I'm talking about a face that's universal among guys, and as far as I can tell, is generally used unknowingly by the guys in question.

It's the face that accompanies guitar playing, 2-Unlimited-roger-rabbit-dancing, or while choreographing fight sequences by themselves. The lips are slightly pursed into a small "o", as in "oh my god I'm a wicked extreme dude right now", and their unseeing eyes are fixed directly onto your face as if to say, "you can hardly handle this," which is usually true.

I can't count the number of times I've had a guy play a guitar AT me. Not FOR me in the sweet way. Just at me. As soon as that guitar lays itself in their meaty paws, "the zone" takes over so completely that they seem to imagine my patient, forced-interest expression to actually be an audience of rabid fans. I have three musically talented brothers who have showed me their newly learned riffs many many times, and have sat in the midst of their jam sessions for hours, learning how to deflect the major-intense zone looks by playing video games. I'm not complaining necessarily, because I love my brothers and am envious of their wild talent, but the mancentration face truly abounded among them.

Same for that jumpy, "watch me switch my feet in several crazy combinations" dancing that exploded in the 90s. Oh man, the ORGIES of extreme moves that dudes who otherwise sucked at dancing would shove at any and all who were within a 3 meter radius of them. And the best is seeing the same guys break them out 10 years later (seriously, it is the best. I'm not being sarcastic). You know that those were their glory days and that flippin those bitches out might be all they've got now. Generally, I've got no problem with the moves, it's just the mancentration face that comes with it that tips it over into the embarrassing and slightly pathetic side. I get it! You have EXTREMENESS inside of you. Please do your flippity-switch-swatch-jiggle-dink moves in a direction other than my face.

Lastly, the fighting-arts routines. Lots of guys are into martial arts movies, and that's fine. I can appreciate the adrenaline surges at fantasizing oneself to be a benevolent master of crackin' heads. I've watched my fair share of these films, and they're lots of fun. Buuuuut... things change when they actually want to be that person. Not only that, but when they are too lazy or self-conscious to take real martial arts classes, and think they can self-teach themselves. Throw in a camcorder and you've got awkward and slightly dangerous movie magic. But even better is when they want to show you their new moves. This is the apex of the mancentration stare. Nunchucks flying, safety at serious risk, and that tense "o" mouth and bulging eyes pointing right at you. I'm pretty sure that what happens is, your face morphs into an evil vampire warrior gang leader, and the guy gracing you with his moves actually wishes he could kick your head in. If only! Sorry guy, it's just me! Ooop you canned yourself with a stray nunchuck. I'm going now.

I have yet to find an image that illustrates the exact face that I'm talking about, but maybe next time I'm in Riley Park I'll snap a picture of the fantasy nerds practicing their sword fights. Fingers crossed I get the shot!

Sunday, November 29, 2009

sunday diaryah #28

Teen-me from '92:

"Oct 17, 92
Dear Diary,
 Today I was supposed to be in Cardston and at a volleyball tournament, but I missed both because I was sick. I went to Katherine and Kevin's reception though, it was really fun, especially the dance afterwards. I danced with Lars 3 times, Chris twice and Michael once. I really wanted to dance more with Chris, but, I didn't know how to ask. And Jill! I'm really beginning to hate that girl! She gets on my nerves so much! First, she brags about volleyball ALL THE TIME! Second, she's fat, but SHE thinks she's SO SEXY. Third, she puts everyone down. Fourth, she always stinks and doesn't even shave her armpits, and now she's trying to take Chris away from me! I really hate her attitude! I don't know what's so special about Chris, but I just don't want to lose him! And I don't want him to fall for some slut like Jill! Oh well, I'm tired, and I have to get to church tomarrow anyway. Good night.
p.s. sweet dreams!"

"Oct 25, 92
Dear Diary,
Today I went to Svea's for supper for her and Lars's birthday. Chris was there. Yup! Yup! Yup! I really do like him, I don't exactly love him, I don't think I'm capable of love at 13. He's just so... so... special. There's something about him that makes me feel so comfy, the whole atmosphere seems to change when he walks in, he seems so carefree and understanding, and he always has that gorgeous smile on. And his glassy blue eyes, and his deep tanned skin, and his straight sandy hair, with that tint of blond above his ears. I'd really like a boyfriend like him. Someone who would walk me down the beach and talk about how life was going. Who would be really sensitive to my feelings and would understand if I ever had a mood swing or something. If only Chris were mormon.

"Nov 15, 92
Dear Diary,
Guess what? I've got bad news. I'm not in love with Chris anymore. I just kinda admire him now. I don't like anyone now. It's sort of depressing. But I've got good news! I phoned Allyson G. today! She couldn't believe I called! They thought I was in Toronto. John remembered me even! I told her I'd phone again. I feel depressed. Surprised? Well I do. I don't even know why. Well good night.

"Nov 24, 92
Dear Diary,
I officially do not like Chris anymore. Oh, as a friend he's fine, but not as a lover. There's lots of guys to choose from, I'll tell you who and why:
Brian L - cute, nice, looks so lonely, doesn't smoke or drink.
Ryan S - really nice! doesn't smoke or drink.
Colbey C - funny, cute, doesn't smoke or drink, is nice when he's himself.
Ryan H - funny, cute, nice, mormon.
Lars - funny, cute, nice, he's growing up! mormon.

Most of the guys would be better as friends though.

"Nov 28, 92
Dear Diary,
I'm in the mood to write small. It's 12:29am and I just got back from Pam's house about 10mins ago. I went past Law's and they got a new dog so I wanted to see it so I called it out and it got all excited and started whining really loud so I ran down the trail so they wouldn't see me, and it started barking and howling. Boy did I ever run fast! Today Clarkson's shot a cougar that was attacking their turkeys! Pretty weird! Well I'm really tired!
p.s. Natalie is home now
p.p.s. Chris is now out of my life."

Weird! The Chris crush has ended!? Now for the gong show of non-stop, ever-changing crushes!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

sunday diaryah #27

SUNDAY DIARYAH RETURNS!!! Yes after a nearly three month hiatus, I finally have my Sunday motivation back. Once again we will delve into my idiotic teenage brain! WHAT has my 13-year-old self been up to all these weeks? WHO is she currently totally in love with? WHY did I hate washing my hair in 1992? These mysteries may or may not be answered in the following entries (I'll go back and pick out the best ones from the last few months. And that pic is my actual diary from '92-'93):

*the page of this entry has this written at the top:
"Please close my diary, I hate it when people read my private stuff"

"August 24, 92

Dear Diary,
Boy! Have I got alot to tell you! Lots has happened this weekend! My mom went down to the temple for three days so I babysat. Audrey stayed too so I could have a little help, Pam came for 1 night too. I got this rash from David, Auntie Lorene says their the German measles. We've got this big, black stray cat, Julie named him midnight, it doesn't get along with the kitten very well. On Sunday morning Vince and Ryan D. –"

*top of diary page:
"What are you blind? I said close it!"

(entry continued) " – came and picked us up for church, and for supper we made chicken, potatoes, corn, gravey and broccoli with cheese on it. And everything worked perfect! Last night me and Pam slept in a tent in the yard, it was very cold! Today me and Pam went down to the church and watched a little volleyball, tonight I went to Vince's and watched "Wayne's World", and "Another You". "Wayne's World" was the funniest. After we just talked, I talked to – "

*top of diary page:
"Your ignoring my message aren't you? I don't know why you suddenly had an urge to read it, but, I haven't really been keeping any secrets about my life, have I?"

" – Ryan lots. I'da know, he never flirted really, he was just real nice. Me and him were playing kneel volleyball and then Svea came, and then Patricia came so we had teams. And Pamela was feeling left out so she came. After me and Ryan H. did a puppet show with cows, we sang "I don't know much but I know I love you," but no one watched. Ryan D. is nice, he never talks to me much, but he'll look at me all the time. Greg was looking at me through the movie. Probably because last time he saw me I was still that slime ball from grade 6, he was probably surprised at the change. Well, I'm tired.

p.s. tomarrow we should be going riding."

"Sept 1, 92
Dear Diary,
Sorry for not writing, I can't find the key, I had to force you open. Well school started, but last week me, Svea, and Pam went to Edmonton and I did some serious shopping! I bought a B.U.M. sweater, an ESPRIT sweater, another hooded sweater, a t-shirt, a jacket, 3 dress shirts, some dark green jeans, some blue jeans, a troll doll, some real cool sunglasses, and I still have money left over! Originally I had $252! Me and Svea are pretty good friends. At lunch hour Svea and I snuck away and she introduced me to her friends, only some though, they were Trina, Jodi, Brian L., and Ryan S. I've got a really boring teacher this year, her name is Miss Hall, she's new here and she's really stupid! She's like a sub. It feels good to be in grade 8. You feel a little more respected than a grade 6 or 7er. Lots more guys are noticing me. There's a whole bunch of new guys from Athabasca. One of them has half his head shaved and the other side is down to his shoulders. There's a smaller guy and I was walking down the hall and he stared at me, when I passed him he looked back and mumbled, "wow". Well I'm pooped!

Kay there are a bunch more good ones, so I'm going to have to update more over the next few weeks. I don't have time to type them all right now. I wonder if I'll sound as stupid when I'm 50 and I look back on what I've written now. Probably.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

I've soooo done "it"

Disclaimer: some of the content of this post is lewd and immature.

When I meet new people, especially men, I'm self-conscious about telling them that I'm a mom. Bashful even. It isn't that I'm embarrassed of my family, or that I want them to think of me as fancy-free and available. It's not that at all. It isn't even that the Phantom Mom (referred to in my last post) might possess me and cause to me embarrass myself (bubble voice: "is that a trampoline?? I haven't been on one of these in years! Here I go - AAAWWWWaaaawwwwAAAAWWWaaaawwwwAAAAWWW-" and I bounce off and land on a toddler). I'm not afraid of seeming less cool either. I'm perfectly content with my coolness, which is to say, I've spent most of my life as slightly awkward, and I now embrace it. Misread social awkwardness is the new leather jacket, so I'm fine there.

No, it has nothing to do with any of that. My reticent confessions of having kids has more to do with my distinct impression that the instant that it comes out of my mouth – the very second that my lips form the words "I have two kids" (imagine it in slow motion even), the other person is momentarily blinded by a flash of my yawning vag, a mucky babyhead bulging out like an elephant pooping a cantaloupe. The image is gone in a millisecond, and what remains is my face. My "please don't judge me" mom face. I see the flash register in their eyes – for women I might see a hint of awe or pity, but for men I see a deep, subtle glint of pure terror. They will never truly be at ease with me until they have wives and kids of their own. The yawn-vag vision is forevermore connected to my face, and yes, it embarrasses me. It's my vag, for fruck's sake!

Moms. Moms are intense creatures. This feeling of sheepishness at having my vag spotlighted during every introduction is doubled when I'm out in public with my kids. I don't mean to sound vain, but I'm a decent-looking gal. I know this. I like looking good. I really do. It makes me feel youthful, relevant, like I got my "groove" on. But then there is the grotesque phenomena of MILFs and "hot moms". A while ago, Mike told me about a conversation he'd heard between his work buddies in a mall food court. The guys were educated engineers, by all accounts bright and respectable fellows. Part of their conversation went, "I love coming to malls because I like watching all the hot moms, because you just KNOW they put out."

This naturally leads to the question of how every other mom got pregnant. Especially the ugly ones.

I've since heard a friend say (jokingly, but he was referencing guys who say it), "well she's got kids so you know she puts out". So firstly, I'm an attractive girl who is also a mom. That makes me a slut, I guess. Secondly, if my kids are around me, I'm basically screaming out to every dickbag, "HEY GUYS! I HAD SEX! TWICE!!! CHECK ME OUT!"

I've tried to think of how this position might empower me. I might approach random strangers and say, "excuse me, have you ever had... SEX?! Oh ya? PROVE IT. I GOT TWO KIDS, BEEOTCH!!!" Then I would back away from them aggressively, doing gangster signs at my crotch. Then I would walk through downtown pretending to dance to the "let's get it started" song. Then I'd stop for a decaf chai latte. Perfect day.

Of course, the plus side is that no matter what all the dicks think of me, they sense my grizzly bear mama-defensiveness and would never get all up in my face (I'm still in gangster mode from the last paragraph). The yawn-vag flash is a potent safeguard, but also, moms are loco. Don't mess with us hombre, or we'll wreck you in a seriously non-jilarious way.

ps. if I ever do mom-stand-up, I will use this. Totally ©sarahbacon beeotches.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

the ghost of mommies past...

I am a haunted woman. Ever since becoming a mother, a specter has followed me, trailing my every mommy-step and clucking at every mommy-move I make.

She is in her mid 40's, chubby, frizzy hair, with ill-fitting stretch pants accentuating her dimply thighs. She wears baggy sweatshirts as a uniform, occasionally wears glasses, earnestly reads Harlequins and knows every Disney princess song off by heart. Her voice sounds as though she has a bubble permanently caught in her throat, and her taunting wraith-calls include things like, "cheesecake is the devil's desseeerrrrrrrt," but mainly she makes a drawn-out "aaaawwwwAAAWWWaaaawwww" sound. She is the doughy pheonix risen from the ashes of a thousand America's Funniest Home Videos segments.

Despite her unintentionally hilarious antics, this woman terrifies me. Somehow, every awkward bounce off of her dirtbike, every broken rope-swing, every fall down a playground slide resulting in several squashed toddlers – it has all embedded itself into my consciousness. It has become the woman I fear most. The woman who I never want to become. The Mom.

She's harmless, really. Keep her away from wedding dances, of course. And don't let her play baseball. Aside from her complete disconnection from all things that involve agility or dexterity and her incessant blurts about how many asses she'll have if she eats another cookie, she means well.

My mom wasn't like her. Neither were my aunts. I don't know why she follows me. She affects so much of how I see myself now, and also how I judge other moms. So many moms are so defeated-looking. Slovenly, completely out of shape, all hints of ambition drained away. Sexless, bored, insisting that staying at home with the kids is a "full-time job". I can see it being super busy with more than two, but honestly, being a SAHM is booooorring if you don't have anything else going on in your life. We don't have to iron, we don't have to haul water, we don't have to make or mend clothes, we don't have to hand-wash anything, we have microwaves and easy meals, we have over-the-counter quick fixes for little ailments, most moms have cars for zipping around in, we don't have gardens to tend, weeds to pull, laundry to hang, cows to milk...

We have a bit of vacuuming and dusting to do, maybe some dishes to wash (or just rinse and load in the dishwasher), kids to feed and bathe, but other than that... what is so "full-time" about this lifestyle? What the hell do we do all day???

Eat. Shop. Watch TV. Facebook. This is the life that I dread. It creates The Mom who I abhor. The stigma of this lazy lady flutters around me every time I tell someone new that I'm a mom, and I smell it wafting around me when I'm hanging out with childless friends. When I'm at home I fill as much head space as possible with projects, ideas and plans. The internet is my guilty indulgence; I need it for business and feeling social, but it also swallows up a lot of time that could be better spent. Going outside daily is mega important. Reading is the only leisure activity that doesn't make me feel guilty. Keeping as busy as possible prevents my mind from straying to over snacking and idle money-spending, or just becoming an extremely uninteresting person. I'm sure that if I lose my ambition I'll lose myself, and one of the primary reasons why we're stopping at two kids is so that I'll always have room for my own time and projects. The thought of having every second of my day consumed with tending to kid stuff repels me. I don't think I could be a happy mom with more than two. I can't be an awesome mom unless I'm feeling like an awesome me first.

Still though, that ridiculous phantom of The Mom loiters up in my head. I refer to her almost every day in one way or another, usually through mildly self-depreciating jokes. I love being a mother, but I dread becoming that Mom.

Monday, November 9, 2009

I am the wind beneath my wings


As a follow-up of my last post: yes, things are getting easier. I'm getting more sleep and feeling more energized, which leads to my list of a million things that I want to do ASAP. It's been so long since I've had energy and motivation that I'm getting ahead of myself with all my plans. In reality, I can't really take on much yet, and probably shouldn't until the new year at least. My time at home right now still fluctuates between feeling good and feeling exhausted, and back when I had Vera, it was at this point that I piled so many satellite projects onto myself that I ended up dealing with a few major breakdowns.

BUT, that said, there's still tons that I want to do in the new year. Here they are, in no particky order:

- I want to volunteer at the Loose Moose improv theatre. Yup. I want to dip and wiggle my toes into the improv and comedy community. I love funny people. I love that most of them are angry, cynical assholes just like me, but that they can make people pee themselves laughing. I've written skits and stand-up routines since I was a teenager, and I think I've got something to contribute to the comedy community. Nerdy as that makes me. I also think that I'd be good at it, and most of my friends know that I love performing, so there you go.

- I want to dedicate muchos time to Pith Gallery. I love the project and want to pump it full of awesomeness.

- I want to start writing regularly again. Whether this is art writing or fun writing, I haven't decided. Whichever my life can accommodate, I guess. I've got a long list of ideas, short stories, fun premises, and plans for my fictional writing, starting with getting a really hilarious sci-fi romance novel published through Harlequin. Aim for the stars. That's me.

- I want to go back to school for Public Relations. I want to be a PR consultant, focused on Artist-Run Centers, and working within the arts. I want the Calgary public to get art, dammit!! I want to break down those frikking walls of exclusivity and ignorance and convince people that anyone can get contemporary art, and that it's important. I realized that this has been the driving force behind everything I've done since art school, even my artwork. I think maybe it's my calling. Annnnnd it'd be nice to have a profession that paid decent, but that's secondary.

- I want to open a bakery. Whoa! Left field! This is more my "I quit art" plan, aka: my retirement plan. I've wanted to do it since I went to baking school, and I've totally nailed my whole bakery concept, from product to branding. Trust me, it would be the cutest little place ever. Only thing is that I'm not sure I'm up for the whole process of starting a business, much less all the work that follows. I don't know if I want to be a "real" baker again. Plus my business skills are basically nil. Any business person out there want to open a crazy cute bakery with me? I'll do recipes and concept, you do business, and we'll hire everyone else, sound good? Oh, and I'll need a seriously huge chunk of cash. Thanks!

- I want a vacation. Who wouldn't after accomplishing so many awesome things?

So yeah, these are the things fluttering around in my brain as I sit at home feeding little Dot and reading to sweet Vera. Being a mom is super, don't get me wrong, but I've got a mountain of stuff to do. Yet another reason why stopping at two is so important to me. Call me selfish, but I want to be able to give myself to my kids without feeling like I'm missing out on all the fun plans I've made for myself. So two it is. I'll back in full swing by two years, and it'll be awesome.

Monday, October 19, 2009

the turtle power Secret

Last night I dreamed that I was back at church but the congregation was watching a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie instead of the boring conference stuff. I woke up thinking, "if that happened, maybe I would go back".

I don't think about religion very often anymore, and it's pretty nice to be free of the deeply buried anxiety that the subject brings. I'm currently reading The Yiddish Policemen's Union which makes me think of Judaism (great book too if you can wade through the yiddish and the initial few chapters), and we've been watching season 5 of X-Files which makes me think of Catholicism, but otherwise it isn't on my mind much. At least, not in the "I wonder if I'm doomed or not" kind of way.

I had a point, but I've forgotten it. I'm a bit sleep-deprived and my babies are requesting my attention. I guess I'm just really pleased with how my subconscious seems to be functioning right now. In the light of Apocalyptomania and weather extremes that I personally find unnerving, it's great to know that, deep down, my brain just really wants to see a remake of TMNT.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Dear Sammy Lord

Hi Sammy,

Let's talk. I understand that your present circumstances make it difficult for you to come to my house to pick up my washer and dryer. I also understand that not everyone can pay cash (especially when you can't come in person for the pick-up). Things are hard all 'round, what with these difficult economic times. I'm sure Nigeria is no exception.

But really, you don't need to write 500 word paragraphs explaining your situation to me. I answered your first inquiry politely and redirected you to the ad, and I don't really understand how that could have led to an extensive letter detailing the complicated conditions under which you would like to acquire my washer and dryer. Honestly, they're just a plain second-hand set, and I thought "cash and pick-up only" was pretty clear. Nothing personal, of course. Sorry if I've hurt your feelings, as you seemed to have put so much effort into your tale of "washer and dryer neediness".

I can only imagine why you need them so badly. Have yours broken? Are there no replacements where you are? Do you urgently need to wash a load of soiled pants and simply have no alternatives? Trust me, you have my sympathies, but unfortunately not my money. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that I really don't trust you.

On the upside, you have a terrific name, and I will keep it in mind for the next time I'm writing a story.

Please don't take my tone as accusatory or paranoid. We all know that Kijiji is a safe and and trustful place for the selling of merchandise. And rest assured, I don't think that you're a scam artist. There is certainly no art in what you do.


Wednesday, August 19, 2009

tree puns!


My brothers and our friend used to make lots of home movies. Once there was a fighting scene where a guy is getting beat up by the hero, and they were outside so the hero was using lines that involved trees ("maybe you should get in touch with your roots", etc). Yesterday while I was in the shower (where I get all of my most brilliant ideas), I started imagining all the great tree puns that could be used if a person were beating up another person in a forest or while around a bunch of trees.

Keep in mind that these would be best used during an exceptionally long, and mostly one-sided fight. Basically the victor is just stretching the fight out for pun purposes:

- "Wow, I'm really kicking your Ash!"
- "Don't give me any Sass(afrass)!"
- "Your mother should've named you Spruce, but then, you were never very Poplar!"
- "You want me to stop? Well Maple I will and Maple I won't!"
- "Holly moly! You're a wimp!"
- "You haven't had enough? Oak-ey dokey!"
- "You'll have pines and needles for weeks after this!"
- "You're such a pussy (willow)!"
- "You've got Alder wrong moves!"
- "Isn't life a Beech?"
- "It's also kind of a Birch!"
- "I'm sorry, I'm just having a hard time Cypress-ing my rage!"
- "Right in the Buckeye!"
- "You're gross and probably have Dutch Elm Disease!"

Kay that last one wasn't a pun, but the fighter guy ran out of things to say. So now you're fully equipped for the next time you are beating someone up among a bunch of trees. YOU'RE WELCOME.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

sunday diaryah #26

I can't believe we're already edging closer to mid-August. Time hey? It passes!

Speaking of time, let's go BACK IN IT!

"August 11, 92
Dear Diary,
Kyla's having her birthday party tomarrow, and me, Pam and Svea are going to buy her a hammock because she wants one really bad and she's been trying to save up her money for one. And we're going to go riding tomarrow too. Pam and Svea made her a flower pot cake while I occupied Kyla for a while so she wouldn't suspect anything. We're making her a treasure hunt for her to find her presents.
P.S. I still like Chris."

"August 13, 92
Dear Diary,
Last night I finally saw Chris's house! He's got a long drive-way! I still really like him! Well today there was a dance at the church that Kevin and Katherine held and Caroline L. kicked all the 12-13 year olds out! Everyone was mad. Chris was even there! Well, I'm very tired.
P.S. I figured out how to use tampons today!"

On that note... happy Sunday?

Monday, August 3, 2009

definitely too soon. sorry.

Ever since I found out that Kevin Costner was scheduled to play right before the storm chaos at the Big Valley Jamboree, I've had something that I need to get off of my chest...

I'm not a bad person. I simply have a mind that is naturally and acutely attracted to possible funniness. I have a "what if" scenario rolling through my mind, and in no way is my intent to demean the tragedies that occurred the day of the storm. That storm was terrifying and awful and it's depressing to think about. My re-imagined scenario rewinds the events of that day and rewrites them without tragedy – only love. And Kevin Costner.

It goes a little somethin', a-like this:

Due to the scheduled band's lead singer losing his will to live, Kevin Costner and his band are bumped up one set, and are therefore playing when the thick of the storm blows in. Naturally, every middle-aged rural Alberta mom is pressed up to the front, and the steamy anticipation of their crowd section is almost more distracting than the 100km winds stirring up nearby. When the storm suddenly rages and the stage collapses, the women glow with a surge of "save-Kevin-Costner" inspired adrenaline, and lift it before anyone is seriously injured. Unfortunately, Mr. Costner is struck by a 10lb pair of panties, knocked unconscious, and is at risk of being trampled in the pandemonium of the terrified, non-housewife section of the crowd.

Just when a 5' amp teeters precariously above his head, a busty, permed, and big-banged 40-something woman wearing an oversized Dances with Wolves t-shirt lifts Costner from the debris and begins carrying him away from harm. At the exact same moment, a panicked concert-goer trips on the stage, and a copy of Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You flies from her 8-ball jacket and lands miraculously in an open tape deck, which the wind then blows closed and a flying rock presses the play button, initiating the song over the loud speakers. News cameras zoom in on Glenda carrying Costner out of harm's way, but due to wind damage, the cameras pick up the video in slow-motion (the sound is fine though), and the world sees the scene live. There is not a dry eye in the rural midwest.

Walking hastily with the slowly recovering Costner in her arms, Glenda heads to the nearest field to perform extensive mouth-to-mouth-to-unmentionables on her hero before he is too alert to resist. Her half-noble plan is thwarted, however, when a funnel cloud dips out of the sky and lifts them both high into the clouds.

During the half-hour that Costner and Glenda are floating through the fantastical heavens, a spark of understanding develops between them when they realize that, despite their incompatible social status and life experiences, they aren't so different (they are both human, after all). Eventually they are gently dropped into the middle of a backyard tupperware party where Costner, inspired by his dramatic journey, buys the entire lot of tupperware. Ambrosia salad for all!!

Costner quickly realizes that he prefers the quiet rural life, and he settles with Glenda in a nearby garden shed. They get a dog and spend many quiet years basking in the simplicity of the peaceful suburbanized-countryside. Eventually, Glenda gets pregnant, and Costner hastily moves back to Hollywood. A feature film is made from Costner's memoirs of the experience, entitled: Waterworld 2: TORNADOS.

So yeah, that's the story that has been running through my brain making me feel bad. Normally I would divulge it with a bit more tact; say, at the pub after three pints. Unfortunately, I am at home and on anti-social-pregs-time, so I have nowhere to vent such inappropriateness other than to myself, Mike, and whoever reads this. Please don't judge me too harshly, in my head it was really funny.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

sunday diaryah # 25

Coincidentally, my journal entries were sparser during the summer as well, so you haven't missed much.

"July 12, 92
Dear Diary,
Well, family camp is over, it was pretty fun! I went water-skiing and I made it up on my first try! I also went tubing! That was really fun. When we first got there Pam wouldn't even talk to me! And she was real snappy. I think she likes Chris and she's really jealous because Chris pays more attention to me than her.* Kyla and Amanda say he likes me, but I'm not really sure. Kyla likes him too now, but I don't really mind so much. I love him, it's for sure now. Pretty soon regional camp will be coming up. We have to be at Tanya's house at 4:30 in the morning! (on tuesday) And then we have to do a two mile hike with our luggage after a six hour drive in a stuffy bus! Real fun huh?
Too in love for words,

*Sorry Pam!

"July 26, 92
Dear Diary,
Yesterday we celebrated Pioneer and Canada Day. It was fun! After everything was over me, Pam, Nat, Audrey, Quenton, Shawn, and a bunch of little kids played baseball and I hit two home runs!* I really think Quenton likes me. He always looks at me ever since the baseball game. Well gotta go!

*Looks like we celebrated Canada Day a little late... also not meaning to brag, but as I've mentioned before, I possessed the freak talent of brute strength as a teen (this also played into my obsession with superheroes which I don't write about). I could throw a baseball across a field, hit balls out of the park, torpedo volleyballs into opposite gym walls, and execute (legal) bloody noses during soccer matches. I used to go out by myself to the church field and hit baseballs as far as I could. It was fun and I miss it. I can still throw and hit better than most guys, but I'm out of practice, and way more likely to hurt myself. Does anyone in Calgary play baseball for fun? I'd love to join (once I'm not pregs).

"August 3, 92
Dear Diary,
Well, today Pam, Kyla and I butchered all the broiler chickens!* It was neat! And after we went to French Bay for the ward picnic. I came back at 10:00 and had a big bubble bath! It was so nice! After I washed my hair.
Very clean, but tired,
(written in bubble letters)"

*Yes, I've butchered chickens! We didn't kill them (my Aunt did), but we did every thing else. It's pretty easy, so if anyone ever needs a teammate in a survival situation, I might be able to remember how to do it. Maybe. Probably not.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

there's lots in a name

I used to know a boy named Enos (pronounced EENIS). The name comes from mormon scripture, and I'm assuming its use was justified by the hero's exceptional character. I'm not mentioning it to make fun of the boy, as some of my facebook/e-friends know this person as well. But the name... EENIS.

Naming a child is a big deal, and sometimes, just when you think you've landed the perfect name, you realize that it is an elementary school taunting-magnet. For example, our last name is Bacon, so we try to avoid other food-ish names as well. Olive is out. Same with Eaton. As is Makin (haha). Most names are likely harmless enough, but you just never know what kids will latch on to, and if your child somehow stands out already in any way (whether through their brilliance or their quirks that you love so much), an unfortunate name will add a few extra tons of teasing. One of the last things a parent wants to think about is their kid getting hassled in school, so if you can get them off to a good start with a nice safe name, it's best to try. Also, you don't want the child's name to hint at how nerdy you as a parent may or may not be. For example, the other day a nerd dad at the park called to his son, "come on, Anakin!" Same goes for any name from LOTR. Arwen especially, but I've heard of a kid named Strider too. Seriously. What if the kid had walking problems?

Other bad names:

Additionally, if your last name could also be a first name, don't name your child the matching first name. Names that are also brand names are forbidden. As mentioned with the Star Wars and LOTR names, any name that is the same unique name as a popular celebrity or TV character is best to avoid. I also have a rule against naming children the shortened version of a name. For example, if you like the name Robbie, please name your child Robert and then use Robbie. Or if you love the name Sammy, use Samantha or Samuel. Don't just legally give them the shortened version, because what if they want to be a lawyer someday? Ensuring that a little dignity travels with the name is a good idea. I'm also against using trendy names like Emma, as I think my child deserves a name as unique and beautiful as they are (but not so unique that it's annoying).

But Enos. Enos. That's just handing every child your son will ever meet an entire artillery's worth of teasing and insults. Not quite penis, but then not quite anus, it is a 5th grader's dream come true. And as junior high memory serves, this boy was teased frequently and cruelly. Coming from an uber-religious family who ran a sheep farm didn't help, I'm sure, but this kid went through some serious taunting hell. He was an explosive rager, and he was also farm-boy strong, so when he flipped out he'd literally flip out, tossing his desk into the air and punching lockers on his way down the hallway. When he caught the ball in football, no one bothered to stop him, because he was a tank of infuriation. As far as I know, he's fine now, but really, that name cost him.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009


It's summer vacation and I'm too lazy to think about bigger things, but this made me chuckle LIKE CRAZY SO HARD. I was almost LOLing, except that I don't believe in LOLing. I'm of the "haha" class. Anyway, the link is here, but I'm copy-pasting the page that was the most hilarious (the text is by the guys who originally blogged it):

Dave: I thought we were doing a thing about bad tattoos, not the greatest tattoo.
Zack: Facts about the dude with this tattoo: never wears a shirt, walks backwards everywhere, sees shit through the bear face's eyes.
Dave: Is never fucked with; basically never stops yelling.
Zack: Not all that muscular, but draws immeasurable physical and sexual strength from the tattoo.
Dave: This isn't even a tattoo, a shaman just rubbed a hot rock all over his back and this is what happened.
Zack: It was like metaphysical paint-by-numbers. Smoked some peyote, saw infinity, bear on back.
Dave: Now carries spirit of Yellbear within him; uses it to get out of parking tickets.
Dave: Sir, this is a tow-away zo-- RRUUUHHHHHH!
Zack: The traffic cop just shrinks smaller and smaller until he turns into a tiny tattoo that finally disappears into the bear's flared nostril.
Dave: Yellbear also uses this power to suck in beers.
Zack: No matter how many beers it drinks, Yellbear's owner doesn't get fatter, Yellbear just gets more powerful.
Dave: Walks into Safeway... RRRRUUHHHHHH... frozen food section is now completely out of Totino's Pizza Rolls.
Zack: Drives past Taco Bell....RRRRRRRRRUHHHHHHHH...passenger seat piled with sacks full of chili cheese burritos.
Zack: Pulls up at a light next to some pretty girls...RRRRRRRUHHHHHHHHH...girls flushed, satisfied.
Dave: Uh oh, it's 5:30, Yellbear missed Cops! RRRRUUUUUUUHHH! Another episode!
Zack: That's not really a power. I think Raiders fan or die 4 u could conjure up more cops episodes.
Dave: In certain situations, whether or not it's a power isn't relevant.
Zack: Man, this sucks. Now I really badly want some pizza rolls and a cops marathon.
Dave: You have to earn that shit with a spirit quest, or else earn it by getting really drunk and calculating that it's cheaper to pass out in the 24-hour tattoo parlor than in the hotel.
Zack: I would pass out at a Raiders game wearing a Chiefs jersey if it meant I would wake up from my coma in six weeks with a yellbear to call my own.
Dave: RRRRUUUHHHHH! Bob Barker tattoo turns into big titty angel.
Zack: RRRRRRUUUUUHHHHH! Departed wife skeletonizes.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

I heart nerdening

I blogged about nerd stuff forever ago, but I feel there is a bit more to be said on the subject. First off, let me be clear that I admire and appreciate many many nerds. I think that having a solid nerd streak balances a person out wonderfully, and I'd way rather be stranded on a desert island with a bunch of nerds than a bunch of coolios.

If I were single, I would for sure prospect comic book stores and conventions for potential hunks. Why the hell, you ask? Several reasons: 1) I like going to those places anyway. 2) The few fellows who are not wearing silk dragon shirts, are not bloated with cheeto stains, and are not in costume of any kind, are very likely cool dudes. Chances are, they are in a creative line of work, are funny, and don't have a girlfriend. 3) If you are a cute, fashionable girl browsing one of these places, guaranteed you will be a minority. Competition = nil. You are also automatic boner material; listen carefully when you make your entrance... hear that "schwing" sound? That's power, m'dear.

I'm not a full-on nerd, mind you. I'm what I like to call a "hybri-nerd". I have a strong element of nerd in me that I embrace and nurture whenever possible. However, while I have no problem with occasional "Settlers" sessions, being in-the-know about the latest card games, losing myself in 10 hour Zelda sittings, watching any nerd TV series, spending spare cash on graphic novels, and getting excited when comic book/sci-fi movies come out, there are some lines that must not be crossed. If one wishes to maintain any semblance of social dexterity there are a few rules that must be followed:

1. One must never dress in full costume as one's avatar or obscure fantasy character. This should not even be attempted ironically, as the purpose of most ironic costumes is that there will be at least one other person who thinks your costume is kind of funny. Telling people that you're dressed as "Volrath" isn't going to impress anybody. At all. And FYI, I googled "Magic the Gathering" to find that name, so don't go pinning extreme nerdness on me.

2. One must never carry their strongest Gathering card in one's pocket as "street cred", or "just in case". Same with any other fantasy cards.

3. One must never use a screenname or a handle that includes "lord", "overlord", "prince", "liege", "queen", "empress", "omega", "alpha", any word for "devil", or any variation of those words. The only exception is a handle so over-the-top that it is, in fact, amazing. Ie: "LordInfernoOmegaQuake". And that one isn't even that good. Screennames and costumes work in similar ways. If you're participating in regular forums or on regular social-networking type sites, NEVER emulate your avatar or fav character. Trust me, it's lame.

4. One must never, ever, wear a long black trenchcoat. Never. This is the cardinal indication that you have completely lost touch with reality, and that you are terrible at every conversation ever. Wearing matrix sunglasses triples this impression, clunky goth boots also. Carrying a crazy stupid knife around confirms that you are psychotic and your mind has rotted in its delusional and extremely sad fantasy casing. Also, if you think you are a vampire, you are an idiot.

Other areas where one might be treading thin nerd-ice are:

- excessive and over-enthusiastic use of accents, especially the Scottish accent. Every nerd can (or thinks they can) do a Scottish accent. I hate it. The only time I've ever thought it was funny was in The Arbour Lake Sghool's Teenage Scottish Ninja Turtles. Otherwise it becomes a tedious exercise in, "haha... yeah...". And god help you if there is more than one nerd present. This leads to an "accent jam", which can last for hours and cause seizures.

- over-quoting So I Married an Axe Murderer (or any Mike Myers movie, due to the descent into Scottish accent hell), and Monty Python. I'm a Python fan, but we all are. Quoting it isn't funny anymore, unless executed subtly and without the expectation of acknowledgment. Everyone can quote Python, and most quote them terribly. The people who can quote them well are the ones who will quote the entire skits in concession whether you are listening or not. Again, if there are more than one of these types present, find the nearest exit and RUN.

- dedicating more than one evening a week to gaming. This means that your friends invite you to go out and you say, "uh... I think I'm gonna just stay home and chill out tonight", and then you spend the night signed-in to some "second life" thing and play 'till daylight. A brief spell is forgivable, but if this becomes an ongoing pattern, beware: you are sinking into a sludge of lameness. Also, attending a tournament is basically stabbing your social life repeatedly until it is a pile of pizza boxes and Red Bull cans next to your computer. If this is something you feel you must do, never speak of it outside of the designated tourney boundaries. It's basically like admitting you wear ladies underpants. Or for the ladies, it's like admitting you still douche.

- LARPing. The only possible exception (and this is something that I actually want to do) would be to show up to a LARP session in some kind of garb that fully contradicts the LARP session in play. Like, a civil war costume. Or a straight-up mermaid with no powers. Or Aragorn. Or an elephant. Or pikachu. How hard would it be to be exiled by the exiles? I have no doubt that LARPing is actually really fun, and maybe with the right group of friends and the right combination of hilarious costumes it would be awesome. Such circumstances are pretty slim though, so best to steer clear.


I used to nanny a couple of kids, and the one girl was OBSESSED with Pokémon. We did poké-card-battles pretty much every day, and when we'd play outside she'd insist on re-enacting Pokémon. We used frisbees as pokéballs, and I can still hear her lispy voice screaming "BULBASAUR!!". One day we came across an old 80s music cassette, and she became fixated on Gowan's "A Criminal Mind". She listened to it over and over, and then while I was making dinner I heard her in her room singing it except replacing "criminal mind" with "pokémon mind". Something about it made me think, "she's gonna be okay." Such a little nerd, but so sweet. I heart nerds.

Sunday, July 5, 2009

sunday diaryah #24

"July 4, 92
Dear Diary,
Well, two nights ago Chris, Lars, Svea, Pam, Marcia, Kyla, Patricia, Sam and I all played capture the flag and afterwards we all slept under the stars. The next day we all went to the cabin and Svea and Pam wrote Sarah (Heart) Chris all over the wall. And Pam told him I liked him! BUT... I think he likes me a little because at Sam's when we were playing football he always passed it to me and he did what ever I told him to do. I REALLY like him now! I think Nat's really jealous! Oh ya! Today Looses came down. I'm excited about family camp!
Really really really Lovesick,

Interesting how, as a teenager, having a boy do whatever you tell them to is an indication of how much he likes you. Is that how it really worked? Does it still work that way? Am I just an extremely bossy person?

Also, I'm currently anticipating another "Family Camp" this month, although now they are officially reunions since my Grandmother's 8 children have all had between 5-8 kids, who in turn have almost all had kids. The Looses are a BIG family.

Anyway the diary entries are a bit sparser due to all the summertime activity, so I'll save the next one.

Have a good Sunday!

Friday, July 3, 2009

the truth is under there

You: Under where?


I've been watching X-Files lately. I had never really watched it in the 90s since we didn't have channels then, so it's all pretty new to me. Season 1 was okay, and most of the episodes that I had seen were from then. Season 2 was a little funner, but Season 3 is currently blowing my mind. I'm positive it'll get more awesome at least up to Season 6.

The writing is sooooo good! And David Duchovny is soooo hunky (and a sex-addict to boot! swish!). And their phones are sooooo big. In fact, all of their technology seems decades old (oh wait, it is. waaaaah), like, they make so many phone calls, and they FAX. Weird! And their cars still have hard edges! And their autopsies don't involve super extreme CGI interior bullet re-enactments and rib cage explosions. Half the time we catch just a glimpse of their victims, and that's plenty.

Granted, a lot of the show's atmosphere relies a little too heavily on flashlights in the dark (those guys must have batman-like flashlight utility belts – there's enough room in their gigantic shoulder-padded overcoats), and when the show tells you that the agents are somewhere in Virginia, it's laughingly obvious that they are in B.C. (not a lot of bright blue skies for the first few Seasons), but otherwise I'm in awe of how clever and fun the series is.

And I don't mean to waste too much time on complaining, but it really punctuates why that recent show Fringe suck suck SUCKS. What a total X-Files rip-off failure! Where Mulder and Scully investigate "out there" yet maybe-plausible phenomena and uncover various military and government conspiracies (that are totally fun to buy into), the Fringe characters bumble through the most random, sensational and incredulous storylines. At least they did the last time I watched it. Maybe it's gotten better, but I doubt it. Basically a Fringe storyline goes like this:

Olivia: "This case seems to involve several head explosions. By my monotone delivery I'm obviously deeply concerned."

Walter (while drinking root beer float, so wacky!): "I've seen this before. It was caused by myself and a herd of unicorns. If we borrow a super flashy ray-gun from that creepy pharmaceutical company and shine it inside the corpse's butts, we should be able to see the unicorn's last thoughts and then track it to it's cave."

Peter: "Waaaalteeeer! Just because you were right about those tree nymphs and every other thing you've ever said, your theory is crazy. Also, I'm a jaded free spirit genius and I have bad dad issues and YOU'RE my DAD."

Olivia: "We should maaaaybe try to find the unicorn? Let's ask Broyles."

Broyles (from nowhere): "You mean this unicorn?" (slaps a mug shot of a grizzled-looking unicorn on the table).

Peter: "Wow, once again you have the exact files we're looking for."

Olivia: "Let's go borrow that ray-gun. Collect as many of these butts as you can. We'll meet back at that lab at Harvard that they're letting us use for some reason."

Okay I'm done. That was fun.

Back to X-Files: ALIENS! Sooooo many aliens! Remember when everyone was nuts about aliens? Back in Cherry Grove (rural north-eastern Alberta where my mom's family is from) there were plenty of inexplicable UFO stories. A bright light and the sound of a tractor trailer speeding towards a house in the middle of nowhere, objects flying over cars, causing the car to stall completely... the usual. My Grandfather, who was a brilliant, honest, and all-round amazing man, apparently saw a UFO near my Grandparent's farm. The most disturbing story though, is one that I only heard recently. A couple of years ago, during a Christmas family get-together, a family member (I won't say who exactly, in case she doesn't want to be pinned as cuckoo) told us a story about seeing an alien. She was young, maybe four or five, and she was playing outside by herself. She kicked something into a culvert, and when she went to look for it, she saw a figure hiding inside the culvert, on its belly, crouched with its arms bent out on either side. It saw her and made some kind of hissing noise, and she ran away crying. When she told her family what she had seen, she could only describe it as a "stick man", and was told that she had imagined something. It should be noted that this was well before aliens became a popular issue, she lived in a very rural area, and she had never seen any images of an alien. What she had seen stuck in her mind though, and years later, while wandering in a library with us kids, she saw the book "Communion: A True Story", and thought, that's my stick man.

Anyway, because I trust this person and know her to be honest, and also because she only just told us the story, I believe it in a unsettling kind of way. It gives me the heebie-jeebies.

So ya. ALIENS. Weird. And X-Files. Fun!

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

not into the hoff, man

Last night while falling asleep I came to the satisfying realization that I don't like Philip Seymour Hoffman. I do like his films, however. Aside from soooo many bit parts (he was in Scent of a Woman???), I really liked him in The Big Lebowski (which was a bit part too I guess), and Punch Drunk Love (another small part). He was undeniably great in the bleak and depressing Capote as well.

I loooooooved Synecdoche, New York. It was easily my favorite film of the last few years. Total mindgasm. I love Charlie Kaufman. It was that film that made me not like the P.S. Hoff though. I got tired of his schtick really quickly, and felt that his part could have been played more successfully by various other actors (hell, even Nick Cage. Remember Adaptation? Part of why I loved that film was the left-field casting of him. He was perfect). What is Pshoff's schtick, you ask? It's the sad, bloated, red-faced, over-emotional, spazz-out, "complicated" dude that he seems to prefer playing these days. I get it, man. You can cry on a dime. I get that you are a "normal" pudgy actor with "abnormal" acting ranges. I can't help it that when I see you act the only image that comes to mind is a pig squealing. Harsh, I know.

If you don't believe me, watch Magnolia, Owning Mahowny, Doubt, and Synecdoche. Doubt was another major turn-off for me, since the dialogue basically consisted of him and Merryl Streep out-oscar-shouting each other. Annoying.

Anyway, just thought I'd get that off my chest. Also, we watched the weirdest Van Damme movie last night, JCVD. Van Damme plays himself as a pathetic "washed-up" actor who gets caught in the middle of a bank heist. The middle of the film pauses for a desperate and personal monologue by Van Damme, begging for understanding and compassion from the media and the public. It was a very weird viewing experience, and I still can't decide if I liked it or not. We were also eating McDonald's while watching it (we eat that stuff maybe once a year), and I've subconsciously linked the two things together now. Like, it was nice to settle-down into, and at first it seemed delicious, but then it kind of just tasted like cardboard, and then kind of like garbage, and afterwards I felt kind of satisfied, but also very conflicted, and kind of sick. I can't say the movie was exactly like that, but that was the unfortunate experience anyway.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009


If there was one sound effect that I could will into everyday real life sounds, it would be the "record-scratch" sound. For all those occasions when things are going along just fine and then something INCREDULOUS happens, there is really no better defining sound. Maybe I don't listen to enough mainstream radio and annoying dj's, but I think the record-scratch is seriously, even critically, underused.

For example:
Gerald: "Hey Chuck! It's Friday! Shut the desk down and get yerself a beer!"
Chuck: "Haha, I gotta work late, but drink one for me okay?"
Gerald: "Hahahaha! Okay buddy! And I'll do you one better, I'll screw a dude for you!" -*record scratch*-

Awkward silence.

Chuck: "Gerry, I'm not gay."
Gerald: "Oh. Welp, see you Monday!"

Granted, that isn't the best example, but it was the first one I could think of. Businessmen: always good for a laugh.

I'd also like to see a conversation filled with incredulous drink spews, double-takes, SINGLE-takes (more potent than the double-take, invented by my brother Matt), surprised choking, lots of saying "SAY WHAAAAAAAT?", and of course, record scratch sound effects. It could eventually degrade into pure nonsensical slapstick with various irrelevant sound effects, but it would have to be a slow build, else the brilliance would be lost. And rest assured, there would be brilliance.

Brilliant like the sun after a million farts. *RECORD-SCRATCH* SAY WHAAAAAAAT?

I dunno.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

sunday diaryah #23

"June 22, 92
Dear Diary,
I didn't have to go to school because I finished Math early so I went fishing with Laws. We caught 9 fish and I caught one! Heather was real upset because she never got one. Lan was really aggravating because he'd yell and scream over the dumbest things! I have my science test tomarrow and I haven't even studied!

"June 26, 92
Dear Diary,
Well I passed all my tests and today school officially ends! Yesterday Sam, Pam, Me, and Little John went to French Bay, it was pretty fun. Chris, Lars, and Svea went fishing so, of course Chris was at their house. I finally gave him the mallard! He really seemed to like it! Nat is really mad at Pam and I, we're not very good friends anymore. A whole bunch of us except Nat, Amanda and Sarah L. went to the lake today. It was cold but we went swimming anyway. I swam with shorts and a bathing suit on, and when I took off my shirt so only my bathing suit and shorts showed, Chris would keep looking at me, he even followed me a bit when we were in the water. I think he might like me a bit. But the only thing is that Pat flirts with him like crazy! It makes me sick! After the beach everyone came over and we watched "KUFFS", it was pretty good! Well, it's 1:30 so, I better got to bed.
Lovey Dovey,
P.S. Ryan was flirting with me like crazy!"

"June 29, 92
Dear Diary,
Well, did I tell you I finally got rabbits and chickens? Well me and Pam did. On Saturday we got two black and white striped chickens and four white rabbits! And today we got 13 white chickens! They're really ugly, because they're bred for meat. Nat didn't know until today though. Family camp is coming up this coming Monday! I'm real excited!
P.S. I think Ryan likes me.
P.P.S. I loooooove Chris!"

"June 30, 92
Dear Diary,
Lybberts got here today. And Pam's acting like a real big snob towards me. She says Chris is a jerk but that's just because he doesn't do what she wants. Today I went with Sam to the Canada Day fireworks they were pretty good. Gail and Amanda will be coming on Saturday.
Very Sleepy,

So much more gossip to come! Sorry if you're in these entries! I was thirteeeeeeeeeennn!

Friday, June 26, 2009

bye mj

I didn't actually dress as Michael Jackson yesterday or today (this is from a few Halloween's ago). I'd wear my cheapo cloth Thriller jacket but it isn't suited for maternity (like every other awesome article of clothing that I have).

What can I say that hasn't already been said a million times on facebook (literally)? Even though it's totally old news at this point, it still feels weird that Michael Jackson is dead. Weirder than when he was alive, if you can believe it. As crazy as he was over the last 20 years, he still wins title for King of Pop. You really can't beat Beat It, and Thriller still effing rules. I don't think the younger kids will get it, but man, MJ RULED.

I always thought of MJ as something of an Icarus figure. Dude almost touched the sun, then got really, really confused and fell. Plus he had a bad dad. His early awesomeness is as undeniable as his later freakiness, and I always imagined him to be in some state of mental torture. Hopefully he's found peace? Hopefully he wasn't a pervert? Hopefully he doesn't become some infamous ghost, or lead the inevitable zombie revolution?

Anyway, he's dead. Weird. He'll be like Elvis to our kids. This giant mythical icon, and don't think there won't be a cult who believe he's still alive 40 years down the road.

Old news, but it's still on my mind, so I thought I'd blog it. End of an era. Totally.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

©me. fun ideas.

My brother and I used to write a lot of scripts together. We also considered ourselves fairly hilarious (admittedly, still do). It was our Sunday afternoon activity; we'd get totally immersed in our own awesome and selectively hilarious worlds of mayhem. I still have a few on my computer, but a lot of them are buried somewhere on a floppy disc in one of my brother's storage boxes, or are simply in hard copy someplace under many many old forgotten documents. I need to initiate a serious effort to recover them. I've been thinking a lot about writing screenplays again, mainly because it's the only comfortable way I can write fiction. Short stories are too formal and I feel there isn't a lot of spontenaiety to how they roll out (but I'd also like to take a few creative writing courses eventually, because I know that writing fiction can be super fun).

Anyway, I found one of our last collaborations in my "documents". There was a script too, but I don't know what happened to it. It was supposed to be done with puppets and live action, and we had planned to film it during a family reunion (3 years ago). Here is the break-down of the story:

The Misadventures of Greg the Lost Gopher

Greg is a gopher who lives with a guy named Clark, a green furry monster named Dwayne, and a super-sized chicken nugget named Nugget. The circumstances of their living arrangements are not important. The four of them go about domestic chores and duties in their own way. Personality dynamics between characters occur as events transpire. The four are also trying to start a band called The Vonneguts, with no success.

Greg is fairly high strung, as he spends much of his time avoiding golf clubs, BB guns, and tail collectors. He was abandoned as a baby and has a lot of stories to tell about his rough and dangerous past, despite him being a paranoid wuss. Many of his stories don’t add up and the others consider him a compulsive liar.

Dwayne isn’t very smart but is brutally strong and is good for things like lifting cars and taking out large amounts of garbage.

Nugget is the self-proclaimed “leader” of the group and makes a lot of lists, arranges a lot of competitions, and spends most of his time “working” at his desk, hatching stupid schemes that he never follows through with. He uses anecdotes frequently and has a lisp. He also makes a lot of mix tapes, and recommends them constantly.

Clark looks vaguely like Clark Kent and tries to elude others into thinking that he has an alter ego, but doesn’t. He listens to everything Nugget has to say and is always working on his next big “scoop”.

These four characters go about their daily routine until Gopher receives an indistinct letter from a distant relative and decides to find them. The other three insist on coming along, Nugget concluding that the trip will double as a band tour. They pack their crappy shit into a crappy car and head out on their crappy adventure.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Brilliant!" Oh go on! Really! Go on?

We had some favorite characters, namely Nugget and Clark, who evolved from hours of abusing my youngest brother's action figures and McDonald's toys. One scene we had worked out was Nugget despairing after several failures and listening to Nico (Velvet Underground) while impossibly drinking from an over-sized bottle of liquor (he has no arms). We also had a horror scene where Greg goes to the Gopher Hole Museum in Torrington, AB and recognizes several family members. We had also planned several VERY crappy musical numbers, complete with the overhead, slowly spinning zoom-out camera shot of Greg during the climax/finale.

Anyway, obviously sheer brilliance. I would happily chat with anyone interested in producing it. But it's MINE. ©©©©©©©SARAH ADAMS-BACON©©©©©©©©©©

Sunday, June 14, 2009

sunday diaryah #22

"June 14, 92
Dear Diary,
Well, I don't think Kendrah is going out with Chris anymore. Chris didn't show up at the dance! Mr. V (the principal) is such a slob! I hate him! My weekend was O.K., but my finals are coming up! I hope I pass!

"June 18, 92
Dear Diary,
Today I had my L.A. final, it was easy. Tommarow I have S.S. I hope I pass it!

Apologies for the mega boring entries. The drama picks up again next week, when school ends and us moody teenage girls start spending too much time together. Funny how I always acknowledged my own PMS but never thought to attribute my friends' sour moods to it. But then, the world DID revolve around me so... man, teenagers are going to be brutal.