So, my endless amount of free time has been not so endless. At first, I thought this summer was going to make me so bored that I’d end up cutting off my own arm, bind down every finger but the middle one, and turn it into a weird art project for my desk that evoked “Just enjoy this free time while you have it moron. You’re such an anxious prat when you have nothing to do, so now you’re going to be forced to do it, and with only one arm…and that arm is flipping you the bird! Bwahahaha!” You, know like needlepoint, but edgier. As it turns out though, when you don’t have any daily obligations like walking a dog (she’s with my parents for the summer harassing goats) and 12 – 14 jobs, your time can still get pretty eaten up when you spend it eating with friends!
If you have known me at anytime between the year 2001 and last week, you’ve fallen victim to my perky catch phrase “I don’t have time!” It seems like a super sad catch phrase but can come in really handy. Take these examples: “Can you come to my beach party?” “I don’t have time” seems sad. “Can you come to my b*tch party” “I don’t have time” is a great save, and “Can you come to my beach farty?” “I don’t have time” can save a life (for you writing novices out there, comedy is written in 3’s which is why the above example is hilarious to you. Also the word farty is classically funny, thought provoking, and rhymes with party. I’ll be offering a comedy writing course in the fall, see my secretary Larry for more details). Now, don’t be a turd-waffle when you use my catch phrase please. Every time I’ve used it, it has been wildly true. Again, 17-19 jobs is a lot for one gal to have, and all of my jobs are creative, so when I’m not at work I’m home creating the work which is a vicious cycle not unlike a bike ridden by a T-Rex. Ha!
So, since my last post I’ve abolished my catch phrase and taken a lot of time visiting friends and eating stuff. Here’s a little peak into my life from the last week…
I met up with my fave couple Abby and Shaun who are getting married next summer (and yes, I will be offered a plus one to their wedding, so get in line fellas…except for you Larry, so stop asking). We ate some complimentary cheese balls and discussed foreign policy (fine…ok…you call my bluff you testy readers…we talked about fallopian tubes and theatre gossip…because we like to make Shaun sweat…but we did eat a few cheeseballs…ok fine again…we ate all the cheese balls before this picture was taken so I had to enhance with my own art (watch out Pixar!) for posterity…but I think we can all agree that Shaun is sweating his cheeseballs off!).
From Left to Right: Me, balls, Abby, Shaun, balls
Next up was a brunch date with some of my coworkers from the gym. These ladies know what it’s like to have 23 jobs at once so we’ve made it a pact to drink bottomless brunches together and slap each other across the face when we hear, “You know, I just got offered this crazy gig, it doesn’t pay much but (SLAP!)” Other acceptable scoldings include waterboarding, snow blinding, and side planking. We like to keep it fresh. I love these women to the moon and back because they are strong, photogenic, and not afraid to take their chances with dogs tied to street signs.
From Left Clockwise: Laura (likes to make her own hats), Lisa (dares to wear a white outfit whilst drinking pink things), Eddie (name we came up with for the dog who has been left tied to a No Parking sign while his owners had omlettes), Julianne (just snapped my bra because I told her someone offered me a gig babysitting iguanas), Me (practically perfect in every way).
From Left to Right: Beauty and the Beast
Last up was time well spent with a new friend of mine who has the one thing that guarantees our relationship outlasts the test of time…a Costco membership. For true friendship is with someone who is willing to split 42 rolls of toilet paper and an 8 pack of chick peas while guarding the free sample stations as a chubby woman in a hairnet spoons macaroni salad into a dixie cup.
From Left to Right: Anelisa (new friend who can get me into Costco…as long as I wear a fedora and pretend to be her Aunt Maybel, macaroni salads, Me)
So there you have it folks. My boring summer has gotten a lot less boring, and has given me a new catch phrase to try out…“because with friends like these, who needs xanax?”
Let’s see what happens next (yes Mom, I’m making a dermatologist appointment soon, okay?)week!
I’m back! For those of you who had no idea that I had a blog one time, welcome to my blog! Take your time to peruse through older posts about bathroom art, dog birthdays, and quarter life crisisis (I feel like this should be cry-c’s but not sure on spelling and since I’ve already googled peruse, I’m done googling for the day and I sure have cried a lot of c’s in my time…so…you know…applicable?).
66daysofSarah first started because I was moderately terrified about the world exploding at the end of the Mayan calendar, which was like what 2012? Holy hemorrhoids that was a long time ago. Back then I wrote about all things I wanted to do before we blew up/were captured by sex aliens, and I began the blog 66 days before our rumored apocalypse. When the world didn’t implode (high fives hobos!) I started to write about making my life more awesome instead, which was meaningful, and spiritual, and anecdotal and menopausal (ok, I take back that last one, it was totally not menopausal, period. See what I did there? Bahaha. Still got it (that means two things)).
And now I’m writing because I’m flat out bored. I’m a 34 year old woman-child (why does man-child sound so much cooler? Dammit! I will shatter this glass ceiling of terms used for adults who act like starved-for-attention kids most of the time but still almost always pay taxes so they’re technically grownups, immaturity is not just a men’s club anymore!) who is down to 1.5 jobs for the summer and is about to tear her eyeballs out if she watches another Netflix original series.
So, (Disclaimer about reading my blog: I enjoy going off on tangents for long periods of time, I usually put these tangents in between parenthesis because I have a degree in Dance which means by law that I can only count to 8, and by nature missed out on valuable lessons like reading and writing. Much of my literary knowledge comes from reading Musical Theatre scripts where they use parenthesis a lot to describe how someone is feeling or the lighting of a particular tap dancer’s drug den, so naturally I figure parenthesis are perfect for this medium. In case it ever gets brought up, all of my religious beliefs comes from Musicals too, so I may have no idea how to look up a scripture ((sorry about it nut jobs who quote that stuff on Facebook…or make me read poems at wedding ceremonies…just kidding on that last one…love you cousin Jessica, your children are beautiful and smell like puppy dreams)) but I can tell you the colors of Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and what Judas’ favorite disco song was. So I digress into parenthetical rants sometimes going as far as adding the super cute double parenthesis when I go even more off topic and is probably more grammatically incorrect as you can see with my Facebook/wedding hazing above. If you want to be reminded of the original sentence, look back to where the parenthesis start and you’ll be able to figure out the original thought. I’m like a choose your own adventure of lazy blogging!) let’s begin.
Why start writing again? Typically I have 4 to 9-ish jobs at a time and work far too much. I am a fitness instructor/dance-improv-acting-teacher/show producer/choreographer/director/writer who occasionally does stuff that people think is 100% real but is actually super fake (I can’t get into this last one because I’m sworn to secrecy…but the next time you hear or see strangers doing something that seems super real, know that it’s really me doing it for money…no it’s not porn, so stop asking me Larry). But now because it’s summer time, most of my jobs are on hiatus and I need something to fill my days with besides napping, day drinking, and worrying about my moles.
So, I did a little calendar counting (phoned a friend to help me count past 8) and figured out that minus a gig I have coming up in August, there are 66 days between now and the end of my summer vacation. Since I’m always up for a challenge with an end in sight (and because I’m reading Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes and think to myself, if she can say yes for a year, surely I can write about boredom for 66 days…I mean we’re practically the same person mentally and physically….and don’t call me surely).
What you can expect from this blog…
adventure
mischief
dermatology
What you can’t expect…
distinguishable grammar
elegance
herpes
Yep, that is a stranger’s thumb in the lower left corner…just kidding…it’s my friend Annalisa’s…I wanted you to think I was adventurous.
I woke up this morning to the chimes, buzzes, and cowbells of all of my electronics trying desperately to notify me that 1134 people and counting think I am special today (and luckily no news of anyone finding that pesky body). Yes adoring fans (or any of you that are still interested in reading my blog after I took what seems like a 12 year binge drinking hiatus) today is my Birthday!!!!!!!!
Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Wow! Sarah sure does have a nice birthday, I mean January 3rd?! Every one of her friends must have tons of money to spend on buying her things, no one is out of town, the weather is always predictable, and no one is hungover from any number of historically epic drinking holidays that came prior to her date of birth! Next year I’m asking Santa if I can be birthed on January 3rd!!!!” Now settle down readers, I know January 3rd is sounding more and more amazing with each word I type, but the really epic date this year is January 4th!!!! “How could that be possible?!?” you say? Well, 10 years ago on January 4th of 2005, this little girl packed up her things, took her $500 of savings from pounding the asian-bistro-pavement of waiting tables at PF Changs China Bistro in Columbia Maryland, and had her dad drive her to her new home, New York City! Which means readers, that tomorrow…January 4th 2015…I can officially call myself a NEW YORKER!!!
I’ve come a long way since my first apartment in that tiny bedroom in Inwood. I’ve achieved some pretty amazing goals like dancing on Broadway, buying (let’s be real…financing) an iPad, performing my first one woman show, and finding the city’s best Mac and Cheese.
So, today on SixtySixdaysofSarah I am going to spread to you 3 readers out there, the wealth of knowledge I’ve obtained in these 32 years on the planet and 10 years living in New York City.
So here it goes…
1. Follow your creativity not your career. Your career will treat you like a bad boyfriend and never call when you want him too, and your creativity will treat you like a lovely older hispanic woman who likes to hug and cook you food if you take the time to join her in the kitchen.~ Amy Poehler, Yes Please.
2. You can’t spell friend without the word end.
3. Swishing coconut oil in your mouth for 20 minutes a day will prevent one from ever having to go to the dentist. (Disclaimer: Don’t try this in the shower the first time…unless you have always been curious to know what water boarding feels like)
4. I will last exactly 4 minutes if water boarded.
5. Don’t spend your time doing things that make you feel sad/sick/stupid/worthless when there’s something that makes you feel happy/healthy/smart/worthy out there. Unless it’s crack. Just don’t ever do crack.
6. You can paint regular nail polish over a gel manicure and nothing bad will happen.
7. A bird can fly through a window into your home. Panic. Try to get out by flying full speed at the same plexiglass window over and over again until it knocks itself unconscious, all the while never noticing the lovely woman in a bathrobe waving a flip-flop towards an open door. Take a breath and look around. Don’t be that bird. ~ Jen Sincero, You’re a Badass.
8. If you hold on to your old Actors Equity Association cards long enough..the color will come back around and you can use their bathrooms without having to pay your dues.
9. The exact age of lifting your 90 lb throbbing head off of your pillow to say “I can’t drink like I used to” is 31 years, 328 days, 4 hours, and 22 minutes.
10. Don’t bring up racism at Christmas.
There you have it. In this new year of 2015 and at the age of 32, I hope to reacquaint myself with this blog, and it’s mission to make life a little more awesome. I hope you’ll join me.
Happy 4th of July everyone! Because the calendar decided to be awesome (it’s hard to type sarcasm…but when I say awesome, I mean not awesome…and rather douche-y) this year and have the 4th of July fall on a Friday, I’m forced to stay in New York City (because it’s a whole “to do” to get out of New York City when 9 million other people are trying to leave New York City at the same time, and you don’t have a car so you have to smuggle your dog onto a megabus, and could potentially be stuck in traffic for 9 hours with your smuggled dog, and then smuggle her on another bus on Sunday fighting traffic with same 9 million people that are trying to get back into New York City by Monday morning because you have to teach your musical theatre kids camp and the other 8999,999 people have to probably work as well….ps: I don’t know how to write 9 million in numbers…and am assuming 1 less than 9 million is a an 8 followed by a whole bunch of 9’s….I was a dance major in college….). So to feel a little slice of home today, I’ve decided to have myself a Hilda.
“What the F is a Hilda?” you ask. Well, keep your F’s to yourselves you hooligans and show some respect because The Hilda is a drink that my late grandma Hilda invented and drank every afternoon on the beach between pills.
The Hilda all started because my grandma enjoyed hanging out with her family on the beach, but her family constantly pounded bud lights, and miller lights, or the occasional corona when we were feeling fancy…
and she wanted something for herself to drink that wasn’t a beer. She loved red wine and told us on more than one occasion (daily) that her doctor insisted red wine was good for her heart. Being the pioneer woman that she was, she set off to invent her own drink to enjoy on the beach. Because red wine was a little luke warm for a hot summer day, she started adding ice to her cup (we’ve all done it…well, at least the classiest of us have). Then one day, she found some of my cousin’s coconut rum in a cabinet, and thought why not? Now the only thing missing was bubbles. She wanted a little fizz for her afternoon delight. So she went back to her go-to and added some diet seven up…
Thus creating…The Hilda
After my grandma past away last June, our family got together at the beach house for the 4th of July and made some Hilda’s to toast the wonderful life of a wonderful woman that we all will continue to miss dearly. And holy s*it! The Hilda is really effing strong! After 2 most of us couldn’t walk. My grandma was a badass! So in honor of her, and because I can’t be home with everyone on the beach this summer, I decided to go to one of my favorite bars here in New York City, and order myself a Hilda…
The bartender was a little confused (disgusted) at first,
But then after telling her the history of The Hilda, she complied…
I decided to let some friends try it…
A big shout out to my family down in Virginia! I wish I could be there eating crabs and drinking Hida’s with you, but at least know that I’m celebrating up here in the Yankee State!
Some people think that technology has ruined the realm of dating. “Why can’t he just pick up the phone and call? What’s with all the text messaging?” Well, I for one LOVE what technology has done for dating! Nothing can make me giddier than the exchange of flirty messaging. I’m not discriminatory. I’ll text message, Facebook message, Gchat, and Tinder (ok, I don’t really Tinder…I just go on the app once a month…scroll through some pics until someone messages me…get nervous that they’re a serial killer…and then throw my phone in the toilet.) If I have a day filled with flirty messages, I’m happier than a pig in a blanket…or is it shit?…I’m happier than a pig in a shit-blanket!! My only problem is that I tend take my messaging to a weird place. Sometimes I like to think that I’ve mastered the art of cleverly adorable flirty messaging…but then sometimes I go through my messages and question why no one is making out with me.
They usually start off pretty normal…
But inevitably they get weird. Here are actual messages (in random order) that I’ve sent to boys that I’ve wanted to make out with at any given point in time…or have already made out with and were hoping to get them to make out again…or wanted to make out with but also needed to make appointments with them to come fix the gas pipes in our apartment.
So, if you’re a boy that I’ve wanted to make out with…or made out with…or were hired to fix the gas pipes in my apartment…and you read my blogs…and you didn’t realize that I wanted to make out with you…or make out with you again…or make out with you while you were fixing my gas pipes… because all I did was send you weird messages…well now you know…I wanted to make out with you.
Enjoy…
Some of these message exchanges have gone pretty well. I’ve gotten some nice responses…
One day, I might marry a dignified man and have civilized conversation about politics, philosophy, and health coverage…but until then, if you wanna Jesus sex talk…send me a message…just not on Tinder.
Well, it happened. My gas problem has been fixed! After some very cute construction guys spent a month in my dumbwaiter (don’t ask), we now have gas! If you haven’t been paying attention to my sporadic bimonthly (one post every 13 to 79 days) blog, then poo on you…and here’s a refresher in what you’ve missed at sixtysixdaysofsarah:
we almost blew up.
Yep. After a horrific building explosion in Harlem (one mile away from my apartment) our super-awesome super decided to look into our gas lines, and low and behold…we had tons of deadly gas leaks seeping into the walls of our building! Hooray!
In order to not go bat-shit-crazy and find my “happy place” while being unable to cook, dry clothes, or walk down the hall in a towel without bumping into a construction worker (one of which had the trademark I-killed-a-guy-in-prison-so-now-I-have-this-tear-drop-tattoo-on-my-face-so-don’t-make-eye-contact-with-me-or-I’ll-have-to-kill-you-too thing), I decided that now would be a good time to reflect on one of the many awesome truths of living in New York City….
sharing an apartment.
When I go back home to the suburbs to visit my friends and family, it seems to be rather odd to Non-New-Yorkers that I’m a 31 year old woman who lives with roommates. “You live with another girl and a straight male? Oh, how Three’s Company of you!” is what my parent’s friends say. “OMG, you are just like New Girl, except John is Zoe Deschanel, and you’re Winston. No big deal.” is what I hear from the kids my roommate John and I teach tap to (it’s clear who their favorite is). The truth is, as semi-working-dancer/actors living in New York City you could choose to spend 90% of your income on rent for your own apartment, or you could spend 60% of your income sharing your apartment with others and still have 40% left to blow on extravagant things like boxed wine and health insurance. I know for some people, it’s not easy to live with others, but my roommates and I have figured out a fool proof system to make sharing any apartment awesome.
Sarah, John, and Abby’s Fool Proof Way to Create an Awesome Sauce Apartment Dynamic
1. Wall Dopplegangers
Arts and Crafts are a great way to spend time being creative with your roommates (especially when you drink beer during it!) Take turns tracing each other’s bodies onto brown packing paper. Cut out those bodies, hang them on your walls, and dress them up for holidays and special events.
This is a particularly fun way to decorate your apartment year round, and a fun way to remember your roommate’s faces when they leave you for months at a time to do regional productions of A Chorus Line in Vermont. But when they do leave, the wall dopplegangers are fair game for sexual harassment by third parties.
and speaking of parties…
2. Throw Parties
Throwing parties is a great way to bring all of you and your roommate’s friends together. We recommend BYOB parties because often times your friends go home (or go out for a smoke and we lock the door behind them) and leave extra beer behind! This will create more memorable times for you and your roommates to drink free beer in your apartment in the future (plus it will make your friends think twice about smoking). An apartment that drinks free beer together, stays together.
3. The Magnificent Wunderlist.
Wunderlist is an app that my neighbor Justin told me about that’s totally changed my life! It’s an app that holds all of your lists! Being a member of the list hoarding community, wunderlist is a must. Instead of having to do lists on the “notes” section of your phone, shopping lists on the back of your cable bill, or writing a reminder to pay your cable bill on the back of your hand, wunderlist is an app that holds all of your lists in one place. Some of my personal favorite lists include: Books to Read, Blogs to Follow, Songs to Download, and That dude’s Name You Keep Forgetting. Yes, I literally have a list of descriptions of people who’s names I should totally know but always forget. After I awkwardly run into these people in the city and say things like “Hey…er…lady! Good to see you!” or, “No, YOU look great…uh…champ!” I jot down their physical description on the app. Then, when I go home I look them up on Facebook based on their pictures and facts like: We went to the same college, she did that production of Chicago with my friend Emily, or she’s my-dad’s-friend-from-childhood’s-daughter’s-lesbian-lover who always says “Hi Sarah! How are you, Sarah? Oh my god, Sarah, I love those crotchless chaps” the 2 times a year that I see her.
The reason that I bring wunderlist up as a way to live awesomely with your roommates (which is what this post is supposed to be about Sarah…so stop going off on tangents about how you’re an amnesiatic weirdo who can never remember anyone’s name…oh, and amnesiatic isn’t even a word you moron) is because you can share your lists with other peeps. My roommates and I have one called Apartment Necessities. We add things that we all use like olive oil, toilet paper, recycling bags, etc…and also add tasks like DVR the Tony’s, or Switch the battery in the smoke detector so it won’t ruin the Tony’s, or Too late… Hugh Jackman already ruined the Tony’s…etc. This way, when we go to the store or are drinking our free beers on the couch, we can check the wunderlist and take care of what needs taking care of. Once you’ve taken care of business, you simply check off the item or action you’ve completed and your roommates are alerted. This way, there’s no coming home from Trader Joes only to find that you all have picked up toilet paper and now must find space in your Manhattan sized apartment for 72 extra rolls of toilet paper. It also prevents you from assuming that one of your other roommates has already picked up toilet paper only to come home and realize that you’re now using strips of paper towels in the bathroom which is kind of ok because last month you picked up 10 rolls of paper towels not realizing that your 2 roommates did the same and have 28 more rolls of paper towels than necessary to get through, but kind of not ok, because you’re not supposed to flush paper towels down the toilet which you learned the hard way last month…which is why you needed more paper towels than necessary in the first place. Which leads me to my next way to make your apartment awesome…
4. To the Pooptorium and Beyond!
We’ve already learned that roommates who drink free beer together stay together, but roommates that have a nice place for number 2 are roommates for life! In our bathroom, we not only have ample supplies of magazines and Charmin Ultra Soft, but we also have a…
wall of fun!
In order to create a wall of fun, simply paint the wall closest to the toilet with a magnetic primer (yeah, they make that shit now…we’re living in the future kids) and chalkboard paint. Then buy a few of those magnetic poetry kits (we really enjoy mixing Bacon and Shakespeare) and let the fun begin!
Sharing a bathroom between 3 people is hard. Why not take the time to make your number 2’s more fun for everyone?
5. Hey everyone…come and see how good I look!
What’s the best part about living with 3 actors? Vanity! For the most part, we all look pretty gross while traipsing around our apartment. Lots of glasses, acne cream, and t-shirts with no bras. Plus most of our side jobs include, gym receptionists, waiting tables, teaching kids how to shuffle, fake radio calls, and walking tours in Times Square. None of which we need to look remotely decent for. But occasionally we do get gussied up for an event/date/funeral, and need others to come give us lots of compliments. As actors, we can’t appreciate anything good about ourselves until someone else tells us they like it. This is why we have a standing apartment rule that whenever you feel like you look exceptionally good and need other people to acknowledge it, simply yell this:
“Hey everyone…come and see how good I look!”
Upon yelling, all roommates in the apartment must drop what they are doing, run to the hallway, and come see how good you look. Once in the hallway, you must “ooohh” and “aaaahhh” at the gussied up roommate and give at least 3 compliments…if you can’t think of any, here are some great examples we use in our apartment…
“You look great! Don’t forget your stick…to beat off all of the men and/or women that are going to hit on you tonight!*”
“Nice hair!”
“Oh my god, you look so thin. I almost want to feed you a pie right now…in a good way!”
“Holy package dude! It’s like those pants hired a snake charmer**!”
“Nice shoes!”
“Great dress! You can barely see that price tag tucked into your armpit..Anthropologie will totally take it back tomorrow if you don’t puke on it!”
“Nice armpit fold!”
*It is perfectly ok to giggle when saying “beat off” after this one. We’re not monsters.
**We never say that…I just was trying to figure out what the equivalent of a skinny girl compliment would be for dudes.
And there you have it. 5 great ways to live with roommates in New York City. If after trying all of these you still can’t stand living with roommates, stay tuned for next weeks post titled:
YOLO is an acronym for “you only live once“. Similar to carpe diem or memento mori, it implies that one should enjoy life, even if that entails taking risks. The phrase and acronym are both used in youth culture and music, and were both popularized by the 2011 song “The Motto” by Canadian rapper Drake.
At first, my roommates and I thought maybe the pilot light in our stove was out. The following morning, we found the letter that had been slipped under our door. Our building had a gas leak and the gas would be shut off for a few days until it was repaired. For our convenience, the building owners would be providing us with hot plates. Wow. “I guess they’re really starting to look into this stuff after that building went down,” I thought.
Disclaimer: On March 12th, a building exploded in Harlem on 116th and Park Avenue. 8 people were killed and 70 were injured 1 mile away from where I live. People in my building heard the BOOM.
We went on our merry gass-less way microwaving food and air drying our clothes. It was slightly annoying, but bearable. It wasn’t until I ran into my super a few days later that I realized the magnitude of the situation. “It wasn’t a question of if we were going to blow up…it was a question of when.” Turns out our building had several more leaks than expected and the pipes (that have been in our building since it was built over 79 years ago) were leaking into the walls all the way up to the top floor. We were essentially a ticking time bomb.
What do you do with that information? Feel overwhelmingly guilty that other people had to die so that our building with similar billion year old pipes was looked into? Decide to grab life by the horns and register for naked sky diving lessons? Have 27 one night stands? Liquidize your 401K to finally take a trip to the top 23 places to see before you die that BUZZFEED is always making you look at?
I mean, WE COULD HAVE DIED! But then I suppose, we always could have died. Buildings have gas leaks, bus drivers have blind spots, people have guns, and brains have tumors. We ALL could die at any moment.
But what do you do when youdidn’t?
I don’t think, for me at least, the answer is to do something incredible. I think I’ve been trying for so long to do something incredible i.e. star on Broadway, meet prince charming, host the Oscars, or just write something Nobel Prize worthy. Growing up in the wonderful generation that I have had the privilege to grow up in, we were all told we could be the next President. You can do whatever you put your mind to! I sure took that mantra and ran with it for 30 years. I’ve always aspired to be great. But as I’m getting older and wiser, I’m learning that for me, all that inspiration is too much. It’s misguided me a little bit about what I really want. One of my dreams has been to be the next Ellen Degeneres. I admire how she helps the world feel better with humor. But the trick is, I don’t need to have 10 million viewers and take selfies with Meryl Streep to make the world feel good. I put on a silly voice and play kill the cockroachesevery Saturday morning while teaching 6 year olds in tutus how to frappé. I almost made one of them pee their leotard last week because she was laughing so hard. If our building had exploded after that day, I’d have been content. Instead of pushing and pushing and pushing for what I once thought was something incredible, I’m now realizing that I already have it. So yeah, those 23 places that everyone should have to see before they die sure do look amazing on BUZZFEED, but sitting on my couch in my gas free apartment while looking at pics sent to me of my newborn nephew is what really makes life worth living.
I woke up this morning with my arms wrapped around a newly 56 year old…female…with 8 nipples.
Today Ruby turns 8!
To celebrate the birth of my best friend/companion/cock blocker. I’ve decided to share with you 8 interesting facts about Ruby.
1. She has 2 self designated sleeping stations. Station one is at the foot of the bed. She stays at station one until 8 minutes before I’m supposed to wake up. At the 8 minute mark, she makes her way to station two, the top of the bed, and scratches the blankets until I let her under the covers. She stays at station two for 8 minutes and then gives me the stink eye when it’s time to wake up. Why does she only want to be under the covers for the 8 minutes before I have to wake up? I have no idea. I’m not a pet psychic.
2. Dawn is my pet psychic. Dawn told me once that Ruby does not like turtle neck sweaters, but she will tolerate wearing one only because she knows how cute everyone thinks she looks in it.
3. I have a theory that Ruby’s beard is used as a communication device between all of the dogs in Central Park. I believe that dogs keep each other up to date through urination. Them peeing on a rock is equal to our updating Facebook statuses. Ruby makes a great urine transmitter because she has a full beard and from what I can tell, a subpar sense of smell (as she has to get close enough to wet spots on trees, curbs, and hobos that her eyeballs now smell of urine as well). My theory is that when other dogs stop her in the park to smell her face, they use her urine filled beard to check in on their other doggie friends. “Looks like Petunia finally found that bone that she hid back in December…” “Wow, Rufus is not happy that his owners took his balls…” I’m planning on writing a romance themed children’s book about this theory called Two if by pee.
4. Every day Ruby is seems surprised that I have roommates. She barks at them as if she’s never seen them before, and is quite befuddled as to why they enter and exit the apartment without first asking her permission.
5. Ruby loves popcorn, chic peas, and boogers. Never leave a used tissue lying around when Ruby’s in your presence. Or, do and watch something really gross happen.
6. Ruby is half squirrel. She fills her mouth with 17 pellets of food from her bowl and then takes them to a carpeted area to eat them while you watch.
7. Ruby is not really half squirrel. She is an affenpinscher, which I’m told means “monkey dog” in German. Occasionally I’ve offered this nugget of information to strangers asking about her breed in the park, and on one occasion someone was shocked to learn that I owned something that was half-monkey-half-dog.
8. Ruby’s full name is Ruby Pubey. Her theme song goes like this: Ruby…Ruby Pubey…Queen of the wild frontier. (To the tune of Davey Crocket).
Sometimes life hands you lemons. Sometimes you use those lemons to make lemonade, or to help you get the red wine stains out of your night shirt. Today’s life lemon was handed to me by Trader Joe’s.
I shop at Trader Joe’s for the same reason as everyone else…because it makes you a good person. You see, when we give Trader Joe’s our patronage, we are supporting fair trade (we give money to Trader Joe’s, Trader Joe’s gives a handful of beads and a tall boy of Heineken to the indians, and in return we all get delicious food at a reasonable price…everyone wins!). 99% of the time, the food is wonderful…and 99% ain’t too shabby. Years of scientific research (that one episode of Friends) tells us that condoms work 99% of the time. Well, call me Rachel Green, cause today I experienced the Trader Joe’s 1% that nobody wants to experience. These seemingly awesome salmon burgers bamboozled me!
At Trader Joe’s you can get 4 salmon burger patties made with delicious and nutritious pink alaskan salmon, which promise* to fill you with protein, Omega 3’s, and a shiny coat for a mere $5.99. What they don’t promise* is any possibility of cooking them….because they are frozen together with an effing piece of paper in the middle!
Surgeon General’s Warning:
Do not attempt to eat these if you are hungry. There is absolutely no way to separate a single patty from the paper. Trust me, I tried everything….
I ran them under some luke warm water…
Which only made the outside the texture of a really sloshy winter mud puddle, whilst the inside remained frozen solid to the skank-ass paper.
Then I threw it in the microwave for a few seconds…which did nothing but make the outside mushier and the inside more content on being frozen to the piece turd-blanket paper.
Then I decided to just eat a slice of pizza and wait it out. Certainly it would thaw eventually. To speed up the process, I used my gift for inventions (side note: the pictures below demonstrate how not so good I am with my new picture editor…I guess my career at Pixar will have to wait…)
Step 1…
Step 2…
Step 3…
Step 4…
Tadaaaaa! Thesalmon-buger-defroster-5000!!
11 hours later, the salmon burger had still not budged from it’s torrid love affair with the two-bit-hooker of a piece of paper. Time to sword-and-the-stone this bitch!
I learned a valuable lesson today. Trader Joe’s salmon burgers are stupid and are not meant to be eaten by any civilized creature.
*Trader Joe’s probably doesn’t promise anything…at least I don’t know if they do…I threw away the box…I mean…recycled…I recycled the box…I did not use it to kill a rabid cockroach and then throw it in the garbage…
Last Wednesday afternoon I laid down to take a little catnap to recharge for the night ahead of me. However, instead of visions of sugarplums and a shirtless Ryan Reynolds, I drifted into a full blown panic attack. My heart was beating out of my chest, I broke into a cold sweat, and my mind started to run a mile a minute. In case you’ve never seen what a panic attack looks like, I’ve reenacted exactly what one’s body goes through in this video…it’s pretty graphic so you may want to sit down before watching.
The source of this panic attack: an improv show.
The reason for panic: I would be performing with our brand new improv troupe, Tainted Minds for the very first time in the show that night. Side Note: We chose the name Tainted Minds mainly because we hadn’t thought of anything better, and we could then transform it into such phrases as Tainted Minds think alike, or Tainted Minds of over matter, or Tainted Minds: Special Victims Unit.
The justification for panic:1. We were slated to perform smack dab in the middle of two amazingly funny troupes that had been doing improv together for years. 2. Dozens of new improv students were sitting in the audience, improv students that were eager to see what great improv looked like, and to see how amazing our company was.
The Result of panic: My brain went into irrational snowball mode. I was going to be horrible in the show…which was going to ruin everything that I had been working on with my improv company that I loved so much… which left me with nothing to to do with the rest of my life…and reminded me that I had no monetary plans for retirement…which lead me down that long dark road of being an 80 year old hobo-waitress.
The Solution: I needed to go for a long walk. I’ve been reading Steve Jobs’ biography, and when he wasn’t being a dick-waffle, he used to take long walks to ponder, and I definitely could use a ponder. I grabbed Ruby and headed to Central Park. The sun was setting, and in between the heart numbing thoughts that being terrible in the show tonight would lead me to being poor, alone, and homeless, I glanced up into the setting sky. It was absolutely beautiful…and absolutely heaven.
Which brought me to The Mufasa moment….
Side Note: While I was editing this photo, my roommate Abby walked in and asked me why I was looking at a butthole.
To be fair, it did look like I was looking at buttholes…
But I wasn’t looking at buttholes (and I would really appreciate it if my computer stopped auto correcting buttholes into buttonholes…how often do people use the word buttonhole anyway? Surely butthole is a more common phrase…I digress) Because right then and there in the middle of my panic attack, I looked up to the sky and felt the presence of my Grandma.
Back story: my Grandma Hilda was an awesome southern lady, who made great soft shell crabs and was only occasionally racsist. She passed away last summer at the ripe old age of 85 after raising 3 awesome sons and 4 awesome grandkids).
What I remember most about my relationship with my grandma was that it was fun. And I don’t mean that in the lightest sense, I mean it was really FUN! She was like the perfect partner in comedy. She’d set you up for amazing jokes all of the time without ever knowing it. Plus, you could poke fun at her and she would fall off her easy chair laughing, then when you weren’t looking, she’d tell a zinger about you (usually about being a baby nudist)!
The Revelation: Since, I was on the straight train to panic town, I decided to give reach out to her with one magical word…”help”. The experience I got next was wild. There was no “Things will get better…” or “I’ll protect you from all that is bad…” or “Take down your power hungry uncle and you can have your Kingdom back…”
I heard simply this….
“Why are you so worried? I’m not worried about you. You’re the person I don’t have to worry about. You’re fine. You’re always gonna be fine. Now lighten up, pass me my afternoon cocktail, and let’s have some fun!”
The Resolution: The panic immediately faded and my body filled with happiness. I hopped on the train with my newfound boost of energy, and headed down to rehearse with my troupe before the show. When I got to the theater, I ran into my troupe member Emily, who said this (and I’m not s*itting you…I hadn’t even had a chance to mention my Mufasa experience to her yet…)
“Hey Sarah! Is it cool if we change the name of our group? Tainted minds reminds us too much of taints…we were thinking of just calling ourselves Grandma. What do you think?”
I don’t know why Emily chose Grandma as a new troupe name, but I air high-fived Hilda and agreed that it was indeed the perfect. And our troupe GRANDMA thrived that night…because Hilda was right, there is no need to be worried. I’m fine. I’ll always be fine. Now pass me my cocktail and let’s have some fun.
I love Tuesdays. After an overwhelmed and overworked 2013, I have finally organized a work schedule to adhere to my income, creative needs, and age (ie. retiring my shot girl short shorts, creating a budget for Prilosec, and making time for an afternoon snooze). I am working a reasonable amount of hours each week and have scheduled in some Sarah Time. On Tuesdays, I have an ample amount of time to be creative, and write a blog post. The problem with Tuesdays though, is that I am not creative, nor do I ever finish writing a blog post. In fact, this is the 3rd Tuesday in a row that I’ve been working on this here post. This is what happened last Tuesday…
1. I watch youtube videos and sip coffee.
2. I finish my coffee.
3. I start working on my blog post.
4. I wander around the apartment and dangit! Time to take out the recyclables.
5. Holy turd rockets, it’s cold outside! I should probably get back to work.
6. But then I wonder who left this weird old armoire in our basement?
7. Holy s*it! I bet it’s just like that mirror from the first Harry Potter book!!!!!
8. Now if I just sit here long enough, I’m sure I’ll be able to see myself become the Head Boy and Gryffindor take the Quidditch Cup.
6 hours later. I start watching TV having accomplished nothing.
You see, readers. I have a huge problem finishing things. I get close. I do about 90% of what needs to be done. But then I get distracted by something else and don’t complete the task at hand. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and wondering why I have such a hard time with finishing. Then I looked back at my life as a performer. As a dancer, my only real responsibilities were to stay in shape and show up for auditions. And the results were either:
A. Get job.
-Your Agent calls and tells you that you’ve booked a job.
-The Company manager books your travel, to and from the location and tells you what hotel you’re staying at.
-The Director and Choreographer tell you what to do and how to do it.
-The hotel mattress give you bed bugs.
-The Hotel manager puts all of your stuff in boiling water.
-The Company manager gives you benadryl.
-You do the show for 8 weeks.
-The show closes.
-The Company manager sends you home.
or…
B. Don’t get job.
-Go to more auditions.
Hmmm…no wonder I can’t finish things! I’ve never had to. I’ve always relied on someone else doing that part for me. Nuts.
Plus, I’ve realized this little conundrum:
If you never finish things, you never have to start anything new.
Check it…
I’d love to get to the gym, but I really need to finish cleaning my room = if I never finish cleaning my room, then I never have to go to the gym.
I’d love to save more money, but first I should probably finish doing my taxes to see where I stand financially = if I don’t do my taxes, I’ll never know how much I owe or am refunded so I don’t have to deal with where I stand financially.
I should probably make a plan for my writing future, but I still haven’t finished that blog post about not being able to finish things = If I don’t finish my blog posts, I don’t have to come up with how writing is going to tie into the rest of my life.
Well, not anymore! It is week 3 of working on this gosh darn blog post, and I am finished! I am Sarah the FINISHER (which coincidentally is also the name of my new super hero/serial killer comic book series…which is my new plan for how writing is going to tie into the rest of my life…maybe).
Readers, it’s time I let you in on what’s really been going on in my boudoir. First thing’s first…I’m a fun gal! I’m usually up for anything. I try new things, revive oldies but goodies, conduct experiments to pull off the spectacular, etc… but I’m having a slight problem. There’s something in particular that I’ve always wanted to enjoy in the bedroom, but haven’t found it quite ‘the rage’ that people have let on to it being. I’ve tried it a few times now and it still seems rather uncomfortable and quite honestly…pointless. And this is coming from someone who can make herself like anything! Case in point: olives. I used to hate olives because I thought they smelled the way that pee tasted…if I had ever tasted pee. Then I discovered martinis, an adorable cocktail that made my vodka cranberries look amateur. If I was going to make martinis my bitch, I had to learn to like olives (and don’t give me that “with a twist” BS, we all know the real sexiness of a martini is the dirtiness, not a slightly bent lemon rind). So I did it, I made myself eat olives everyday for 2 weeks, and now I love olives (and look f’ing awesome waiting for my pretend date to arrive at bars). But what I am speaking of today, oh devout followers of mine, is definitely not a mere olive, because I’ve tried and tried and am still left with no martini. Which begs the question, is it me? Am I to blame? Did I choose the wrong position? Or the wrong size? What if it’s too big or even worse… too small? Or maybe it’s “just the right” size, and it is my shape that is “off”. After all of the recent less than admiral results, I phoned my mother to ask her experience. She insisted to keep trying as I am an adult woman now, and need to grow up. “A true Hicks woman is queen of her castle and that all starts with the bedroom!” After all, she had been doing it since she was a teenager. But I’ve had enough! Today, I’m speaking out. I will no longer remain silent on such an important issue. Because on this day, February 15th, 2014, I shall proclaim the truth so that generations to come will know what’s really going on… and what’s really going on is…that… FLAT SHEETS ARE STUPID AND POINTLESS AND SHOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN INVENTED IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!
Now that I’ve organized my schedule (and retired my shot girl short-shorts) to where the first time in my life, I don’t work after 7pm, I’m baffled at why I’m still staying up so late every night? A tip I took from The Happiness Project (great book…click the link if yo interesante in it) the author mentions how going to bed earlier every night made her happier and more productive. Well, I want to be happier and more productive, but going to bed early at night hasn’t been possible and I couldn’t figure out why? Then it hit me. It’s all due to a little thing I call the cereal vortex...
The Cereal Vortex
Mmmm…I think I’ll have a bowl of cereal.
now I’ll just add some milk.
Delicious!
Oh no! I have all this milk left and I don’t want it to go to waste…
I’ll just add a tiny bit more cereal…
Whoops, too much! Darn. I’ll just have to add a tiny bit more milk…
Yum.
That 2nd bowl was equally as delicious…there’s still some milk left at the bottom…and children starving in China….what to do?
And this, ladies and gentlemen…
is how we slip into the cereal vortex…
4 bowls later…
We’re all familiar with the vicious cycle of the cereal vortex. Sure, you might never leave your apartment on time, and may have to buy some elastic waistband trousers, but all in all the consequences are quite mild. The more ferocious vortex to look out for is the wine/tv vortex…
The Wine/Tv Vortex
Ahhh, just a glass of wine before bed while I watch that DVR’d episode of Saturday Night Live…
Huh, I actually liked the musical guest for once…
aww nuts, out of wine…
We’re only on weekend update?
Just a teensy bit more to finish out the episode…
I can’t believe Seth Meyers is leaving…what a doll! I’m still on the fence about this Cecily situation…bring back Tina and Amy!
And then the episode ends and you still have a half of a glass of wine left.
What to do?
You check the DVR.
And decide to re-watch Modern Family. It was great the first time around, so it should be even better the second time around…
Aww crap, I just finished my wine and there’s still 10 minutes left…
Don’t judge me.
Dag-nabit! These 30 minute shlows go by fast when you can sklip the commersals… I still have a half of a glass of wine left (hiccup). Luckily there’s a snew Parenthood on RIGHT NOW!
Oh, come on NBC! Joe would SNOT leave Julia! Snot after they pladopted that little Mexican! Ay! Ay! Ay! I can’t take this…
and nowmy glass is emptly.
just in time for the 2:00 news…
If you are a victim of the Wine/Tv vortex like I am, call (212) 222-6160 for support (they deliver plus you get 20% off if you purchase and entire case!)
It’s January. A time to reflect on the year before. To make fun goals for the new year ahead like “I will finally go to the MTV beach house this Spring Break,” or “This is the year I get back to my birth weight”. The time to read that People Magazine with the fat people turned skinny on the cover, and for sitcoms to start adding sexual tension to two characters who ordinarily would never fall in love, but now have feelings for each other only to be revealed on the big Valentine’s Day episode (I’m talking to you Mindy Khaling…I thought you were better than that). The time to bundle up by the warm fire with some delicious pinot noir…and have a panic attack.
January hits the trifecta of panic for me. For 31 days I’m filled with the kind of anxiety where your abdomen is so tight that nothing seems to properly digest between your crotch bone, and your boob mole. Mix that with the kind of depression where your dog worries about the purple umbrella with eyeballs that seems to be following you around, and you’ve got a pretty good idea of how I’m feeling right now.
The trifecta is this:
January 1st = new Year,
January 3rd = my birthday,
January 4th = the anniversary of the day I moved to New York City.
Hi. My name is Sarah. It’s 2014. I’m 31. I’ve been living in New York City for 9 years. And this thought has been running through my mind 900 times a day since January 1st…
Don’t bother. You’re not going to tell me anything that I don’t already know, or at least anything that my kindle full of self-help books haven’t already pounded into my psyche… “Turn that frown upside down! What a gift you are to this world! You know, there will never be anyone else exactly like you on this planet…ever!?! How amazing and beautiful is that!?! I’m sure your ovaries aren’t drying up minute by minute! Come on, let’s go meditate and exercise. It’ll make you feel better!”
I know all of this is true, and come February, I’ll be back to my old cheery, “let’s see what this magnificent universe has to offer me,” self, but until the clock strikes 11:59:59 on January 31st, I’m going to continue waking up in the middle of night with these visions…
and how could we forget…
But just like they say in your local bulimia meet up group, “what goes down must come up!”
The good thing about my January of HELL is that I’ve decided to use this anxious ridden bout of depression to inspire my resolution for 2014
No more being a victim.
If you’ve been following my blog, you know that I’ve got a pretty go-get-’em, manifest-and-it-will-come, be-positive-and-positive-things-will-happen, attitude about life. But, after a recent conversation with a friend, I’ve noticed that I seem to pick and choose what’s going to go my way, and what’s not. For example, I have a very strong belief that technology hates me. No matter what I do, something with my computer/cell phone/stereo/bionic arm, always goes wrong. I feel that I suck at technology and always will, so why bother. It’s easier to just whine (or wine), complain and feel sorry for myself when I can’t figure out how to transfer a song from my computer to my cellphone, when in all actuality there are 18 APPLE stores in a 15 minute radius that have free classes 24 hours a day, not to mention 18 million free resources on the internet dedicated to this specific problem.
Diving in deeper, I’ve noticed major victim issues exist between me and the following two themes…
I’m too busy.
I don’t have enough money.
These two victimizing statements go hand in hand. If you’ve ever tried to make plans with me, or work on a project with me this is an all too common occurrence… “I don’t have enough time to (work out, have fun, write my blog, schedule a business meeting, clean the apartment, discover the cure for athlete’s foot) because I’m too busy. I’m too busy because I have to work all the time because I don’t have enough money.
The funny thing about this statement is that it doesn’t have to be true, and in fact isn’t true at all. Working 90 hours doesn’t make people more money. I know tons of people that work a million hours a week and are still always broke, and in turn, are completely exhausted and miserable. If anything, all of that time spent working on things you’re not passionate about takes away valuable time and energy from things your ARE passionate about. Find your passion and the money will follow.
So, no more playing the victim. No more, “I can’t-s…” Time to figure this sh*t out so January 2015 isn’t spent in a mental ward scrubbing the tattoo of the word LOSER off of my forehead.
Here’s a fun bedtime story for you. Saturday night, I went to the gas station to pick up my evening coke zero. I know, I know, I keep saying I’m going to quit, but this aspartame filled nectar of saitan has a hold on me. What’s that? You’re not concerned about my coke zero addiction? You’re more worried that I spend my Saturday nights going to gas stations instead of going to some fabulous Sex and the City type escapade where I arrive at the opening of some posh nightclub with my super rich gal pals and accidentally slip and fall and my vagina lands of Harry Connick Jr? Well, no! I like to spend my Saturday nights walking my dog in the park under the slight buzz of chemically made sweeteners. Anywho, back to my good samaritan story. Oh crap! I gave it away. It’s a story about me being a good samaritan, or atleast trying to be. So, after I handed the cashier my dollar fifty to pay for my devil juice, a young lady walked into the gas station in a slight panic.
Panicked-Young-Lady: “Is there anyone here who could change my oil?”
Nigerian-BP-employee: “No, the shop is closed.”
Panicked-Young-Lady: “Well, is there anyone that could check my oil? I don’t know how.”
Nigerian-BP-employee: “No.”
Extra-panicked-Young-Lady: “Please. The light came on and I don’t know what to do.”
Extra-annoyed-BP-employee: “No.”
Me: “Giiirrrrllllll! You don’t know how to check your oil?”
A-little-offended-that-I-put-on-my-black-voice-when-I-shouted-“Giiirrrrlllllll!”-but- willing-to-forgive-me-because-she-was-still-a-panicked-Young-Lady: “No, I have no idea how to check it.”
Me-returning-to-my-normal-boring-white-voice: “Well, I know how to check oil. Come on, let’s figure it out!”
Relieved-over-my-kindness-yet-still-peeved-at-Nigerian-BP-employee-because-we-all-know-he-knows-how-to-check-oil-Young-Lady: “Oh my god! Thank you so much!”
So then, Ruby, my coke zero, and I headed out to have a looksy under her hood (giggity giggity goo!). I marched over to her car, thinking mostly of how proud my Dad would be of his daughter for knowing how to check oil, and only slightly about how this would be the perfect trap for me to be kidnapped and sold into human sex trafficking.
As we opened the hood, I began to doubt myself on my knowledge of the task at hand. I haven’t checked oil since I don’t know, 2001? And even then it was on my ’91 Ford Escort. This engine looked completely foreign to me. Back in my day, you saw an entire ugly engine when you opened your hood of a car. You propped said hood open with an old broom from your trunk because the real propp-y open-y thingamajig broke years ago when you were necking on the hood with your 10th grade boyfriend. This fancy new car had a cover over the whole dang engine! It took me 5 minutes to find the pull-y out-y dip-sticky thing, but finally, I did! Look at me now dad! I pulled out the pull-y out-y dip-sticky thing and wiped it clean with some dunkin’ donuts napkins, put it back in, and pulled it out again (giggity). No oil.
Triumphant-me: “You need oil.”
Dumbfounded-Young-Lady: “Oh jeez. Ok. What kind of oil?”
Wind-blown-out-of-sails-me: “Ummmmm….crap…hold on…I have no idea…. Let me call my Dad.”
Dad: “Hello? What’s up”
Daddy’s-little-girl: “Well, a stranger here in Harlem, asked for my help, so I came over to their car to see what was the matter. Not sure what the make is, this ally is very dark.”
Dear-old-Dad: (smacks forehead)
Me: “I checked her oil, and I think it’s out. What kind of oil does she need. It’s a normal sized car.”
Dad-who-I-should-probably-mention-is-a-truck-driver-and-knows-a-lot-about-cars: “I’d say probably z100, or 92Q, or Mix106.5 (I don’t really remember what kind of oil he said, so I just substituted Baltimore radio stations of the early 90’s for the purpose of this blog post).”
Me: “Go get some 99.1WHFS!”
Young-Lady: “Ok!”
3 minutes later…
Me: “Ok, dad. We’re putting it in the car….wait a second, should it be spitting at us?
Dad: “Is the car running.”
Me: “yes.”
Dad: “Turn it off!!!!!!”
Me-as-if-I-was-in-a-scene-from-Die-Hard:“Turn it off!!!!! Run!!!!! It’s a powder keg!!!! We’re all going to die!!!!!!”(and then proceed to hang up on my dad in hysteria).
Young-Lady: “Ahhhhh!!!! I can’t!!!! I just got the battery jump started!!! I’m supposed to leave it running!!!! What are we gonna do????”
Panicked-and-confused-Me: (calling my dad back) “Are we going to explode???? Did I almost just kill us???”
Dad: “No. You’re just not supposed to put oil in a running car.”
Me-who-should-have-paid-more-attention-to-my-Dad-when-I-was-16-when-he-taught-me-how-to-check-oil: “She just got a jump start so she can’t turn it off. And I just crapped my pants. Is crap flammable?”
Dad-who-is-constantly-in-awe-of-how-his-daughter-has-survived-this-long: “No. Just fill it up with a quart and she should be fine until she gets where she needs to be to turn it off.”
sixty six days of sarah 
