The Essentials

When you move to a new place, there are a lot of things to take care of. Changing all of your  bills to your new address, updating your driver's license and registration, finding a new doctor, etc. This is the drudgery of relocation. It's time consuming, but it does nothing to make you feel at home. For me, the true essentials of being happy where I live involve finding:

1) A "greasy spoon" diner - for the occassional big, fatty, sampler-platter style weekend breakfast (Now simply a guilty pleasure rather than the hangover cure of my college days.)

2) A good sushi bar - for sushi, obvi.

3) A running trail - which doesn't have to be an actual trail, just a safe loop with nice ambiance and hopefully some shade.

4) A library - I mean, I'm a librarian.

5) A tailor - for hemming everything to fit my stumpy petite frame.

Checking everything off this list can take a long time. Like me, you can be somewhere for years before experiencing the thrill of the find.

I had a bag of clothes that needed alterations sitting on my closet floor for literally a year until my friend Keekes recently recommended a good tailor. And oh, what a tailor he is! Not only does he do exquisite work at reasonable prices. He embodies the particularly wonderful je nes sais pas that I want for my tailoring experience -- or whatever the Italian equivalent of that is. When I walked in, I just about did a happy dance. The shop is tiny and old, with ancient but well maintained sewing machines in the workroom, bustling along with a sing-song whir. The tailor himself is a sweet older gentleman -- complete with a handlebar mustache! His movements are swift and proficient, and his thick Italian accent is a lovely bonus to the aura. Do I really need to fully understand what he's saying when he is obviously so competent? The answer is no.  He is like your grandpa if your grandpa is a happy and gentle soul, has impeccable taste, makes delicious homemade pasta sauce, and plays bocci on the weekends -- in other words, very lovable.

I am so glad I didn't cave and go back to the crappy lady at the dry cleaners down the street. I didn't expect to find the quintessential master tailor in the middle of South Carolina, but I'm happy that I did and it's made me feel a little more complete in this place.

I'm sure everyone has different things they look for in a new city -- the little finds that make you feel at home, and I'm curious...what are yours?

After the Pause

As you can see, I recently took a nice long hiatus from blogging. What have I been up to, you ask? Actually, quite a lot. Here's a quick visual summary to catch you up:

I ran the Marine Corps Marathon - my 7th and The Hubs' 1st!

We celebrated our first wedding anniversary. Old cake! Yum!

We met Tom Selleck at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund Gala.
What a fox! (And a nice guy)

We got all shnazzed up for the Marine Corps Birthday Ball

I graduated with my Master's degree in Library & Information Science!

We spent Christmas in California,
(image from viwephotos.info/)

And found out that we'll be living apart for another year :(
(image from www.futurity.org)

I've been trying to stop the house from crumbling around me.
(Just kidding...kind of...)

Of course I've been hanging out with the pups!

And having snuggy snugs with Ziggy.

I'm still cooking a lot...

And finding things to organize...

And I'm keeping busy with work!
 Here I am at a recent Cocky's Reading Express event. So fun!

So there you have it. My recent life in a few snapshots. Looking forward to filling you in on the details now that life is settling back down again.

Cheers,

Sarah

Evolving Kitty Antics

First of all, I should update you that my TV fasting really did work. I watched only two hours of television in nine days, a record of which I am quite proud. And then a weekend rolled around, and I finally caved and cleared out my DVR. The proper balance seems to be avoiding it at all costs during the week, and then enjoying being a glutton all weekend.

But what I really want to share is a new development in Ziggy's demented personality. Every morning around 5:30, Ziggy comes into the bedroom, jumps up onto the bed, climbs over me and onto the side table, and starts chewing on the lampshade. And it drives me absolutely bonkers. The first few times he did it, I jumped up and chased him out of the room yelling and waving my arms like a maniac. But it seems as though it's all a ploy for attention, since the more peaceful tactic of scootching over to create a warm spot for him to be my little spoon seems to work. At least temporarily. As soon as I fall back asleep, and therefore stop petting him, he resumes eating the lampshade. Lately we've been repeating this cycle about three times before I finally jump up and chase him out of the room yelling and waving my arms like a maniac.

When he was a kitten, his nightly routine was to attack my face promptly at 11 pm. So I guess we're making progress?

Yes, you should be embarrassed,
you little nocturnal attention whore.

Tuning Out (Temporarily)

A while ago I wrote about not having much time to sit around and pine for my geo-bachelor husband. Well, apparently I have a lot of time to sit around and stare zombie eyed at the television, because I've been doing a whole lot of that lately. It all started so innocently. I would turn the TV on just for background noise so the house wasn't so quiet and empty feeling. But the problem with that was I ended up listening to the background noise, and getting sucked into watching Kardashian marathons and Teen Mom finale specials. Then I was using it as an avoidance tactic instead of doing work for my painfully boring research class. And then it was just because I was in a bit of a shlump, and half the time I wasn't even watching a show because nothing even slightly good was on; I just flipped mindlessly through the commercials instead of trying to do something more interesting.

With deadlines looming, and my spirit slipping into self loathing after realizing that I was watching the same reruns more than once in the same day, I decided it was time for a detox. I was shooting for 24 hours sans TV, but it turns out that I really do have a lot of other things I can and should be doing. Things like finishing a paper and doing laundry and cooking dinner and taking my dog for a walk and finishing a beautiful, heart-wrenching novel. (No, I wasn't playing favorites. The other pup was at the park with his bff, a certain spunky black lab). And, I'm very much enjoying the silence. The weather is cool and the crickets are chirping and my windows are open to the breeze, and it's peaceful. That is, until the neighbors decide to have another raucous party. It's been 46 hours so far since my last reality TV fix, and considering my plans for the rest of the weekend, I think I might actually make it much longer.

Me vs. The Lawn Equipment

While I was out running the other day, I saw one of my young, female neighbors calmly and efficiently trimming the grass around her flower beds using my most feared yard tool: the Weed Wacker. She made it look so easy that I vowed this would be the weekend I would finally try to conquer the rest of the mysterious manly stuff in the shed that I've been avoiding.

I think I missed something...

So this morning I got up, opened the shed, put on my gloves, and got to work. I tried to ease into it, first mowing the grass with my nice, silent, non-gas-spewing manual mower. Today, it was okay that it didn't even pretend to cut the thicker weeds; the dreaded Wacker was following close behind to tame those reluctant tufts into submission. After going over the whole backyard a few times, I could no longer avoid it.  I got the Wacker off its hook, attached the extension cord, and pressed the button. And I was.....moderately successful. The edges along the walkway are clearly delineated if a little wonky, and I only wacked a few bare patches into the lawn. However, while the weeds along the edge of the path were severed, they were still stubbornly clinging to the center of the path.

After somewhat clearing the path, I turned to the weeds at perimeter of the house, and that's when things really went downhill. They should change the sticker saying, "no bumping required" to "no bumping into the side of the house recommended." Anyone know how to fix that little green thingy?

On the bright side, it does still wack things--just in a much smaller circumference.

Once I was sufficiently dejected by the Wacker, I turned to the Blower. This is much more my style. I might get some dirt on my face, but I won't chop off any toes, and there are less moving parts for me to break. It's also lighter and easier to carry around. Unfortunately, I am only as good with the Blower as I am with an iron, which is to say...not good. For every area I smooth out, I create more wrinkles in other areas that were just fine and dandy prior to my intrusion.

I tested my aptitude with this equipment from the shielded safety of my backyard prior to going out front, because I knew I was going to make an ass out of myself and wanted to limit the number of spectators as much as possible. But even with the practice, I did get quite a few strange looks once I finally tackled the front yard. It probably had something to do with the medieval torture device I was jumping up and down on. I speak of course of the Aerator. Our front yard is so dry and grassless and compacted that instead of rolling it to and fro like a normal person, I had to take a more series-of-swift-punctures approach. 

But having a raggedy yard will just make our house spookier for Halloween, right? And that'll be here before you know it, so it's probably a good thing that I start getting ready now...

Oh and did I mention that while all these festivities were happening, one of our dogs, Ollie, licked up some ant killer? Don't worry, I called the poison control number and he'll be fine. Turns out it's mostly ground up corn, and the pesticide is much more harmful to a microscopic ant than it is to an 80 pound dog. So today, it's actually a good thing that he's a bit of a fat-ass!

I think we all better stay inside for a while. 

Nom Nom Nom

With The Hubs gone, there have certainly been days when all I can rustle up for dinner is a fun-sized bag of barbecue potato chips and a box of lean cuisine eggrolls. Or an entire sleeve of Saltine crackers and a bowl of raw veggies with ranch dip. C'est la vie. But ironically, I've actually been cooking a lot more now that he's gone than I did when he was still here...probably because I don't have him to cook for me! I am also the Queen of Leftovers lately, which is kind of necessary since most recipes make enough food for at least four, and I am only one. If I didn't get inventive, I'd be throwing out a whole heap of food. For example, I made a big brisket roast with carrots, and then repurposed it as both enchilada filling and a breakfast hash (see below).

A while ago, I posted about a commitment to start planning meals and following recipes instead of throwing things together willy nilly, and I am happy to report that I have actually followed through. The potato, carrot, and leek soup was from a vegetarian cookbook, and the tuna steak with lemon and herbs was from a vintage New York Times cookbook that my wonderful mother-in-law got for me. The roasted beet and goat cheese salad recipe I got from the Epicurious app I have on my phone (one of my go-to resources). The dressing is so yummy and so easy -- just some extra virgin olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and frozen orange juice concentrate. Tangy and delish!

I've been meaning to post about my culinary adventures while I was in New Orleans for the American Library Association Conference. I mean, it was fun to learn about library stuff and all, but it was sorta all about the food. My roommates and I had the goal of "eating our way through New Orleans" and I think we put a decent dent in it. If I can ever find the camera that has all those pictures on it, I will be sure to let you in on my best finds from The Big Easy. Two words: Shrimp Creole.

During our honeymoon trip to Saint Martin, my main focus was on eating as much delicious French food as I could....it seems as though the older I get, the more my life revolves around food. Cooking and eating has replaced partying and at least some of my wild adventures. It's a good thing I run marathons, or else I might be a little rolly polly.

Happy eating,
Sarah

p.s. When in doubt, put an egg on it.

A Self Righteous, Passive Aggressive Moment

The next time my neighbors decide to throw a loud, obnoxious party until 3 a.m., I just might have to wake up at 6 a.m. the next day to do some yard work. In particular, I might have to mow the non-existent grass and blow around all of those leaves that are in my side yard. You know, the side yard right outside my bedroom window where all their drunk friends were parked, and thus where their drunk friends kept slamming their car doors all night. Apparently, a prerequisite for attending an obnoxious party is the ability to enter and exit things emphatically. I might also have to scream expletives while I'm doing said yard work, but that shouldn't bother them because it seems to simply be the way in which they communicate with one another.

Seriously though, I live in a really nice, family friendly neighborhood. If they want to throw down like that, they should have chosen to live on campus in the Greek Village. I realize I'm sounding like an old fuddy duddy, but people's complete obliviousness (or plain lack of regard) for how their actions might effect other people gets under my skin and drives me crazy. We've had parties here until the wee hours of the morning...but we keep the noise inside the house, not outside right next to where our neighbors are trying to sleep. Even in my college heydays I tried to keep the volume down whenever I had parties. Be young and fiesty, do whatever you want. But don't force the whole rest of the neighborhood to listen to your idiocy. It's just rude.

Sink or Swim

I am now officially a geo-bachelorette. We knew this day was coming, but despite all of our best intentions to "prepare" ourselves we didn't really succeed at that. I was taking an intense summer class, spending all my nights and weekends doing schoolwork. The Hubs was packing up his stuff and hanging out with all of his SC friends for a last hoorah. And then, suddenly, he was gone. The days had been so full of stuff to do that the reality of living apart for nine months didn't finally sink in until his Uhaul was pulling out of the driveway.

For the first week, I couldn't sleep. I would lay in bed until 3, 4, 5 in the morning until finally lulled into an infomercial induced coma. It wasn't because I was worried about him; I knew he was safe and settling in. It was just different. There was something missing. It's a good thing he still has a lot of clothes and other things here, because it allows me the illusion that he is just gone for a short trip, whenever I need to fool myself. If his half of the closet was completely empty, I have a feeling I would be much more of a basket case. Even more of a basket case than using his bath towel that he left hanging on the hook instead of putting in the laundry hamper, just because it's his. (Don't judge me.)

Fortunately, I have slowly been forced back into a regular schedule by the demands of work and my final semester of grad school. And it's quickly become apparent that staying busy is going to be my primary coping mechanism for this separation. Between taking a research class, working three jobs, playing on a kickball team, training for a marathon, and doing all the house and pet stuff on my own, I don't have all that much time to sit around and pine for him.

Speaking of house and pet stuff, I am pretty proud of myself for not letting things immediately turn to rubble. I've been keeping up with the always-necessary vacuuming, dusting, mopping, etc. I have not allowed dishes to accumulate in the sink, despite having a broken dishwasher for a while. I've shuttled the dogs back and forth from the vet's office (although I do have to stagger the visits because I can't wrangle them both at once--especially since one becomes panicky and irate whenever coerced into the exam room). I've done yard work--and not just mowing! I actually trimmed all of our overgrown trees and shrubbery! (There is an inappropriate alternate meaning there as well, but I will gracefully leave it unsaid.) I also took a solo road trip with both dogs, which, believe me, requires acrobatic-like skills during potty stops.

However, I am still afraid of the weed-wacker and the power washer. And I have not yet had sufficient initiative to drag the mower onto the other side of the house. And I borrowed The Hubs' friend to come install the new dishwasher instead of figuring it out myself. And now the vacuum cleaner is broken, with pet hair swiftly accumulating as I figure out what the heck to do with it.

There was no gradually acclimating to this scenario. We just had to jump in--I like to imagine cannonball style, with a dramatic splash--into the deep end. And while I'm not sprinting through the waters, neither am I clinging desperately to a raft. I'm figuring things out the best I can, moment to moment.

I'm doggie paddling.

Ollie has not yet embraced the "sink or swim" mentality. He's a clinger.

The Order In Which I Neglect Things:

1. Blogging (sorry folks)
2. Anything and everything that could be considered a "domestic art"
3. Exercise
4. Sleep
5. Personal hygiene
6. Sanity

Only seven more days until the end of the summer semester.

Whatever Gets Me Through The Day

I read an article in Shape magazine a while ago, talking about how different people motivate themselves to push through hard workouts by using different tactics. Some meditate, some try to distract themselves, and others respond better to Zena Warrior Princess-esque battle cries.

As I've begun training for my next marathon (and particularly now that I am not yet back in shape and even my short runs are a struggle) I've been thinking about all the little mental games I play with myself just to make it through my workouts. I have quite a few up my sweat-wicking Under Armor sleeve, so I thought I'd share them with all the other reluctant runners out there, as well as anyone else who often finds themselves in...unpleasant situations.

First there is mentally declaring war on whatever poor soul happens to be using a machine nearby. I believe this is pretty common, but I am the champ! It doesn't matter if it's the peppy sorority girl on the elliptical, the 500-pound guy walking two miles an hour, the track-star-looking guy with legs longer than my whole body, or a sweet little old lady. It. Is. On. And I will not stop my machine before they do. This usually gets me past the first 20-30 minutes, since that's about when most normal people stop and move on to greener pastures. Oh, but not me.

Once I've exhausted my supply of unsuspecting opponents, but it's still early enough in my run that I have a little pep in my step, that's when I start performing "Shoop" by Salt-N-Pepa. Not outwardly of course; my legs are a little busy. But in my head, I am starring as both Salt AND Pepa in a kick ass music video a la the Fly Girls from In Living Color. Added bonus: I will be prepared with an awesome routine if The Hubs ever gets me drunk enough to do karaoke.

When I'm dripping sweat and my energy starts to drain, I imagine Jillian Michaels screaming in my face. KEEP GOING! KEEP GOING! DON'T YOU DARE SLOW DOWN! I DON'T CARE IF YOU VOMIT ALL OVER YOURSELF, YOU WILL FINISH THIS WORKOUT! RAWWRRRR!!!

Well, Jillian is a very busy gal. She can't stick around all day. So when I'm out from under her watchful eyes, I start bargaining with myself. I'll make deals like, "I'm going to slow down for two minutes, and then bump it back up again." Or, "I am not going to look at the treadmill screen again until I count to 100." Or, "I am going to keep this incline until that guy outside walks to his car, gets in it, and drives away." You get the idea.

But when my body really starts to panic, and I start questioning whether I can make it even a tenth of a mile further let alone three miles, this is the mantra I always come back to: "Of course I can." It's this simple little reality check that snaps me out of questioning myself and looking for excuses to give up. And it works, because it's true. Because I've done it before, and I'll do it again. Because my mind can show my body who's boss. Because whether I finish by sprinting, walking, or dragging myself by my fingernails, I will finish. Of course I can.

Here I am with my pops after the Marine Corps Marathon.
I'm currently training for this same race--only this time The Hubs is doing it too!

The Storm Before The Calm

Getting ready to go on vacation is always a little crazy. There's trying to make up extra hours at work, doing laundry, packing, paying bills, figuring out petsitting arrangements, and generally doling out all the information anyone might need to take care of things in your absence. For us, it also usually includes a deep cleaning of the entire house, since The Hubs is singly focused on the joys of returning home to fur-free floors and fresh sheets. I have to admit, it is pretty nice. There was so much running around this time, however, that all we could manage was to mow the grass, do the dishes, and clean out the litter box. Our friend is staying at our house while we're gone to watch Ziggy and Tweeder, and he'll have his dog with him too, so I suppose the floors wouldn't be fur free when we got home, even if we had done the usual swabbing of the decks.

On Thursday, we drove the eight hours up to my parents house to drop off our other dog Ollie. Friday was filled with running errands and my sister's surprise 30th birthday party, and this morning we woke up bright and early and are currently sitting in Dulles airport waiting for our flight to beautiful St. Martin. Well, we're flying to St. Maarten, but then staying on the French side, St. Martin.

That's right. After seven months of marriage, we're finally going on our honeymoon! So all of the crazy preparations were totally worth it, because my reward is to spend a whole week alone with my honey, right here:

(photo from villavillas.com)

Cheers,
Sarah

Before My Husband Leaves

In just two short months my husband will move to another state, becoming what the military calls a "geographic bachelor." He will essentially relocate the contents of his man room to a small apartment eight hours away. He'll be at school--not deployed--so I don't have to worry about him being in danger unless you count the occasional paper cut. We'll see each other most weekends, and we're already used to spending a lot of time apart, so I'm also not worried about losing touch or the spark of our honeymoon phase. If anything, more time apart will probably extend our honeymoon phase for an extra year. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, yes? But what I'm really a bit nervous about...what I really want to know is...who is going to open the honey jar?

I admit I've grown soft in my marriage, coming to depend on The Hubs to pick up the slack for all of the million tiny things I forget, am incapable of, or simple don't feel like dealing with. Things like fixing the cars, killing roaches, carrying our beer pong team to victory (because I'm definitely no help there), providing enough body heat for both of us during the winter months, and of course anything involving math. Visitors to my house will hear many requests for "man hands" to open condiments, lift things that are heavy, and reach things that are high. He plants the grass and mows the lawn, or at least is there to troubleshoot when my infrequent attempts at lawn mowing go awry. ("So, your hippie-dippie non-motorized push mower won't roll forward? It might have something to do with that big stick caught in the blades.") Don't think that it's a one-way street with The Hubs doing all the work; I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who has ever cleaned our toilets. But the point is, I rely on him an awful lot.

My standard reply, when man hands opens something on the first try after I've shredded my palms trying to do it, is "thanks," followed by "well, I loosened it up for you." It seems as though no matter how hard I try, it always takes one last touch from my big, strong hubby's hands to make everything turn out right. And I like that. It seems to be an apt metaphor for marriage. But the other day, when I wanted some honey for my tea and the lid just wouldn't budge, I passed it off to The Hubs. And instead of opening it with a mere flick of his wrist, he handed it back to me and told me to give it one last shot. And you know what? I got it. So I guess that's an apt metaphor for a military marriage. We will always rely on each other, and he'll be there when he can. But sometimes he'll have to pass everything back to me and I'll just have to make it work without him.

I don't know if he handed the jar back to me because he was sick of dealing with my feeble requests for help, because he just wanted to give me a confidence boost, or because he is slowly trying to prepare me to deal with life in his absence. But it seems to me that there are two ways of preparing for a separation, whether a deployment or a geo-bachelor TDY (temporary duty assignment). You can try to wean yourself off your spouse, taking on their jobs around the house and trying to figure everything out for yourself before asking them to step in. Or, you can sit back and let them help you out as much as possible now, because you'll be taking care of everything by yourself soon enough. If I'm feeling particularly lazy, I'm inclined towards the latter, i.e. "I'll be the only one cleaning the kitty litter box for nine whole months, so you should do it now even though you did it last time." But I guess a part of me does feel like it's time to slowly take on more and more responsibilities, testing out my self-sufficiency while I still have him here as my safety net.

What do you think is better: pulling away before he's actually gone, or keeping everything the same until the last possible moment?

Sarah

Que Sera, Sarah

It's no coincidence that my name fits in so nicely with this well-known phrase sung by the glorious Doris Day. It happens to be my personal motto. Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. Or as I like to say, "toast is toast." It's a relaxed but confident, optimistic yet objective, tolerant and open-to-possibilities mindset that I tend towards. This is not to say that I don't make plans, have goals, try my best to reach them, or occasionally get stressed out. I just don't feel the need to know all the answers or hold grudges, and I generally feel like everything will eventually shake out the way it's supposed to. Not everyone can understand or agree with such a laissez faire attitude, but it works for me--in my approach to friendships and day-to-day problems, to religion and my relationship with God, and even when someone cuts me off on the highway. My family likes to tell this story about how, as a child, if someone made me angry I would booby trap my room out of spite so they couldn't come in. I'm all for funny and embarrassing stories from youth, but every time this one is told it really bothers me because the point of telling it is to demonstrate that I hang on to ill feelings with vindictiveness, and this is so contrary to who I actually am.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately, becoming reflective and self-assessing as my birthday came and went. And I can honestly say, with no egotism, that I really like who I am. When I think about how I treat people, how I treat myself, and how I spend my time, I realize that I am the person who I want to be. This was kind of a surprising realization, since that was definitely not always the case. I know that I needed to spend many years floundering and making mistakes in order to get here, and I know that I'm not done evolving. But for now, it's nice to have wonderful friends and family, a fabulous husband, adorable and goofy pets to pour love into, good health, and to know that I've finally found what I really want to do career wise. As I roll into my 27th year on this planet, I am filled an attitude of gratitude, and a sense of infinite possibilities.

Cheers,

Sarah

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Monday afternoon, I sent off my last assignment of the semester (woot!) and hit the open road with one of my furry children. 450 miles, one outrageous gas tank fill up at a kooky country store, one human/canine potty stop, and about eight hours later, I arrived at my parent's house in Virginia. This semester has been so jam packed that I hadn't seen my family since Christmas, which is just way too long. The next morning, I went with my mom to her bowling league, out to lunch, ran some errands (and did some shopping for honeymoon clothes, in case The Hubs is wondering what that big charge was), and decided to drive back down south another 175 miles to my little sister's house. She had a baby this past October and I sorely needed to catch up on all the growth and development I've missed over the last five months.

After lots of baby snuggling, picture taking, the first margarita of the Cinco de Mayo festivities, and an...interesting night sleeping in a recliner, my mom and I headed the 175 miles back north (after adding quite a few extra miles searching for an IHOP; I was on a pancake mission). After a glorious nap to undo some of the restless recliner hours, we went to see my other nephews' chorus and strings concert. Afterwards, we went out to dinner and I thoroughly enjoyed margarita number two. Who cares if I'm not Mexican? I'm on vacation! And, dammit, I'm celebrating Cinco de Mayo all week. Ole'!

I got to sleep in this morning, and am going to see my two best friends tonight to catch up over some beers and live music (and margarita #3, if I have anything to say about it). Tomorrow is my nephew's baseball game, and hopefully spending some time with another great friend. Then Sunday is Mother's Day and a family barbecue, and Monday Ollie and I make our way 450 miles back to South Carolina, thus ending my whirlwind tour. Whew!

But right now it's time to add a couple more miles to my trip, by foot. My troublesome infected poison ivy is finally healed to the point that I can wear running shoes, and I need some way to justify my margarita habit :)

Cheers,
Sarah

Time To Get Some Shape-Ups...

...is what a snotty undergrad said to me yesterday as I walked past her and her boyfriend on campus. I was turning in a final paper and returning some library books before hitting the gym, so I was wearing my workout clothes. As I passed them I smiled and nodded hello, as I do to everyone. Instead of smiling back, she looked right at me and made a snide comment. Apparently, she was unimpressed with how my legs looked in my running shorts.

Her comment was particularly timely since this weekend I saw myself in a bathing suit for the first time in a very long time, and thus I am keenly aware of my lack of muscle tone. But even though I know that I'm a bit jiggly these days, give me a break! I was headed to the gym! All I can say is that being hateful will hold her back a lot more than it will effect me. I can trim down and buff up with some simple exercise, but overcoming a bad personality is a lot more difficult. I am seriously mourning the decline of manners and civility in our society.

But, despite her rudeness, I really am curious about those toning sneakers and wouldn't mind wearing them around campus since I usually end up walking a lot. I like some of the styles that look more like regular sneakers rather than the Shape-Ups. Has anyone tried the New Balance or Reebok versions?

And speaking of bathing suits, The Hubs and I finally booked our honeymoon! This summer we are headed to the French side of St. Martin for a glorious week of sun and relaxation. The kicker? We're staying at a very nice, very nude beach. A "clothing optional paradise!" ha ha. I seriously doubt that I will be flashing the full monty, but perhaps I'll go topless. It would be so European of me :)  Although, exposing my tender bits that have never seen the light of day might be a bit painful. I'll have to take SPF 100,000,000 and wear it like body paint.

Have you ever been to a nude beach before? If so, did you "participate"??

Pet Therapy

No, I'm not talking about sending our animals to a pet psychiatrist in order to figure out their frustrations and anxieties...although I am possibly a big enough wackadoo to try something like that. I do love me some Dog Whisperer! What I'm talking about is taking advantage of the dopey cuddliness of animals in a purely selfish way.

This week has been incredibly busy, as every end-of-the-semester is. But in addition to all the final projects and presentations and work and volunteering, I am itching like crazy from head to toe. Spring allergies are making the inside of my skull prickly. I got stung by a wasp, so my thigh is swollen and red and rashy. My left foot has fallen victim to a ridonculous poison ivy reaction, and of course the bubbliest itchiest spot is exactly where any shoe or sandal will rub. (I would post pictures but I don't want to ruin your evening.) Halfway through running errands today, my car decided not to start. After switching cars with The Hubs, I needed to get gas. So I tried going to the hornets nest that is the PX gas station on a Friday afternoon, circled a few times, got honked at, gave up, and paid an absurd price per gallon just for the luxury of using a slightly less aggressive filling station. When the lady at Hobby Lobby was rude to me, I wanted to scream, "JUST SHOW ME WHERE THE DAMN BEESWAX IS! DON'T YOU KNOW THAT I'M ITCHY?!?!"

But then I got home, and all of our pets rushed to greet me with purrs and wagging tails. I scooped up the kitty, sat down, started scratching the dogs behind their ears, and within 30 seconds all was right with the world.

The Benadryl is calling me, but I'll leave you with some gratuitous pet photos just in case you're also having one of those days. Maybe their magic will work even virtually.

Sarah

Following Directions

Well, I did it. Yesterday, I actually cooked dinner from a recipe, although I did add a little somethin'-somethin' extra to make it my own (and to make it a "real dinner" by The Hubs' standards). I try to eat healthy but haven't been doing very well lately, so for my foray into recipedom I went for a vegetarian cookbook. I chose a Greek bean one-pot dish which was very delish on its own, but for some people it doesn't count as a real meal unless it includes meat, so I threw some fish in the pot during the last 15 minutes.

I'll have to follow directions more often, because The Hubs polished off the other three portions and that's a good review if ever I've had one. Although, if the goal is for us to eat healthily, I'm not sure encouraging him to eat triple portions is the way to go.

On another high note, I found a great way to re-use all the name tag stickers we have in our junk drawer for some reason:

The Return of Hot Tub Sarah

A while ago, when my friendship with Keekes was still just a spring bud peeking out of the awakening earth (ok, enough of that), I found out that her husband had taken to calling me "Hot Tub Sarah," since there are always a lot of Sarah's around, and we just happen to have a hot tub at our house. I actually like it. I think it's kind of catchy.

Unfortunately, we never really use our hot tub. We never really even go around to the side of the house where it sits, cold and silent, yearning to give warmth and comfort to some grateful companions (seriously, what is my deal today). That is, until last night.

After working for five hours, and then working on a school assignment for another eight hours straight as soon as I got home, I was in desperate need of something. Something to calm my frazzled brain and make me less of a bear to be around. And then I remembered: Hot Tub!

It was lovely. It was lulling. It was everything I hoped it would be. With my glass of wine and box of wheat thins, I slowly returned from a crazed grad student to a normal human being. With so much left to do before the end of the semester, I have a lot more hot tubbing in my future.

Cheers,

Sarah

This never would have happened if I was still 10 years old.

I injured myself. Like, really injured myself. Playing kickball. And it's not like I did it during an epic showdown of stealing home and sliding into the catcher. It was the first play of the game. I was in right field. When the player "at bat" kicked the ball, I started to run forward to cover the throw to first base. And on my very first step, it felt like both quads had been ripped off the bone. When I was a kid, I did not have to slowly warm up and stretch for an hour before engaging in any physical activity. I just went out and started playing. When did my muscles begin to petrify, making my legs into useless, inflexible stumps?

As I've gotten older, I've noticed that there are a lot of walls I'm hitting. One day, all of a sudden, I woke up and my face was too busted looking to go out of the house without makeup. One day, out of blue, I went from being able to pull productive all-nighters to becoming completely incompetent after 11 o'clock. And now this!

If I was still ten years old, I would be fluid and carefree. I would be able to roll out of bed, climb on my bike, ride down a hill, smash into a tree, get right back up and do it again. I would not have bags under my eyes, or need to medicate and pack myself in ice after a simple game of kickball.

But I also would not have boobs, or be able to drink alcohol. So I've got that going for me.

Cheers,
Sarah

Hot Diggity Chow Chow!

copyright:
Carolina Sauce Co.

I have a new favorite Southern find--hot chow chow! No, it's not a dog suffering through a South Carolina summer. And it's not an Asian drag queen at the gay cabaret club that I'm still meaning to go to one of these days. Chow chow is a heavenly concoction of cabbage, peppers, onions, vinegar, and spices--basically a relish except no pickles. Many of the recipes I've found incorporate green tomatoes as well, but those were left out of the jar I stumbled upon at the roadside farmer's market. It's tangy and delish, and the perfect condiment for pretty much anything. How did I go through my whole life--and more than a year of living in the South--without knowing about this?!? Well, now I'm certainly making up for lost time.

Here's one that sounds very similar to the kind I have. And the makers even donate part of their proceeds from every jar to another fun new discovery of mine: Operation Sauce Drop. They send tasty sauces -- and chow chow -- to servicemen and women overseas. Awesome!

Have you moved to a new place and fallen in love with one of their regional treats?