Sarcomical

10 reasons I am not ready for Thanksgiving to be a week away:

1. I sometimes still think it's September.
2. I know THE INFLATABLES are due to appear on neighbors' lawns shortly after, and I'm not mentally prepared for giant ugly plastic snowglobes and Spongebobs and snowmen.
3. I had a fantasy about being in much better shape by Thanksgiving. pbbbbtt.
4. FIVE HOUR DRIVE TO IN-LAWS' WITH THREE DOGS IN THE CAR.
5. I'm still waiting to do that Fall picnic on the museum grounds.
6. I'm not ready for t-shirt weather to be over in the midwest.
7. I didn''t set the DVR for the Macy's Parade yet.
8. I'm going to the stylist to have someone else color my hair for the first time in over a year next Monday, and that only gives me 3 days for emergency recon if necessary.
9. I don't think I've soaked up enough Autumn to carry me through dreary Winter.
10. FIVE HOUR DRIVE BACK FROM IN-LAWS' WITH THREE DOGS AND LEFTOVERS AND LIKELY SOME RANDOM ITEM FROM MOTHER-IN-LAW'S CLOSET SHE DOES NOT WANT BUT DECIDED TO GIVE US THAT WE DO NOT ACTUALLY WANT IN THE CAR.

nice try, Snow

We were gifted with our first snow today.

BLEH.

It was a wet, swirling, melty, barely-there snow that flirted with the rain and stuck its tongue out at Fall in lieu of an early eviction notice.

I don't like when the snow comes early.

Not only did we get our first snow, but while in Target tonight we were walking past the Christmas section (sigh, I can't) and thought, what if we went ahead and got our two boxes of cards now, so we don't have to worry about it later? Kind of gross, but I guess a good thing because we found some that were very Us and very Not Country Crafty/Cutesy and very Not Attempting to Convert through Correspondence, and there were only two boxes left. So. Done. But we did, however joke about buying a box of possibly the most glitter-covered cards I have EVER seen in my life (as in the entire front was a snowy bank with animals on it and you would probably inhale glitter upon opening) and give those to people we don't like. Think of it - glitter on their faces, glitter on their plates, glitter on their pets, glitter on their clothing 4 months later...but we were only joking of course.

All that fun aside, I do not think I am ready for winter. Stay away a few more weeks, you frozen windbag.

Bastion or Bandit?

I'm not really sure why this elephant is clinging to the ceramic tree trunk housing this bamboo, but I guess I should thank him for holding it up for me. Or. Maybe he's trying to steal it. I don't know. Hmm...he does appear to be sidling away, doesn't he? Suspicious? Perhaps...

Sneaky elephant.

SPOTTED

We've recently become gym-goers again, facing the undeniable speed at which Old is careening toward us in a flabby, drooly rage, and I've noticed just what fertile people-watching ground the gym is. Just a few days ago, for instance - SPOTTED: woman answering her phone and having a perfectly relaxed conversation while running full-speed on the treadmill (how does one do this?). ALSO SPOTTED: pear-shaped man wearing black lycra leggings playing racquetball, tiny ankles scuttling about furiously (interesting choice, sir).

There are other things I like to observe about people between flipping the pages of my Vanity Fair on the stairmaster and listening to the least annoying television through my headphones while trekking the "rolling hills" of the treadmill, but the most interesting person we've seen at the gym so far...the most intriguingly odd...is definitely a guy I like to call Creepy Creeperson.

The only place I ever see Creepy is on the treadmill. Every time we go, we look to see if he's there. Listen, I'm sure he may be a very nice guy in his day-to-day life, so okay, I'm not assuming to know anything about who he really is. But in our sole interaction with him, at that gym, Creepy becomes an object of uncomfortable wonderment to me.

Creepy has this very unusual way of using the treadmill. I typically notice he chooses the same one in the corner upstairs, overlooking the weight area below. Downstairs is where we first spotted Creepy from, actually. Because I'm not feeling a Flip video moment right now, I won't be showing you my impersonation of Creepy, so the best I can do is describe it to you in as accurate detail as possible.

First of all, he leans forward on the machine (you know that posture really exhausted people take on the stepper?), wrapping his fingers around the sidebars and locking his elbows so hard his arms look like pencils, and he gets close close close to the stats panel. He seems to always be straining and leaning, straining and leaning, so I can only assume he has jacked his incline up to 400,000. Hi fixes his gaze intently on the people below (seriously, SO VERY INTENTLY AND LIFETIME MOVIE KILLER-LIKE)...and then comes the flair, that which makes the whole thing a beautiful, beautiful trainwreck. His shoulders. HIS SHOULDERS. He sways them. He sashays them. Yes, arms locked, legs plodding, eyes boring holes into innocent bystanders below, yet shoulders scrunched up to his jawline, catwalking as if disjointed from the rest of his body.

I don't know, did I explain that well?

Ah, people. They're not dull, are they?

Big...Very Big News.

I'm not going to Rickroll you today as some sort of sophomoric April Fool's Day Joke. Oh, you'll probably see it resurrected in some way today, if you haven't already. Not to be a killjoy, but that is stale, my friends. Actually, I'm not going to do anything close. 

Instead, I have some special news to finally share...so if you want to take the high road with me today, check out this photo of the big announcement!

Treat Thyself

 

Green

We've never really been St. Patrick's Day Celebrating People. I've rarely gone out of my way to be seen wearing green. We aren't a couple who has ever been a "let's go out to a bar!" duo (even on non-holiday evenings). Once before in our decade living here we did venture out with some friends during the day o'vert, but from what I remember the most wondrous part of that evening was my first giant avocado burrito from La Bamba's on the way home.

This year, we did tiptoe out early(ish) in the evening, mostly to join in with Girls' Pint Out, which I recently found out about through a friend. This newly-formed group of ladies gets together a few times a month to socialize & prove that women do not have to merely sip white wine at dinner parties. They visit cool places and sample craft beer. It's something out of my typical circle of activity, but I like how diverse the range of women is and it's nice to have a the option of a new non-business-network group to congregate with occasionally.

Here are some pics (taken with poor pocket camera) from the evening, where we walked to three different spots within a local neighborhood (boys were invited along on this night, too):

Kilts. Yes. Alrighty then.

Suzanne gets cute with that free plastic hat. / Blonde Ambition the best of the 3 I tasted that night.

Obligatory self-shot in the bathroom!

This one was like licorice and you could practically chew it. I mostly just looked at it.

Shiloh looks cute in hats, no? ATTENTION HOG.

Things that charmed me this week:

A pitcher of water infused with sliced lemons.

Being warm & insulated during a snowstorm.

A fluffy cat who kept reminding me to pick him up and nuzzle his face.

My ugly, ugly bread machine loaf of olive & feta cheese "Greek Style Bread". It was flat, flat, flat, but I snacked on it all week long.

I. Got. Bangs.

oh, dear...

As it became clear I needed a trim desperately, I had to take on the task of finding a stylist to start fresh with again (my last cut being during our vacation in New York, and not quite yet jet-setty enough to whisk off whenever I please and all). I got Twitter input, consulted a few of my hair goddess friends (ahem Sarah ahem), decided to be brave, and then two hours before my appointment got a staggering case of The Bok Bok Boks (that's chicken language, my friends). I decided I'd just get my layers shaped up and sidle off quietly hoping everyone I'd bothered and pleaded with for hair opinions would maybe just not notice.

BUT.

Turns out, this new stylist I found...he's not afraid. In fact, he kind of took one look at me and the candy-ass photos of mediocrity I brought with me and suggested I go for it. He had a sample photo of his own from his recent training session with Nick Arrojo (oops, did you drop a name, there?) which was much more brave than what I was prepared for by the time I came in. He said, "let's try this, but a little longer and less bold, and see how you like it". And also, "can we curl it?" Um, yes. And, yes. Thank you, Greg, of g.michael Salon. Thank you for making the transition quite painless and, might I even say, not sucktastic in the least.

All Hallows Rarity at the SarcomiHaus

We typically don't pay a lot of attention to Halloween here in the SarcomiHaus. Sure, it's nice to see the neighborhood children dressed up when they come knocking on the door, but as a standard Mr. S. and I barely otherwise acknowledge the holiday. For some reason, this year I had an impulse to stop into the Halloween superstore driving by it a few days prior. I was thinking it might be fun to get Mr. S. a wig or mask since he would be walking around with his brother and two of our nieces to trick-or-treat.

Well, what began as a quick errand resulted in me wandering aisles of smelly plastic and giant hats, placing a disoriented call to my mother discussing the merits of foam viking armor versus pirate patches, and in the end I had a wig for each of us with only a vague idea about how it was all going to come together with clothes we had in our closets. After all, I personally haven't dressed in any costume for Halloween since I was 18 or 19 years old, and I think the same can be said for Mr. S as well. The results were, well...

This venture into the world of dress-up managed to terrorize our 13-year old cat. He scurried and crouched and hid stubbornly under the bed and refused to come out until we looked like ourselves again. He completely had no idea who we were. Of course, the dogs didn't realize anything at all was out of the ordinary - BIG GIGANTIC DERRR SHOCKER. (Please ignore disgusting skanky firehose dog toy in the photo below.) I whipped off that wig and dug into a pile of makeup remover wipes within 5 minutes of the end of the treat-dispersing. (And yes, that IS a George Foreman grill behind me, yo. Grilled cheese melts away stiletto boot pain, my friends. Also, Boot Hate is probably the cause of the look on my face.)

 

One Way or the Other...

*psst - i am currently culling over 500 photos from our week in new york city and getting ready to tell you all about my trip in the place i would like to marry or at least have some babies with. until then...

Here's what I've noticed.

There are a number of similarities between the way I behave when I've had a tumbler of coffee too late in the day and the way someone behaves (not me - NOT ME, of course, oh my silly pet hahaHAAA I don't do that...ahem) when "they" have imbibed a bit more than a wee glass of wine. How so, do you ask? (THAT'S RIGHT, YOU'RE ASKING; YOU KNOW IT, DON'T DENY IT.) Well. Allow me to count the ways:

1. I talk a little faster (yes. faster.)
2. I want to call or email every single person I know.
3. I believe everything I'm thinking is rather brilliant and write down little notes all over so that I don't forget to expound upon the most creative thoughts ever thought by a human the next day. In either case, I wake typically only to find cryptic and disjointed messages, such as "kick in the butt along with other factors", "Jimmy - speed it up", "cynic. perceptive. true." and "balloons so the boxes float". (These are of course examples, heh-heh, of, you know, POSSIBLE things I would write down, uhh...purely hypothetical and not just gathered from a stack of post-its in my desk drawer..nooo way.)
4. I chat up my dogs a lot. No, A LOT.
5. I concentrate intensely with great physical might to ensure I appear completely in charge of my faculties, i.e. "no, no, I'm not hyper/tipsy, I'm totally calm/sober you see, because caffeine/wine doesn't really affect me and LOOK how deliberate all of my movements and thoughts are, no jitters/slurring!"
6. I make very unfortunate food choices (as in, YES I think I need that burrito the size of my foot, please).
7. I'm pretty sure I can feel my body vibrating a little.
8. I begin to lose my fear of singing in public. Or, at the very least, want to do it quite loudly while alone.
9. I find myself giggling. It can become annoying.
10. I start to consider both HSN and QVC unironic and even slightly soothing television viewing choices.

Punch Out the Slasher

I was born into a heritage of women who look perpetually young for their age. These fortunate genes appear to have cleverly and deceptively delayed the appearance of aging parallel to my years for quite some time. For instance, in college I felt downright juvenile. At 23-24, I was often asked when applying for part-time jobs if I had graduated yet from high school. When I interviewed for more serious jobs at 27-28, I was given the Eye of Skepticism by older women who assumed I was there freshly out of college. I was carded for an R-rated movie as recently as last year (okay, while that is true, even I find that ridiculous). All of this is to say that yes, though it has on occasion been annoying, I have always known that as a lady, I would be a bloody fool to have a problem with looking younger than I am.

AHA, but you see, I am now 33. THIRTY-THREE. You can run, but you can not hide, sucker. Up until this past year I have never given a second thought to gravity, or joints, or noticed anything changing on my face aside from the bags that take over my reflection on certain mornings like two gray, flat butt cheeks under my eyes.

Suddenly, I am realizing just how much my laziness has begun to catch up with me, much as the killer in those slasher movies who appears in the medicine cabinet mirror behind the infuriatingly stupid woman who takes a steamy bath in the dark, empty two-story Victorian after her next door neighbor and all of her friends have been murdered, and then gets out, loosely drapes her towel around her chest and leaves the water running while she's reaching into the cabinet to put her toothbrush away, ensuring that she will have ZERO chance to hear said slasher coming up the stairs and then she shuts it and BAM! Cue the eee!-eee!-eee! music and HIS MENACING REFLECTION IS BEHIND HER.

My once naturally (and maddeningly to others) narrow limbs and flab-free stomach have been slightly losing ground under my lackadaisical care. I have only just recently (and merely a few times before that) even bothered to dedicate myself to any workout because I know that I can ALMOST be as lazy as I want if I just eat right and don't mind turning a blind eye toward the state of my ass.

I have never quite managed to maintain a truly steady facial routine, partly because I skip around with products quite a bit, and I admit I have more often that I'd like to divulge gone to bed without washing my face at all. I am now seeing some lines here and there that actually dare to linger a few seconds after a facial expression no longer requires their services, and I am becoming increasingly disturbed by the crease I notice in my neck after a few hours spent mindnumbingly bent over my keyboard. WHAT THE HELL?

I have back "issues" (even worse than I did as a tense young person who had deplorably sluggish posture) and as such I occasionally find myself getting up from a seated position and walking in a bent, staggering shape for a moment which TO MY HORROR I recognize as the exact stance I have seen my mother-in-law hobble along in during holiday gatherings after a long day. LO, I AM ELDERLY!

I'm beginning to hit the realization that if I don't crack down, and crack down HARD, the best I will ever have looked in my life is about 3-5 years behind me, and oh my God that is not even remotely acceptable. Not only will I have already looked my best, but I will have already felt my best, and I have to tell you I imagined the best feeling better than I have yet experienced, so I am at Critical Hour Code Orange here. While I am by no means a ragged mess, I am not setting myself up to be the hottest grandma at the pool, or perhaps something that sounds less gross than that, but you get my point.

Now...excuse me, I have to go bench press a refrigerator or run to Canada after I apply an oxygenating facial mask.

Life's Little Lessons: "Cute" is all in your head.

Here's what I've learned:

You will never accurately estimate how cute you are in a given day. This can be easily proven with a sneaky and/or ambush photograph taken of you by some jerk (let's call them, Your Husband...or Your Nerdy Co-Worker Who Can't Keep His Hands Off His iPhone,...or A Toddler High On Pixie Stix) who doesn't have the decency to give you a respectable lead time for preparing your angles and whatnot before snapping away.

Once you see this photo (and you WILL see it, because the aforementioned jerk ALWAYS wants to show off his work immediately and to anyone within a quarter mile), you will either be pleasantly surprised by a perfect curl or glowing skin...or deeply horrified by your miserly posture, sickly pallor, wonky eye, random bulging area, gigantic squirrel cheeks, shockingly flat hair, phantom zit, etc., etc., etc.

No matter which way that glorious wind blows, your own estimation of your cuteness will never - not in the slightest - be remotely correct.

Midsummer Rambling with a Side of Photos

I myself have a complicated relationship with summertime. I love it; I always feel like I am coming a little bit more alive when the sun starts blazing and the flowers are exploding. On the other hand, of all the seasons, I always seem to come out of it with the sense that I completely missed it somehow. I wouldn't doubt this is something a lot of you share on some level; maybe it has to do with our childhood calendar, where summer was always this vast and endless expanse of fun and popsicles and chlorine.

(terrycloth, yo.)

About a week ago one of the little boys across the street asked if we could bring one of our dogs out to say hello. While Mr. Sarcomical took Ricky over to be the ambassador, I snuck a photo through our front door. I thought their body language and expressions were so cute. Kids in summer, WITH puppies...

 

It seems Mr. Sarcomical & I haven't had much luck so far this year of grabbing fully onto summer. We have yet to attend a festival or fair, have not taken a picnic anywhere, and haven't hiked, biked, picked or played. That's okay; I know we'll find a way to cram some of that in before it's all over. On the other hand, something we have managed to do that I love about warm days is people-watch and meander the sidewalks downtown.

 

We saw a few more of these pairs downtown that day, obviously on a photo scavenger hunt. Kind of fun, I thought.

We've only been to the Chatterbox a few times, but I love it. It's a super-tiny spot, just one row of tables, a bar, and barely enough room in front for the live (mostly jazz) artists performing there to pile in and play.

(...see Lucille Ball up there?)

I love murky summer night skies...

We're trying to plan some sort of outdoor adventure in the next couple of weekends, but in the meantime we'll go for long walks after dinner peeking into lit windows in the neighborhood and then cuddle into the couch together watching a bit of bad television...with this guy barreling his way between us, of course. (Ricky gets all the pooch press today, I suppose.)

"What, ith sthomething wrong with my fathce? Why are you stharing at me like that?"

Perfectly Acceptable Excuses for Being Absent from Your Blog for Four Weeks...

*feel free to use these if you ever find yourself in a similar position in the future

• I was trapped in David Blaine's clear box
• My fingers were temporarily rendered useless in a freak dryer lint trap accident 
• The aliens didn't understand how much my readers needed me
• I was rearranging my Netflix queue
• That concerto wasn't going to write itself
• I was peeling a thick-skinned navel orange 
• My dogs ate my keyboard
• My dogs ate my brainstorm post-its
• My dogs ate my will to get up in the morning
• I went a little whacknut trying to figure out that whole Jacob business on LOST. I mean, honestly, WHAT THE HELL.
  
• I was filling in for Oprah
• That "weekend" in Cabo got a little...hazy
• I couldn't think in plus-140 character concepts (thanks, Twitter)
  
• I was cataloging everything in the house for possible sale on Ebay
• I was an emergency alternate for I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here
• I was in an extended food coma
• I was swimming across the Atlantic
• Apple desperately needed my services in order to finish that new iPhone

But I'm back now.

You mean...like a George Foreman grill?

I radiate heat when I wake up in the mornings.

Pulsating, haze-wavy heat.

In fact, I could quite possibly melt your hypothetical ice-encased body (resulting from your hypothetical misguided time machine excursion into the Pleistocene Ice Age followed by the fortuitous hypothetical Star Trekian beam thrusting you back into the present and materializing you straight into my bed) with approximately 15.3 seconds of indirect contact.

During most given days, I feel as if I'm running about 10 degrees colder than any actual environment I'm in. I shiver. I chatter. I say things like "no, seriously, feel my nose!", which my husband becomes increasingly annoyed with in direct proportion to the rate at which I seem to believe that HE NEEDS TO FEEL HOW COLD I AM RIGHT NOW! I stash sweaters in every room at easy arm's reach. I've even sunk so low as to resort to using the ever-avoided vacuum to remind my blood to extend itself to the very ends of my body, or OH YEAH there's always working out to get things thawed out. (And yes, I would actually rather do a cringeworthy workout than vacuum.)

...and yet.

The Husband believes he could possibly cook eggs on my body for breakfast while I'm sleeping.

I have a theory that I am hibernating like a bear every night.

However if this is true, shouldn't that mean I'd be burning a hell of a lot of fat in bed? Hmm...Sleep As Toning Technique...I could get behind that movement, if only it appeared to be a working practice.

Someone get on that.