Que Sera Sera


I started this blog one year ago today, on a whim late Halloween night, in an effort to make myself write on a regular basis after being laid off from the Worst Writing Job Ever in the Whole Entire World two days prior. I didn’t tell anyone about it, and to this day, only one person I know in real life even knows it exists, unless someone’s not telling me something. I have no idea how all of you wonderful people found it, and you have no idea how nice it is to read all the kind and funny things you say about it everyday. This site has been one of the highlights of the past year, which has been a long and strange one. I like to think it’s made me a better writer, since I’ve been more committed to this than I ever have been with any journal or creative endeavor. Sometimes when it’s slow at work or late at night, I read through my own archives out of nostalgia, and I’m so glad I’ve recorded all these moments and thoughts that I’d otherwise forget. It’s also allowed me to get to know so many cool people through their words, and that has brightened my year more than anything. So happy birthday, Que Sera Sera, and thank you to everyone who has ever read it.

These are the things I think about:

So, I was thinking. He-Man and Skeletor were locked in an epic battle for Castle Grayskull, right? I never understood this. Didn’t He-Man notice that Castle Grayskull kind of resembled Skeletor, and by kind of resembled, I mean they were obviously long-lost twins. Why didn’t He-Man just back off and find a castle that had a gay little Dutch boy haircut and leave Skeletor the evil digs? That would kind of be like if, instead of living on the Death Star, Darth Vader lived on a ship that looked like his helmet, and Luke Skywalker was like, hey, that’s my house.

Weekend highlights:

Friday night: Winning London with Erin (Olsen twins in drag, yo), lots of white zinfandel; smashed by 10, passed out by 12

Saturday morning: my dad cutting across other runners right before the finish line of the Tulsa Run to kiss my mom on the sidelines, everyone cheering

Saturday afternoon: crawling around the floor of the dark basement with my cute neighbor, successfully re-lighting the pilot light to our water heater; totally saw the top of his boxers

Saturday evening: bubble baths, britpop mix tape, Us magazine, phone calls

Saturday night: Donnie Darko with Tony and Emily; all three of us under the same blanket; Halloween candy, root beer floats and just plain beer

Sunday afternoon: rainy and cold, wearing pajamas, eating toast, and reading old emails until 4 pm

Sunday night: no new Alias means quality time with Tony Soprano

Sunday/Monday, 4 am: Jason Royal crooning the Spin Doctors’ “Two Princes” in my ear before I fall asleep


I totally forgot the best part of our family dinner conversation, where we all debated how many beers the average frisbee holds. The answer is typically two, and when I was a freshman in college, I dated a boy whose claim to fame was that he could drink a frisbee’s worth of beer in under 30 seconds. He’s in the CIA now. I like to think he’s my One That Got Away.

Excerpts from the Brown family Sunday night dinner:

“I’m going as Richie Tenenbaum for Halloween.”

“Tell me the magic of The Royal Tenenbaums again.”

“I can’t explain it to you. You like Meg Ryan and Will Smith movies.”

“I like other movies too! They all just seemed like lost souls to me.”

“Mom, everyone’s a little lost.”

“…so I can totally hear my secret lesbian neighbors through the floor.”

“Do they ever say, ‘yo go, girl’?”

“Kids, do you know what happened 25 years ago this weekend? The Lynyrd Skynyrd crash.”

“They went to the Paul McCartney concert, and his new wife was there.”

“I’ve heard she’s a real bitch.”

“What? The Eastman girl?”

“Dad, Linda died. This is his new one.”

“Oh, the one with the hollow leg?”

“Honey! When you say it that way, you just make her sound hungry.”

All my rowdy friends, they came over the other night:

My party was pretty rockin’, I’d have to say. I mean, there weren’t go-go dancers or barbecue or fat piles of cash money lying around, and I tried in vain to turn it into a makeout party, but judging from the state of the apartment when I finally got out of bed this morning (at 3 pm), a good time was most definitely had. I’d say the best sign that your party was a success is if people you didn’t know showed up. Around 1:30 am, I was sitting on my bed with Lauren, applying lip gloss to my cute neighbor, when some guy walked into my room and started looking at my pictures and then looked at me and said, “Dude. Do you live here?”

I think that counts as disturbing the sexy.

The twelfth thing to totally make my week—no, my month:

One dozen long stem white roses in a box delivered to me at work.

In a box. A box, yo.

The Kissing Game:

Two summers ago, I realized that I had spent every weekend for the past month and a half at weddings, or wedding showers, or bachelorette parties, and I was so, so tired of it. Not in a begrudging way—I’m all for free shrimp and champagne and my friends’ happiness, but after watching so many girls my age squeal when they unwrapped mixing bowls, I needed a reality check. So I threw a So You’re Not Engaged Party. This party was a hit, y’all. Ten single girls, lots of margaritas, and everyone got a fake tiara and ring when they walked in the front door.

After the gift exchange (presents had to be frivolous and immature, like pink leopard steering wheel covers and Hello Kitty watches), everyone put on their pajamas and sat on my floor with our sleeping bags in a circle and talked about boys and scary stories, and it was just like sixth grade again, only without all the bad parts, and more alcohol.

We played one of my favorite games, the Kissing Game. (Not like that. That came after the pillow fight in our pink negligees.) Emily and I used to play the Kissing Game all the time in college, usually on road trips. To play the Kissing Game in a group, you go around the circle and everyone must tell everything they can remember about their first kiss, such as full name, eye color, and all the gory details. Then you decide who had the best story, and move on to the second kiss. With just two people in the car, you get a lot farther, but with a group, you get to hear about people making out with their older brother’s friends on the driveway, and guys named Dickie Dickerson. Or, as might interest some people, the person whose second kiss was an all-night makeout session with Dave Matthews in his hotel room. Yes, that Dave Matthews. Naturally, that person won the whole game, but lost her dignity.

So, who wants to play? I’ll go first.

My first kiss was a blue-eyed charmer named Chad, who was an oh-so cool eighth grader while I was a not-so cool seventh grader. It was at a youth group retreat, in the boys’ cabin, on his bunk bed, while we were supposed to be horseback riding. After I got over my initial thrill that I was actually French-kissing a boy named Chad, I was overcome by a wave of disgust, partly from the fact that Chad’s tongue was raping my mouth, and partly because in lieu of showering, Chad had just been pouring on daily layers of Brut cologne. He tried again on the bus on the ride home and I pretended I was asleep. I ran into him years later at a senior class car wash when I was eighteen and he tried to pick me up. I think it was because I was wearing a swimsuit, and he was drunk at 11 am on a Saturday.

Your turn.

Eleven things that have fucking made my week, and it’s only Tuesday:

God bless The Morning News:

They finally answered my burning classmates.com question!

Sweet anticipation:

One of my very favorite things to do in the whole wide world is to stay tuned for scenes from next week.


After talking to several of my co-workers, it has been brought to my attention that I do not get into nearly enough fistfights.

Flawless record:

Just in case anyone was wondering, it’s October, and I have yet to break any of my New Year’s resolutions. This year I was sure to make ones I knew I could stick to, like not holding up any banks, or not dating guys who drive Camaros. Wish me luck for the next two and a half months: men in muscle cars are my weakness. Hopefully the covenant that I made before God and the internet will help to dissuade me from any tempting transgressions.


The spam subject line in my inbox said it all: SARAH YOU’VE GOT OPTIONS.

Mr. whkl37373dylXX, you are so right.

Oh. My. God!

Tonight I saw Getting There. No, let me start over: tonight Erin and I finally picked up our copy of Getting There from the downtown library. I’m for real, y’all, so don’t even be hatin’. Anyway, it was good, natch, but it lacked the finesse of, say, Our Lips Are Sealed, or even Passport to Paris. I’m still holding out for that magic man who’ll come home with a copy of Winning London on DVD and a bottle of Jack. Anyway, the best part? The shot of Mary-Kate, or possibly Ashley (like I can tell them apart when they both iron their hair), standing under a neon sign in Las Vegas that screamed LOOSE SLOTS. I shit you not.


On my way to lunch, I waited for the Walk sign next to this really hot blind guy with a seeing eye dog, and I thought about saying, “Your dog is so cute!” but I bet he gets that all the time.

I don’t mean to brag, but:

I honestly have no idea how someone who smells as good as I do is still single.


Oh, hey, what’s up, guy on the phone. You sound like you’re in a hurry, but I wanted to let you in on a little secret: when I answer and say, “Good afternoon, company name,” and you just bark “555,” I am not impressed. No, really. Not even a little bit. You might be surprised to hear this, but I don’t think, Ohh, better get this guy the special connection. He knows extension numbers. Buddy, I’ve got a whole list of them here, and let me tell you, it just doesn’t impress people. Not even the cute new intern. He’s too young for you, anyway.


I think one of the hottest things a man can do is shut his mouth and drive.


Last weekend we went to see Brian Parton and the Nashville Rebels play at Arnie’s. I ran into Rebecca, my former hairdresser, who’s married to the bass player. Rebecca is the coolest, most rockabilly chick ever. She has the black bangs and the red lips and the dice necklace and the smoky Southern drawl. I asked her what she’d been up to.

“Not much,” she said. “Dave got me a CB radio for Christmas, so I hang out on that a whole lot, listening to the truckers.”

“What do they talk about?” I asked.

“Mostly just how they’re going to kick each other’s ass. They’re like, I’m gonna kick your ass, motherfucker, where are ya? And then the other one says, Hellllllll, I’m behind the Waffle House, motherfucker, and then first one’s like, Awww, you a Waffle House motherfucker, ain’t you?

There is no way that the written word could ever do her trucker voice justice, but it was the best thing I’ve ever heard. Imagine it really slow and growly.

“Do you ever talk to them?” I asked. “Do you have a handle?”

“Yeah. I was Sugar Mama, but I got into some trouble with that one, so now I’m Little Red. I tell ’em my mama was a trucker named Big Red.”

Just then, they introduced her husband onstage as Dave “Skintight” White. I asked her if that made her Skintight, too.

“No, actually, I never went downtown and had my name changed after we got married. But I’m trying to convince David that both of us should change our names to Lightning. Then I could be Rebecca White hyphen Lightning.”

Even though she’s only one year older than me, when I grow up, I want to be Rebecca.

Copyright © 2001–2012 by sb
Powered by Movable Type