Everyone Else Is Doing It, or, The Que Sera Sera 2002 List:
Hottest movie I’ve seen this year: Secretary
Sweetest movie I’ve seen this year: Secretary
Worst movie I’ve seen this year (and last night I saw the live action Scooby Doo): My Big Fat Greek Wedding
Best movie I’ve seen this year: I can’t decide, so I’m just going to go with Winning London. But it would probably be either Donnie Darko or The Royal Tenenbaums.
Best book I read this year: I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I have no idea.
Best book that was read to me this year: The Thief of Always
Best CDs I bought this year: Wilco, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot; Mason Jennings, Century Spring; Bishop Allen, Charm School
Bands I had no idea how much I’d love until Jason Royal put them on a mix tape : Pulp, Belle and Sebastian, Arab Strap
Song that never failed to make me tear up, all year long: “You Belong to Me,” as performed by Steve Martin and Bernadette Peters in The Jerk
Best offer I’ve received this year
Worst month this year: August
Best month this year: October
Second best month this year: November
Best pseudo-twincest sandwich I wouldn’t have minded being in the middle of this year: Three-way tie: Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, Jack and Meg White, Jake and Maggie Gyllenhaal
Best kiss I’ve received this year: This may be a bit premature, as there are still several hours left in the year.
I managed to keep all of the resolutions I made this year: I have not robbed any banks, dated any guys who drove Camaros, or started smoking. I think my resolutions this year will be to only date men who own more than one pair of shoes, and for my friends to start having babies so I can smell their sweet little heads. The babies’ heads, not my friends’. Although Emily does have a really small head, and I’m sure it smells very nice.
I think I matured a little this year. In my older age, I’ve noticed that I have a much higher tolerance for cats, rap, and groups of women. I still have zero tolerance for diet soda and people who cannot get over the fact that they were gifted children.
In 2003, I’ll work on not getting my heart broken, and washing my hair every day, even if it’s just Sunday and I slept til 1 and no one’s going to see me. If that’s not progress, I don’t know what is.
Happy New Year, all. See you in ought-three.
Why do I only get the cute indie rock cashier when I haven’t brushed my hair and I’m buying fake eyelashes, control top pantyhose, and the YM with Orlando Bloom on the cover?
- Back at work today after ten days off, and back in town after a long weekend in Texas, which was spent shopping and drinking and eating and drinking and bowling and drinking. It is imperative to maintain a low-grade buzz at all times when dealing with one house full of thirteen people and five dogs, as well as teenage cousins who ask you point-blank about oral sex techniques. Also, some of my family members are apparently dating people named “Buster,” with whom they go “mudding,” while others bring new girlfriends to Christmas dinner who inevitably get the nickname MethLab Amanda.
- “Do y’all still have things to unload from the trunk?”
“Oh, we have plenty of junk in our trunk, Uncle Stan.”
“Stanley, did you hear her? Go help with the junk in their trunk.”
“Does your dad know you have junk in your trunk?”
“Oh, Dad has junk in his trunk, too.”
- The only time I managed to get a real laugh out of my 18 year old brother was when I nudged him in the car and said, “Mitchell honey, put your shoes on, we’re at grandma’s,” and then, like the dork I am, ruined it by trying to say it again a few more times.
- Really, you haven’t lived until you hear my great aunt Dorothy’s story about the time she was front-row at a Liberace concert and he asked her if she’d like to feel his balls.
- Have I ever told you all about the cousin whose nickname is Shiteater? For real, I should sometime.
- You know who the one person is who won’t think it’s funny when you say your New Year’s resolution is to get laid more often? My mom.
- Please check out the handsome Kennedy family members in their original Sarah B. shirts! Young Jackson will surely be the toast of Gymboree in his in-the-know David Lynch hipster tee, and I’m sure his lovely mother’s cheekbones have been the reason for many a young man’s broken heart.
- Last night I went to bed at 1:12 am, but went to sleep at 7:52 am, which is 8 minutes before I’m supposed to be at work, for those of you keeping score at home. I’ll refrain from giving a reason here, but it was a good one. Or five.
Laura and I have a bet riding on the color of Legolas’ eyes. I say brown, she says blue. We’ve both found pictures to back us up… brown here, blue here. Did they change from movie to movie, or from scene to scene? And how sad is my life that I’m actually writing about this on the internet on Christmas Day? Whatever. This morning we opened our presents to Johnny Cash covering Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus,” and I got a rubber duckie. My life rules.
On Friday night we saw The Two Towers, and when Legolas swung himself backwards onto that moving horse, I think I got pregnant.
Today I sat on my bed in my pajamas and watched it snow for hours and hours. It was hypnotizing. Then Tony came to pick me up and he and Emily and I had Christmas dinner and made margaritas with the snow. They were the best margaritas I’ve ever had. Also, Tony and Emily gave me the Mary-Kate and Ashley 2003 wall calendar, and I have never loved two people so much in my entire life. (Tony and Emily, not Mary-Kate and Ashley. But that is a close call.)
Happy holidays to every single one of you wonderful people. I wish you nothing but the best.
Who’s drunk at work?
Um, that would be me. Also, who left the company Christmas party $50 richer and with a bottle of goldschlager? Hey, that one’s me too!
I think I’ve cornered the market on this one:
Tomorrow is our company Christmas party, where we have cocktails at 11 am and lunch at the best restaurant downtown at noon, and I’ve heard nothing all year but great stories about these annual parties, especially the part where any new employees—new as in weren’t around for last year’s party—have to tell everyone else the story of their most embarrassing moment.
In preparation for this, I spent the other evening telling Emily my top five most embarrassing moments over dinner, and then having her choose which was the most work-appropriate. This was a long decision process. I want the story to be funny, but not lame, and not too revealing. For instance, my top two most embarrassing moments are really funny, but so incredibly embarrassing I’d never share them with anyone other than very close friends, and only then after I’d rendered them blind and deaf.
The other end of the spectrum is the generic embarrassing stories, the kind that were always in YM, which basically always involve nudity and/or fluids. Before anyone even asks, I am not telling the neighbor story because when you tell that one in person, you can actually see everyone mentally picture you in your underwear, whether they want to or not, and that’s really uncomfortable, no matter how drunk my co-workers may be.
I just heard a rumor that you don’t have to tell an embarrassing story if you sing your high school fight song instead. I never thought I’d say this, but if only I’d had school spirit.
In lieu of flowers, please send Bloomin’ Onions:
Emily recently received one of those office emails asking everyone to pitch in some money, only this time, instead of a going away present or a shower gift, the email requested $5 apiece to purchase restaurant gift certificates for a man whose father just passed away. You know, because nothing says “sorry your dad’s dead” like Chili’s.
My life as a cartoon:
This morning I almost had a wreck on my way to work because I did such an exaggerated but totally sincere double-take at a guy on the street who I thought was Big Pete.
I do not get it:
America, why do you want things’ heads to bobble?
Trivia #3: Electric Bugalee
I put that title up there as a placeholder, but now I’m leaving it. Can you even deal?
Previous installments of this feature can be found here and here. I changed up the list a little bit because I can if I want to. Enjoy!
My brother wears so much cologne it makes the baby Jesus cry.
Tony is the only one who remembers whether that guy I kind of dated for a few weeks the summer before our senior year was named John Cunningham or John Williams. In fact, I am going to call him right now and ask again.
Emily has such a tiny mouth, her dentist gives her child-size toothbrushes. (Note: if you make any unseemly comments about this, I will cut you.)
Erin and Brian B. walked out of their wedding to Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” Not the reception; the wedding.
Laura is set to be the toast of Bavaria in less than two weeks. Germany, consider yourself warned.
Ryan has the nickname “Neopolitan,” and even though the story behind it is so good, I’ll never tell.
Josh has a tattoo of an atom on his bicep. It’s pretty hot.
My father sends me emails about limericks in the form of a limerick. (I’m sorry, but this bears repeating.)
Cameron once encouraged everyone at a party to take “knifehits,” like that was even a thing.
Joey partook in said knifehits. Several times.
Christina used to sing “Bad Boys” by Puffy and Ma$e in rounds with me while I showered and she got dressed.
Kerry accompanied me to my very first adult bookstore. We were looking for Playboy and left with Hombres Latinos.
My mother was born in Texas and raised in Canada.
I cannot believe I just used the words “Hombres Latinos” and “my mother” in such close succession.
I am wasted on these people:
I thought it was pretty funny when I delivered all the Christmas goody boxes to everyone in the office and deadpanned, “It’s marked perishable, so watch out: it’s probably Gwyneth Paltrow’s head,” but no one even batted an eye.
One of the most beautiful moments of my life thus far:
Driving in the car with S and K, ages 11 and 9, no one speaking because Some People are pouting about our restaurant selection, when “Ain’t That Funny” comes on the radio and, like magic, I sing the JLo part and S sings the Ja Rule part and K sings the chorus, and then it’s over and we all continue riding in silence, just like nothing ever happened.
The last Christmas that I believed in Santa, I wrote him a lengthy letter in crayon explaining how all I wanted for Christmas was a baby reindeer. This seemed like a terribly practical gift request to me, because surely with nine reindeer he must have at least one baby reindeer to spare; he’d probably even be happy for me to take one off his hands, and so I elaborated on how I would be such a good baby reindeer mama, feeding it carrots or candy canes or whatever baby reindeer ate, and training my collie to be nice and play with it. It didn’t even matter to me if it was Rudolph’s baby or not, it could be Blitzen’s for all I cared, because I was not some sort of reindeer famewhore; I just had some love to share, you know?
I presented this list to my mother, and asked her to mail it to Santa for me. She read it, and her eyebrows went up and she made sort of a funny sound, and then lightly suggested that maybe I should ask for something else, you know, just in addition to the baby reindeer, since that was the only thing on my list, and what if Santa couldn’t deliver a baby reindeer? I assured her that if there was anyone in the whole world that had access to baby reindeer as gifts, it would be Santa, and besides, I had been very good that year, so I wasn’t really sweating it.
Then my mother tried to play the sympathy card, because what if the baby reindeer didn’t want to leave their mommies? What if it made their reindeer mommies sad to lose their babies, like Dumbo’s mom? This was really a sneaky tactic, especially since she knew how I felt about Dumbo and his mother, and so she persuaded me to add a footnote to my letter, hurriedly, in black Bic pen: “P.S. Or a Cabbage Patch Kid.”
I’m sure you can guess what was under the tree Christmas morning, and while I can’t say I didn’t adore the Cabbage Patch Kid, I was no longer starry-eyed about Mr. Easy Way Out Claus.
Now I’m thinking that when that homeless guy on the street proposed to me, maybe I should have played a little harder to get.
Of relevant importance:
Last night when I was drunk, I wrote this furiously on a napkin, which I just discovered in my coat pocket:
“My band: Banana On The Side. Our first album: Dress To The Left.”
In the bright sober light of afternoon, I would like to add that our second album will be named Less Avant, More Garde.
I don’t mind shopping. I don’t even mind Christmas shopping, as long as it’s not at the last minute. I love finding things that will delight my loved ones, and let me just tell you right now, if you’re one of my friends and you’re on my list, you’re getting a totally kick-ass present this year. However, if you’re in my immediate family, I am completely stumped. Also, you should really stop reading my site. Now. For the love of God.
My parents get harder and harder to shop for every year. I’ve run out of books and CDs for my dad, and when he says he wants new running shorts and some socks and another New Yorker page-a-day calendar, I know he’s not lying, but I cannot get over my desire to have my present be The Best Present Ever. Same for my mom. I’ve given all the jewelry and candles and aromatherapy bath crap I can give. My mother does not need anymore knick-knacks, or things that play music when you wind them up. Do you know what she asked for last year? A fake pecan pie. For real. It’s like a regular pecan pie, only it’s been shellacked, and it sits in the glass cake holder on the kitchen counter, taunting me. It’s a fake pecan pie, for Chrissakes. The buck stops there, people.
I keep trying to get them to buy a DVD player, but they scoff. Of course, these are the same people that finally gave up on the Betamax when I was in high school. And you know, even if they did break down and get a DVD player, I have no idea what movies they’d like. My family and I share a similar sense of humor and a cinematic canon (Star Wars, The Sound of Music, Vacation, The Great Muppet Caper, The Jerk, Ghostbusters, Animal House, The Princess Bride), but when it comes to recent releases, there’s no common ground. We try and try again, like ships passing in the night, but inevitably hate each other’s recommendations. My mom gets mad when I say I hate Julia Roberts (“Hate is an awfully strong word, Sarah”), and my dad won’t go see The Lord of the Rings because he doesn’t like to sit in a theater for more than two hours. They like B movies with A-list stars. I’ve given up, but my mom still tries.
“Have you seen Enemy of the State? We really enjoyed that.”
“Yeah, Mom, you’ve told me that a million times.”
“You know what else was good? The Devil’s Advocate.”
Last summer, my parents got all into the hummingbirds in their backyard, so much so that they bought multiple feeders and ate only in the kitchen so they could see out the bay window, because God forbid they miss one tiny bird all summer long. They would interrupt conversations at the dinner table to point them out. You’d say, “Mom, Dad, I’m thinking about quitting my job,” and one of them would say, “Wow! Did you see that little guy?”, and then you would cry into your lemonade and no one would notice because they had moved into the den for a better view out the french doors. So far, this is all I have for them.
As for my 18 year old brother, I’ve realized that I will never top the year that, fresh from my horrible yet high-paying job, I gave him a CD player for his car, so we mostly just search for MST3K movies the other one hasn’t seen yet. This year, I would love more than anything to give him the movie Troll 2 on VHS, but Amazon doesn’t stock it and the only copy on eBay just sold. I don’t suppose any of you have a spare copy lying around?
You know how sometimes you’ll dream that you’re with someone that in real life, you don’t really know or don’t even particularly like, and then you wake up, but the next time you see them, you secretly think, heeey? Well, my person like this is John Leguizamo.
About a year ago, I had a dream where John Leguizamo and I were both at this fabulous underwater party, and he started flirting with me while we were in line for the buffet. At first I tried to ignore him, but by the time my plate was full, he had charmed me so completely that John Leguizamo and I were officially engaged. And yes: I know how short he is, and how spotty his movies are, but everytime I see John Leguizamo, I just have to smile, because he was so charming in that buffet line, I couldn’t wait to introduce him to my mom.
Plus, you know he’d know how to treat a girl in the sack. Is all I’m saying.
I just had lunch with my wonderfully tall friend Brian, wherein we discussed midgets and baby tigers. (Exact quote: “I mean, really Sarah, last night we watched some documentary on baby tigers, and they were so fucking cute, I swear to God.”)
Him: Have you seen those things on MTV, those documentary things, like Oh My God, I’m a Sorority Girl, or Oh My God, I’m Going to Fat Camp?
Me: No! Wait. Yes. Was there ever an Oh My God, I’m a Little Person one?
Him: Yes! That one ruled.
Me: You know, for all my bitching and complaining, at least I can say thank God I’m not three feet tall.
Him: I know! Short people have got it bad. I mean, I can’t even imagine being, like, 5’9”.
Me: Shut up! I’m 5’5”!
Him: No way!
Me: Yes! I hate it. I always think of myself as tall in my mind’s eye.
Him: I always think of you as tall, too. If it’s any consolation, you seem at least 5’6”.
Me: Thanks. What would you do if you were short?
Him: I don’t know. Play soccer?
This morning I woke up with a low grade fever and Sheena Easton’s “Strut” playing in my head. Today is going to be so fucking great I can hardly wait.
Shore Patrol my ass:
Man, people who design toddler clothing sure are stupid. I mean, like I really believe that baby is a lifeguard.
Why do I have a feeling I’m going to regret posting this?
Best quotes of last night:
“What starts with F and rhymes with uck?”
“Is he telling the then-she-stuffed-her-panties-in-my-mouth story again?”
“I swear, he has gotten so much mileage out of that story.”
“If he doesn’t watch out, it’s going to start defining him.”
“…and then all of the sudden she just screamed Fuck me like I’m twelve!”
“Wait, wait: did you actually stop at that point and start doing it in a different way than you had been?”
“My friend, I owe you some bacon.”
Just a suggestion:
Soon I leave for Friday night at the bar with friends. Having learned the hard (not that hard means unfun) way, tonight I will be following a few rules of thumb:
1.) Four gin and tonics = charming drunk. Five gin and tonics = kissing people. Although five has historically been my lucky number, tonight I will favor four.
2.) Also, a lady sips her four drinks, and so will I.
3.) At the end of the evening, one should have a firm grip on one’s keys, one’s wallet, and one’s address. Perhaps grip is not the best word, but at least bearings.
4.) Whispering: so much more fetching than shouting.
5.) No matter how punk rock it may seem to everyone at the table at that moment, you will all regret waking up covered in sharpie.
6.) I cannot reiterate that last one enough, because it will seem so punk rock, and kind of hot, too, in a Memento sort of way.
7.) I like to tell myself that if I must smoke, my mother would at least take some shred of comfort in the fact that I always adhere to the “a lady never lights her own” rule.
8.) Whatever gets me to sleep at night, right?
When you think you’re calling your mom but you accidentally hit the wrong button on your cell phone and call someone else instead, and that someone is a cute boy, it’s like when you think you’re about to drink water and it turns out to be 7Up.
Bite your tongue:
Sometimes, when people ask me to do things like water the poinsettias in the lobby or bring some coffee into the meeting, I have to look at a little note that I keep in my purse. I made the little note for myself back in August when I decided to be a receptionist so I could write a book.
The little note says, “What is UP, college degree?”
After I look at it, I always feel much better.
First time this year:
It’s snowing outside, and the Charlie Brown Christmas music is playing in my head, and it feels just like being in love.
If I had to sum up my Thanksgiving in under ten provocative but absolutely true words, I would have to say: guns, fire, scotch, knock-knock jokes, and my uncle’s not-so-hidden stack of Playboys. Wait, is that more than ten? I really should explain that the guns were some sort of PVC-pipe marshmallow shooters carried only by Chase and his brother Not Chase, and that the fire was in one of those back-porch chimenea things, but my uncle’s Playboys? Totally “hidden” under a fishing magazine. Who picked up the lone fishing magazine? That would be me.
In other news, I am sorry to report that we neither saw nor heard the No Shirt Cousins, and although my aunt reported that they’d reformed, and are not only wearing shirts but being elected student body president and writing letters to their congressman, I won’t believe one word of that filthy lie until I see it for myself. She also said that one of them is evidently named Lucas or something. Who knew?
On Friday I drove 200 miles for a visit that lasted less than 3 hours. It was fantastic. I drove 90 miles an hour the whole way, listening to Pulp and applying lip gloss. Tell me you don’t want me. No, make me believe it.