Que Sera Sera

Mother’s milk:

Part of me can’t wait to be pregnant just so I can offhandedly say, “Oh, I’m drinking for two now.”

P.S. Dear God, just kidding about the wanting to be pregnant part.


The very short list of things that will not impress boys: – when you casually remark that that “stuck between the moon and New York City” song is actually called “Arthur’s Theme”

In other news, last night Boothe and I went over to Emily’s to watch the Designing Women reunion on Lifetime. This was sort of a reunion for us too, because we spent much of our senior year of college on the couch watching Designing Women and Golden Girls. Although I much prefer the silk dresses and violent hairstyles of the DW to the lanai and the post-menopause sexual innuendo of the GG, and I feel a dull heat throughout my body whenever Julia Sugarbaker goes off on some unsuspecting chump, I really could have gone the rest of my life without knowing that Dixie Carter refers to her nether regions as her “fancy.”


Someone just arrived at my site by searching for “happy birthday poems for an ex-boyfriend.” Well, I aim to please.

DISCLAIMER: In no way are these poems representative of my own personal past relationships or ex-boyfriends. I only date champions. With nice moms.

Que Sera Sera Happy Birthday Poems for an Ex-Boyfriend, Or Perhaps a Current Boyfriend You’d Like to Release from His Contract:

Happy Birthday!
I wouldn’t know whether or not it happens to everyone,
Since I wasted my youth on only you.

Happy Birthday!
You should quit acting so cool
I saw that picture of your ex;
She was fat.

Happy Birthday!
I only acted like it was endearing that you still got “Nintendo Power” magazine
Because of the tremendous guilt I felt
From fucking your best friend.

Happy Birthday!
Size isn’t everything
And evidently
Neither is
Personality nor
Charm nor
With you
It’s mostly size.

Happy Birthday!
Your mom
Is a bitch
Your sister is too.

Happy Birthday!
Do I want to hear another song you wrote on the guitar?
For the love of God

Happy Birthday!
The time has come;
I’ve made you over.

Evidently at some point I decided to start living my life like it’s a wacky sitcom instead of, you know, my life:

Today I applied to be a golf course drink cart girl for a few weeks. I like the idea of any job that requires a visor and possibly a skort, guarantees being ogled and tipped by someone’s sweaty rich uncle, and holds the promise of seducing a college-bound caddie at midnight on the 18th hole. It’ll be like going undercover!


Lest you think I spend all of my nights drinking and punching and kissing (and you know I seriously don’t, right?), let me tell you about last night, which I spent BABY-SITTING and then DRINKING WINE AT THE BYRNES’ HOUSE. Ooh, did you feel that shiver, too? That was the spine-tingling chill of BEING A DORK. Wait, there’s more!

So after the evening spent with my former neighbors’ children—who are seriously like the most freakishly attractive and freakishly intelligent children on the planet, and I sincerely expect them all to grow up and simultaneously win Pulitzers and become motorcycle stuntmen—I headed over to Chez Byrne for what I used to call “grown up talk” when I was little, because whenever my parents would have friends over, they would always end up sitting around the living room drinking wine and laughing, and ignoring my offers to put on a show in front of the fireplace in any of my many costumes.

Had there been children at the Byrnes’ house last night, they too would have been rebuffed, and probably sent to bed or to beg in the streets, because Erin and Mat started talking about creepy local ghost stories, which are only scary if they are not from your locale, and these were definitely not. I was quickly reminded of what a total and complete wuss I am, because at one point I looked down and realized that I had made a tiny fort of couch pillows around myself without even noticing, presumably to keep the ghosts of dead children and Donkey Ladies away. When you find yourself scooting nearer and nearer to Jon for safety, you should really have the sense to take stock of the situation, but instead, I turned into the same terrified 10 year old who couldn’t sleep at night but still insisted on watching Poltergeist II every single day at my best friend Stephanie’s house. (If you want to terrify me to this day, sing that God is iiiiiiiiiiiin/his holy temmmmmmmple song into my ear. At your own risk. The 10 year old Sarah didn’t have this mean right hook. Or fingernails. Or tire iron.)

At one point Brian, bless his heart, even stopped the conversation to ask me if I really wanted them to go on, because evidently I had eyes the size of saucers and my hands were hovering over my ears, to which I naturally yelled, “No, no, more!”

I eventually had to be soothed with multiple viewings of The #1 Summer Jam of 2002, and although Mat and I had decided to sleep at the Byrnes’, I sucked it up and drove myself home. But I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t think of those little dead kids’ handprints all over my car when I parked, and didn’t run up my front steps without looking back.

P.S. We should totally go camping!

Things I Have to Look Forward to in the Next Month Before Moving:


Tonight I brought my tire iron with me to the bar. Kind of like Take Your Daughters to Work Day.

Also, regarding that girl from the pirate movie: damn. She kind of makes Natalie Portman look like the poor man’s Natalie Portman, no?

Break these chains of love:

My quiet evening of Trivial Pursuit took a turn for the awesome last night when I showed up at the Byrnes’ house and Erin greeted me at the door with “Brian’s giving us all fake tattoos!” and sure enough, DeKinder’s entire back featured a fucking flawless freehand Sharpie drawing of a naked lady riding a lion with the words SOONER BORN, SOONER BRED across the top. Then Brian and I pitched a Cranium no-hitter, and then suddenly the “we’re going to run by the bar for just a second to drop off this CD” turned into several drinks and then a few hours later I was at a club dancing to Erasure and then a few hours after that I was making out while the sun came up.

I’m not sure what it says about you if you’re making out with someone and you say “We should probably stop,” and they say, “OR, not! And tomorrow let’s go out for pizza!” and this sounds like a good plan. I think it means you’re both total bad asses. Plus, pizza!

Also, it’s been decided that I’m buying a tire iron and naming it Betty. Soon people will yearn for the good old days when Sarah used to just punch us in the face.

Next up: pirate movie! Actually, in all honesty, next up is cleaning the tequila off my hardwood floors, but then it’s totally the pirate movie.

Thursday highlight reel, thus far:

Tonight: Trivial Pursuit Tournament!

Note: It’s okay to wish you were me, as long as you realize the clock is ticking.

Just tryin’ to get it right:

Last night I had a dream where I suddenly stepped up to the mic and saved someone who was already there because I knew all the lyrics to “Patience.”

This morning, while putting a load of clothes in the washer, I checked the pockets of a skirt I hadn’t worn since last summer and found a note on a napkin from my ex-boyfriend.

In other news, I quit my job.


If someone loved you, would you be happy just knowing you were loved, or would it matter to you the reasons why?


I just had a screaming crying fight with my mother that came completely out of left field and would put all adolescent screaming crying fights with my mother to shame.

More than anything, I’m just shocked that I still had that in me.

Japanese, turning:

So, I’m home, and there are a million things to write about, and a million more to actually do, but right now all I can think about is that if the hot young dad I met on the plane knew how often he’d shown up in a starring role during my personal time since Tuesday night, he’d probably blush.

Some things you should know:

Ryan is a saint.

Joshua Newman is dashing and charming and quite possibly many other things that end with -ing.

I currently have a 250-page manuscript in my bag that I inadvertedly marinated liberally in beer.

Tonight I got up on a stage with Amber and sang Lita Ford’s “Kiss Me Deadly” with a live band in front of a screaming crowd at Punk Metal Karaoke.

It is entirely possible that I might not ever go back to Oklahoma.

White Courtesy Telephone:

Today Ryan and Amber and I went to Coney Island and were in a freak show. Not at a freak show; in a freak show. We stood on a board of rusty nails on the chest of a man with the entire solar system tattooed on his face. All three of us. At the same time. When we finally left, he stopped the show to tell us to take it easy. This man is my new personal hero.

Tonight we saw Jets to Brazil at the Bowery. It was air conditioned and unsmoky and wholly enjoyable.

Tomorrow is movies and museums, and then drinks with the dashing Joshua Newman, wherein I will prove to him in under 15 minutes that I’m really not especially charming, funny or attractive.

In other, unrelated news, last night on the subway I made a brief list of Things I Am Really Into:

It is now after 4 am and I’m going to take a cold shower and fall asleep. Ryan passed out hours ago after getting really drunk and inexplicably bellowing either “Guts!” or “Weak!” at passersby. Ryan is what I like to call A Good Time.

So far:

I am having the best time ever here in New York, even though my right foot is covered in blisters and I’m a bit concerned that my deodorant may have just thrown in the towel. Ryan is a gracious host, and also a walking encyclopedia. I seriously think he might know more things than God, and if they’re not all true, he’s an excellent bluffer. If this whole newspaper gig doesn’t work out, he could have a promising career as either Emperor or a professional poker player.

Yesterday the lovely, talented and unbelievably hot Jackie-O escorted me all over the city. We met Ryan and his friend Chris for lunch, where the company credit card bought us filet mignon in a restaurant that used to be J.P. Morgan’s apartment. Then we rode the Staten Island Ferry and I have to admit, I was kind of unimpressed with the Statue of Liberty. After seeing her in movies my whole life, I was kind of disappointed to see that she’s not really all that tall in person.

Later we met up with Liz and Sarah and Bryan at the Gowanus Yacht Club for hot dogs and $1 PBRs. I love Liz because she told me my toes were so cute she wanted to eat them, asked to touch my hair, and then kissed me. Four times. Sarah had the most impossibly fabulous bangs and an equally adorable boyfriend, and while Bryan spent most of happy hour putting his camera down his shirt and taking pictures of his own nipple, he totally won me over when, hours later at some bar in the Lower East Side, we both noticed an unattended vaguely vodka-looking drink on the bar and decided to split it. That’s my kind of people.

Also, I talked to Christian Rudder on the phone this morning while still in my pajamas, and then when I hung up I had to call an emergency meeting of the Babysitters Club with Ryan to discuss how I’d just talked to Christian Rudder on the phone while wearing my pajamas. Ryan is a true blue trooper.

Now we’re headed to a secret barbecue and then to a Yankees-Red Sox game, and then to some party on a rooftop. More details as they become available. Scarecrow, I miss you most of all.

Here we go:

It’s really been bothering me that I’m only about 250 pages into the latest Harry Potter book, but with all this working and weddings and pool parties, I just haven’t been home enough to read. I’m terrified that everyone has finished it before me, and will accidentally leak something, in which case I will have to pull out my blade and start cutting people. But hopefully I’ll have plenty of time to read on the plane tomorrow when I head to New York for a week.

Have I mentioned that I’ll be in New York for a week? Because I will totally be in New York for a week.

Internet, now would be a really good time for you all to cross your fingers for me.

I will return with stories. And hopefully more.

Until then,
Sarah B.

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