Possums, Omens and a Finger?

I was sitting on my balcony while enjoying a glass of wine tonight, as I have been for the past few days despite the recent onslaught of arctic tundra-esque temperatures, when I heard a rustling on the side/roof of the house.  I live on the third floor, so I my mind automatically moves to three different options of what the noise could be:

1. Spiderman is coming to give me an upside down kiss - to which I would not complain, but apply burts bees and pucker up without question. 
2. A giant mammal that is scaling my wall and coming to attack me whilst I sip my Pinot - perhaps a bear, which would be odd in the city, but still possible.  Maybe a mutant sized raccoon who has been turned into a carnivore and thus, I should move my tasting inside or even worse the army of rats that has been living in my trash cans has congealed into one humongous mega-rat trying to take over the city one wino at a time.
Or...
3. A super sexy man with flowers or an edible arrangement coming to sweep me off my feet.

Obviously number three is not happening, so lets figure out the others.  Ok, so maybe the others may be slight exaggerations, but considering that the bottle is down to a quarter left, they all seem relatively feasible to me.  Understanding, that Spiderman is fictional and more unlikely than a bear to be on my balcony, I peer into the darkness and await what I'm sure must be impending death.

Out from the corner of the roof peers a pointy noise, shortly followed by the entire tumbling body of what must be the worlds ugliest possum.  I'm pretty sure it was a possum... either that or Gollum was brought to life and thrown from middle earth on to my balcony (nerd alert).  I swear, if I were a rodent, this would be me.  Not in terms of looks by any means, because I would obviously be the sexiest of all rodents, but in clumsiness.  I thought possums were supposed to be nimble.  Don't the spend their evenings jumping around on telephone wires and fences terrorizing small dogs and myself?  This is obviously the ugly duckling of all hideous rodents.

As it tried to regain its composure, I started trying understand the poor guy.  This, I am SURE, must have been due to the excessive amounts of wine I've consumed over the past week.  I mean really, who tries to understand a possum.  Especially one who's fur resembles the patchy, scraggly hipster beard of a 15 year old boy, who's left paw has either been cut off or is clenched in a fist so tight I better watch myself before it punches me, razor sharp teeth that are surprisingly white and its face is a mix between a rodent and like I said earlier, Gollum for Lord of the Rings.  Finally the poor, rabies infested little dude jumps to its feet and stares me down.  Trying to be as intimidating as possible, I couldn't help but to feel like Mr. T because I pitied that fool.  He started to hack something up that turned out to look like someone's class ring, a tooth or an actual finger.  With a few looks back and forth from the object to myself, a couple of awkward blinks and a look of "well that was embarrassing," Mr. Possum kamikaze'd off the balcony never to be seen again.

I'm really not sure what to make of the whole situation.  I'm feeling rather awkward and slightly amazed, to be completely honest.  I wonder if it is a sign of things to come in my life.  I can't imagine what that may be, or that it would be good.  How would a clumsy possum hacking up a finger on your porch ever be a good omen?  On that note, I am off to bed.  Best of luck possum, I hope you find your balance.

Daydream Believer

Like most other little kids, when I was growing up, as soon as the bus dropped me off in front of my house, I'd burst through the front door, throw myself into my mom (or dad's) arms, tell them about my day and wait for them to unpin the note on my shirt sent home by my teacher.  Oh wait, is that not normal?  I guess I can say that got in trouble a decent amount.  Of course, it was never my fault though... of course.  So the question is: What had Sarah done today?  Was she triple-dog-dared to hit someone in the head with a stick?  Had she kissed another boy under the desks during a movie?  Did her kindergarten boyfriend, Randy Peterson, beat someone up for flirting with her again?  For the record, all of these things happened.  What can I say, my "maneater" tendencies started at an early age.  But alas no, it was nothing nearly as scandalous this time.  The story my parents prefer to tell about my daily note jewelry, for obvious reasons, is about daydreaming and holds true to this example.  I barely paid attention in class because I was constantly in my own little world dreaming about how wonderful life would be if my mom would just buy me lunchables, or if I had a pet sloth - whatever it is that five-year-olds dream about.  From an early age I've been a dreamer.

The thing I like most about day dreams is that you can control exactly what happens, who they are about and your overall happiness isn't questioned based on whether a man has that douchebag gene or not.  Because let's face it, in my daydreams, the men always sweep me off my feet before rubbing them, there is a bottomless bottle of wine and I can eat as many frango mints as I want without worrying about swimsuit season.  If only.  Where it gets a little bit tricky is with your actual dreams.  Some people claim that they don't remember their dreams, or they don't dream.  I am not one of those people. 

Usually, my dreams are very vivid and relatively life-like, save a few random details.  For example, I once dreamed about getting ready for a trip with an ex-boyfriend and his family.  Everything was normal, except when I looked at him, he had a ridiculous widow's peak that came down to right in between his eyebrows.  Talk about getting over an ex!  He was immediately unattractive, to both dream Sarah and real life Sarah.  Another time, I dreamt that I was swimming with whales with some guy (assuming a boyfriend) on the set of Deep Blue Sea.  Unfortunately, Samuel L. Jackson was not there.  Now, generally I would think this was really cool.  Add in the dream aspect that the back of said boys legs were covered in pubic hair and there was a giant fish food container for the whales that was filled with babies, that doesn't seem like such a fun date anymore.  A normal woman would wake up and think "what a horrible dream!  Those poor babies were being eaten by whales!  What is going on in my subconscious?"  Myself, on the other hand, a woman who reads entirely too much into the meaning of, well, everything thought "women are supposed to shave their legs and that guy can walk around like that?  And, why was there a baby in my dream?  I must be pregnant."

Reading into this way too much, per usual, I looked up the meaning of hair in dreams.  Apparently, "to see hair in your dream signifies sexual virility, seduction, sensuality, vanity, and health. It is indicative of your attitudes."  Well hello hello, I will certainly be creeped out in my dreams if this is what it means!  Anyway, the reason I started thinking about this is because last night I had a really vivid and crazy dream and was curious to see what it meant.  The themes, after looking them up, stay pretty close to what is currently going on in my life, and apparently my subconscious is taking it all pretty hard.  In short I found that the nature of the dreams represent feelings of betrayal, dishonesty, severed relationships and parts of my life that I'm trying to eliminate.  Pretty heavy dream if you ask me.  Now that I know that the creepy hair aspect of previous dreams is actually a good thing, I kind of wish it was present here!


It seems as though my daydreaming as a child has continued on into my adult life, as I am thinking about this dream and what it means in my waking life throughout the day.  However, I'm pretty sure (at least I hope) that my boss isn't going to pin a note on me at the end of the day and ask for it to be signed and returned in the morning.  Sorry early education teachers, I hate to break it to you, but apparently those notes and attempted lessons didn't work on this girl.  Such a waste of paper.

Passion: Not for the timid

I can remember dreaming, when I was in my pre-teen or early teenage years of all the milestones and special events that I would experience on the road to becoming a woman.  Its funny to think back at my 15-year-old self being completely grossed out, but still somehow spinning, over my first kiss.  Now, having lived it and being much more experienced in the idiocracies and cluelessness of teenage boys and sometimes twenty-something men, I would tell little teenage me that a bad kisser is just not worth it.  Especially one that leaves you wondering if you licked an ashtray or got hit in the face with a water balloon.  Lessons we must learn throughout time though, I suppose.  Either way, the first step was memorable and learned from - I.E. the Aussie.

But, lets fast-forward a few years, skip baby's first love, her first heartbreak, first "want to punch that d-bag in the face" moment and focus on the present.  One of my best friends has recently moved back out to the suburbs and for her housewarming party decided to have the girls over for a housewarming 'passion' party.  However, I'm not sure if "baby's first passion party" is one that should go in the book.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it's a party, usually with just girls or a few fun gay friends, where everyone can talk about their experiences in the boudoir and buy toys, lotions, candles etc.  I think that all women should attend one of these parties at least once in their life as it is the ultimate stop sign on the road to lady-hood.  If not to experiment and learn about new things, then to laugh at the one friend who giggles anytime someone says 'nipple' or laugh at the person who forgets which arm is for smelling and which is for licking (testing edible lotions and powders vs. pheromone perfumes and oils).  Classic.  I went to one of these parties in college, but I didn't know the girls too well so it ended up being a bit awkward.  This was quite the opposite.

Friday after work, the ladies and I hopped on the train to make the trekk out to Downer's Grove to see Ms. Ali, bottle of champagne in hand.  In Chicago, drinking openly on the metra train is not only allowed, but I can't remember a time being on the train where I haven't seen someone drinking.  So we popped open the bottle, poured it into our classy plastic champagne flutes and popped a phallic jello shot into our mouths.  Upon arrival, we were greeted with treats and Caramel Apple Martinis.  As our consultant began to set up, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the babysitter had to cancel and Ali's son, Selby, came home to a house filled with.... well.... not quite the toys he's used to seeing around.  Scarred for life, is my guess.  Anyway, the martinis were flowing and the fun began.

Ali, being the host, immediately recieved a soy candle that was safe to pour the wax on your partner in a very "Ricky Martin - Livin' La Vida Loca music video" type way.  So yes, the night was a success to say the least.  Four martinis, a bottle of champagne and a few jello shots later, we all made our purchases and headed home.  I actually had to be picked up by my parents since I was puppy-sitting for the weekend, which proved to be pretty entertaining.  Between the high-school-esque awkwardness of being picked up, the bag of extremely inappropriate jello shots that would soon make its way to my parents refridgerator and trying to lick the remaining chocolate flavored shimmer powder off my arm in the backseat, I wonder what they must have thought.  Either way, I couldn't remember what I bought.

One week later, almost, I felt like a kid on christmas morning.  My box had been delivered and I had NO idea what was in it.  I anxiously awaited 5:00.  Now, I'm not going to get into too much detail, as a woman must have her secrets, but amongst the peanuts and box stuffing I found a feather (just one), a chapstick called "nibblers," said chocolate shimmer powder and a certain something that I really think will give me mixed emotions whenever I see a butterfly, oh my!  Result? A pleasant surprise to the majority of the contents and a slight confusion to the feather.  Couldn't I just go to Michaels?  Or maybe chase a bird around for a while?  Whatever.  And I am currently wearing the "nibblers" because it makes my lips all tingly and I feel rebelous wearing it at work :)  Anyway, I strongly recommend that ever group of girlfriends do this, it was tons of fun!

Culinary Creations

So, in this fall well, I decided to be domestic and make comfort food :)


Appetizer: Jalapeno Mac and Cheese (pre-baked)

Din din:  Vegan Lentil Chili (NOM!)

Dessert: Pumpkin Spice Latte Cupcakes with Espresso Whipped Cream (oh. my. GOD!)

Need a smile?

A few things that have made me think, smile or bust out laughing awkwardly in a silent office :)

1.  This actually made me spit my water out on my desk.  This is totally me!

 2. Newly developed clumsiness

3. Ok seriously, what the hell is this?

4. Definitely!

5.



 6. Truth:

7.  Again, with the laughing inappropriately loud.  But seriously, I will remember this the next time I have a bad day.



9.  And.... the grand finale, you cannot find anything better than this to make you smile.  It. Is. AH-MAZING!

Knights in shining foil

"Ever notice how 'What the hell' is always the right answer?" - Marilyn Monroe

And so the story goes, boy meets girl, boy is normal, they fall in love and live happily ever after.  Well, this may have been the case in 1952, but in 2011 the male ego can not allow for normalcy in any sort of romantic behavior.  Apparently.  I never thought it'd be this difficult to date and get to know someone.  Perhaps men these days believe that if you start "dating," as in calling someone your girlfriend, it automatically has to be so serious, thus resulting in marriage and babies... tomorrow.  God forbid you get to know someone before making that decision.  Naturally, there would be some wining and dining involved in this process.

Lately, the story goes more along the lines of boy meets girl, girl is smitten and falls down, gashing her knee, boy tries unsuccessfully to stay the night (I am classy), boy disappears off the earth.  My only guess is that he has passed away, may he rest in peace.  His memory will live on in the scar on my leg.  I should really look up where to send condolence flowers.  "I'm sorry for your loss.... Me."  Seriously, "What the hell!"

To say that I am frustrated would be an understatement.  I guess since college, my attempts to have any
relationship where I can actually relax and feel comfortable have failed miserably.  Over and over, I seem to be fooled into thinking that the men I am attracted to are somewhat sane, and then out of the blue I seem to be dating Houdini, magician and escapologist.  Some say that he died from a ruptured appendix, others (me) believe that he passed away by disappearing way too many times.  So beware men, rumor has it that disappearing may be fatal, so think about that next time and just be normal for once.  I'm starting to think I am a weird/emotionally unavailable dude magnent.  Where did that gene come from, and how do I get rid of it?

We are a generation raised with the idea that the relationships in Sex and the City are completely healthy.  Carrie got her Mr. Big in the end.  Why can't we?  He turned out to be an alright guy and loved her; an alright guy who broke her heart not once, but twice, marries another woman, makes her the "other woman" and then leaves her at the alter.  I guess its hard to tell if she's settling or if he's actually just that charming.  And lets face it, Mr. Big is pretty damn charming, so who knows.  But either way, she got her knight in shining armor.

However, despite knowing that Carrie Bradshaw and Big are fictional and learning from the painful lessons in heartbreak that are doled out on a regular basis, why is it that women still find themselves falling asleep or waking up thinking about the one person who is ALL wrong for them?  Its interesting to see that even when men treat us badly, we think/hope they will come around eventually.  I suppose I should keep reminding myself that Peter Pan doesn't grow up at the end of the story, houdini died and sometimes the ones we think are our knights in shining armor turn out to be just idiots wrapped up in tin foil.  But until someone comes around that doesn't look like a leftover in my fridge, I will keep entertaining my friends with my dating adventures... dateventures... datures? Boom.