can you buy me some Nair while you're out?

Sarah: I have to have this. It's awesome.
Mark: You ARE grocery shopping right?
Sarah: Yes, it's amazing.
Mark: Is Darth Vadar shopping for turnips?
Sarah: This is undoubtably cooler than that. Much cooler.
Mark: Fine. Tell me. What could possibly be cooler than Darth Vadar pondering produce?
Sarah: I'm not certain I follow the train of thought that makes that cool. But I can't tell you. I have to show you. Give me a second, I'll send a picture.

....moments pass as the intrawebs whirl and deliver the below photo to England....

Mark: What the?
Sarah: Isn't it awesome? Isn't it the epitome of cool? I must have this.
Mark: That's a funny turkey.
Sarah: It's a CAKE. A Turkey Cake!!! It's a Thanksgiving cake shaped to look like a...
Mark: OH MY GOD! A Turcake. We must own it. Can we have it for Thanksgiving? I will give thanks to it.
Sarah: It's brilliant. You can go into the store for turkey. Pick up a cake. Leave happy. Win win.
Mark: You're buying this right?
Sarah: Demetrius will kill me.
(*For those who don't know, Demetrius is one of my best friends, my personal trainer, AND at this point, dieting for the Olympia).
Mark: Maybe you could buy it for him. A present. He couldn't be angry then.
Sarah: Hmmm. It could work. A "happy almost Olympia" Turcake. Who wouldn't want one? He couldn't be upset.
Mark: Unless he's already upset.
Sarah: Shit. He IS already upset. Umm.... I can't buy this. I'm leaving. Turcake-less.

(Sarah leaves store)
Sarah: What the? Demetrius just sent a text reading, "Can you buy me some Nair while you're out"
Mark: What is Nair?
Sarah: I'm not certain telling you will help. It will just lead to more questions. Besides, I support the "no more waxing" stance so I can't complain.
Mark: You're not actually going back are you? If so get the Turcake.
Sarah: I am. But I can't get the Turcake. He will be angry. I already got chips. He's going to give me "the look."

(Sarah buys Nair and actually leaves)
Mark: I still think you should bring him the cake. It needs to be purchased. Look, if he's in a bad mood when you get there, I command you to return to the store.
Sarah: I can do this. He's already annoyed, so I'll ask him if he's angry. When he says yes, I head back, I buy the Turcake, I bring it to him. He's happy. It's brilliant. Nothing can go wrong.
Mark: Yes. This is brilliant. The Turcake will be ours. His. But in our house. So technically ours.

(Sarah enters house)
Sarah: D. You in a bad mood?
Demetrius: I'm doing alright.
Mark: (on phone) WHAT? You said he was pissed!
Sarah: (to Mark) HE WAS! I swear.
Mark: You deceived me to not buy the Turcake. You are anti Turcake. Why do you hate the Turcake?
Sarah: D, I thought you were upset.
Demetrius: Nope, I'm over it. Not worth it.
Sarah: This isn't what I wanted. Now I have no Turcake prospect.
Demetrius: Did you get the Nair?
Mark: I can't believe you lied to me.
Sarah: I can't speak to you right now.

NEXT MORNING
I am standing in the shower. Holding a half empty bottle of Nair in my hand. I am instinctively filled with the desire to use this Nair. To burn (or melt, I'm not sure exactly how that stuff works) all the hairs off my body. I open the bottle and the shower is filled with a foul eye watering smell. Which leads me to the conclusion, clearly, I should have just gotten the Turcake.

how to lose your tools AND your iTunes

At this exact moment I'm riffling through my iTunes library looking to compose a single playlist out of the over 8,000 songs available. It's massively time consuming. It's unfortunately necessary.
Additionally, it's giving me the distinct feeling that I'm old. At what point did my Michael Buble collection surpass my Nirvana and Pink Floyd collections? Can I really put Madonna's Material Girl  right after Plan B's She Said? Is that sort of musical marriage acceptable?
While I've always been accused of only creating playlists when drunk, this situation is complicated due to the fact that my iTunes is essentially blank. I have no Recently Added tunes, no Top 25, no Recently Played, etc. And not a SINGLE PLAYLIST! It's just me, a library (and a man on my back, but I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this) [extra points for anyone who knows that reference, and yeah, that's part of the trauma as well]

And this is the point where the post turns slightly bitter, so my apologies now for any who dare to keep reading.
See kids, what they don't tell you about living with someone is that you'll probably end up merging lots of seemingly innocent things, like your iTunes accounts. And that sounds like a great idea, because it'll likely double your library right? Loads of cool free music right?
WRONG!
Let me just tell you, some people get a prenuptial to account for the "what if it all goes wrong" aspect. But here are a few of the things that will inevitably fuck you and you don't even know it yet!

• iTunes, iPhoto, and all the other iProducts out there. 

This is because the system works off a user account. If two people are using the same computer, then there's really only one copy of iTunes, etc installed. And while you can log out and back in as a different user with different libraries- well, that's just a pain in the ass. I think to change the iPhoto library you need to hold down the Cmd key and the letter P, and possibly the Dashboard key that resides on F4 at the same time. Something like that. It's complicated. And annoying to remember.
So you have a single account on the main computer and it's cool and happy. Then your ex becomes your ex and splits. (I'm working off the scenario that you get to keep the computer). Ok, all is well for a little bit. But then your ex realizes that you're still buying songs or movies or whatever and that they're paying for it. Or vice versa, they buy a bunch of stuff and it ends up on your credit card. So one of you gets annoyed, and changes the password to "their" account. Next thing you know, Apple updates their software or releases a new iPhone. Your computer tricks you into updating the software and then, on the reboot, asks you for the password to login.
You get it wrong. Half the songs purchased on your computer through that account, maybe even BY YOU, are suddenly unavailable. In fact, if I get this notice one more time, I'm giving up and will live exclusively on Genius mixes.

Screw dealing with the finances. The finances are a big deal and likely something you'll fight over regardless. But the iTunes account? The mobile me account? Not likely to occur to someone in the depths of a big breakup.

• Tools

Most girls out there don't have a lot of tools, and I realize I'm the exception to this. However, I bet most have some. They've got screwdrivers, hammers, basic tools kits that are indispensable to any modern woman who considers herself capable of hanging that picture by herself, tightening the loose handle on the dresser, etc. We've got the basics, because one Christmas years ago our father (or some other male) handed us a weighty box to unwrap and we were disappointed to discover it contained a basic tool set.

Then you meet a guy, he moves in and he brings with him a large (at least compared to your kit) tool box. After a little bit, your tools gradually begin to be stored in his tool box, because it (of course) makes sense to keep all the tools in the same place. Right?
WRONG AGAIN!
Because if you breakup, that lovely man who is currently rehanging your bathroom door so that it doesn't slowly open of it's own accord? He will pack that tool box in a truck and leave with it. And a month later, after you've cried your eyes out, you'll decide to take the picture of the two of you down, and replace it with an obscenely large, heavy expensive mirror. You'll go for your tools, and discover that you've been stripped of even the most basic tool kit. THAT BELONGED TO YOU. And yes, if you're the sort of girl who actually uses tools, you'll be devastated and pissed when you realize you're also missing a router, drill, orbital sander, chop saw, and every hand tool you've ever owned.

My point here? Much as you're trying to be rational in the depths of a breakup, bear in mind that the big things will inevitably resolve themselves over time and over several hundred heated discussions/fights.
But the things to try to remember, are the little details. Because those are the ones that'll piss you off much later on when there's no more time for negotiations.

As a side note, playlist artists at present play in this order:
Massive Attack
Muse
No Doubt
Cage the Elephant
Gorillaz
Radiohead
Madonna
Plan B
Nine Inch Nails
Me First and the Gimme Gimmes
Metisse
Coldplay
Britney Spears

Maybe this WOULD be easier drunk?

It's like magic or something

Sarah: We're going to need to get that piano
Mark: What piano?
Sarah: The one from Bite
Mark: The one the naked girls comes out of?
Sarah: They're not naked! They have on thongs.
Mark: Fine, the one the NEAR naked girls come out of?
Sarah: Yes. Of course.
Mark: What possible reason could you have for wanting that piano?
Sarah: It's awesome. You put the girls back in and they come out wearing different colored thongs. Seriously, five girls into a grand piano, and POOF, different colored thongs. It's like magic or something.
Mark: So you want it as what, a parlor trick to pull out when we have guests?
Sarah: YES! Wouldn't you want to have dinner with people who had a piano that magically warps the color of the thongs of naked girls you put in it? Think of what an awesome conversation piece that would be!
Mark: You said they weren't naked.
Sarah: Whatever. We need that piano if we're going to Dallas. I need a conversation starter.

That said, I appear to be moving to Dallas. Or Fort Worth. I can now say this without tearing up. In fact, I was outright giddy about it earlier today, when one of my besties (who lives just south of Fort Worth) texted to tell me she's already planning the welcome party. It also gives me an excuse to get matching cowboy hats for Mark and I. AND a place to wear those red cowboy boots I bought a while back. Hell, I might even learn to make heart attack inducing brisket. Not to mention, I get to don that sanctimonious holier than thou attitude about all things not Texan. Besides, doesn't it just scream amusing to marry a gentlemen from London and then move to Fort Worth? Oh the culture shock!
And no, not selling the house. But hey- anyone interested in renting a 3400 sq. ft. house come February? My goal is to completely finish remodeling my dream home, and then let someone else live it in. (But I'm TAKING the doorbell).
So let me know.
Oh, and I'll be needing help with that piano.

SO much more important than the water heater

This lovely exert was taken from my little sister's Facebok wall. For those that don't know, Mark is my lovely fiance. Ashley is my sister.

Now for a bit of a history. Night before last my water heater (which Mark refers to as the "boiler"- god I love the Englishness of that!) died. To be completely correct, it exploded. The seal on the top abandoned it's post after a 15 year stint.
Events of the evening progress in this manner:
1. Sarah makes a monstrous mess by sanding the drywall in the largest room in the house, without putting down any drop cloths.
2. Sarah surveys 1/4" layer of fine white dust covering everything. Everything includes but is not limited to kitchen counters, appliances, table, floors, couch, etc.
3. Sarah hears strange dripping noise and begins investigation.
4. Discovery of rising tidal pool in the laundry room. I'm totally serious. BOILING water is pouring out the top of the heater and everything is soaked.
5. Frantic moments in which Sarah surmises how to work the water and gas shut off valves on an appliance she has, up until now, taken completely for granted.
6. In the middle of draining the lake, Sarah knocks the doorbell off the wall, and breaks off the front piece. At which point, THE ENTIRE WORLD CHANGES.

My house was built in 1974. Meaning it was filled with gadgets that are at home in the Gremlins movie. Remember all those weird futuristic kitchen gadgets? My dorbell is no exception. This is it in all it's gaudy 70's gear. You'll note the front....

Now below is it after it hit the floor. First, notice the KEY PAD, and then, on the left, notice the instructions. You can't see it in the picture, but those instructions say "SONG SELECTION"

Imagine me, standing in the middle of a swamp. Covered in drywall dust, clothes sopping wet and frantically trying to sweep water towards the drain in the center of the room. And suddenly I spy a long song list, and programming instructions in my 35 year old doorbell.

It was as if I was transported into another world. I sat down transfixed on this doorbell. A doorbell that has been in my house for three years. Whose true capabilities I hadn't ever conceived until that moment. It was bliss.

For those of you interested (or just plain jealous), my doorbell is a Nutone doorbell. It plays TWENTY SIX songs. A sample of my favorites includes:
Jingle Bells
Happy Birthday
The Star Spangled Banner
For He's A Jolly Good Fellow
Joy to the World

and my personal favorite? Dixie.

I'm in love.Standing in the middle of a swamp, I discovered the best thing that's happened to me this week. Go ahead. Tell me you're jealous. Because I KNOW you are. It plays JINGLE BELLS. I've coordinated it with the season. I can't wait for my next birthday party- this makes life worth living! And I've decided that this doorbell is moving with me from house to house, until I die.

I'm an ATHLETE!

Sarah: Hercules, Kora, it's time to go out for a WALK!!!
Kora: yesyesyesyes!!! let's go! i'm ready! can we right now? let's go! i'm waiting! why are you taking so long?

--Exasperated Sarah attempts to leash St. Bernard vibrating with excitement. Success after third attempt.

Sarah: Hercules! Where are you? Let's go!
Hercules: (found sitting on bed) No.
Sarah: Come on buddy, don't you want to go outside and smell things?
Hercules: We've been over this before. I need you to bring the smelly things to me. I can't go walk, I'm in training. I'm a fucking Athlete!
Sarah: Training?
Hercules: Guinness Book of World Records. A dogs got to have goals.

Which brings me to my random fact of the day. Actually, it's two facts. First- an English Mastiff is, "the largest dog breed in terms of mass." Yes yes, the Great Dane stands larger, but my bubba with Flubba, my Hercules is much more solid. Apparently the largest mastiff weighed in at a whopping 343 pounds. And that record is apparently the one my beloved Hercules is setting out to break.
343 pounds! Let me take this moment to say, THAT'S CRAZY. I already am in danger of throwing out my back in the nights as I try to move Hercules out of my spot in the bed. I simply can't imagine a dog that large. It's almost the size of 3 of him. The dog, whose name was Aicama Zorba of La Susa, measured eight and a half feet in length.
Let us imagine, for a moment, sharing a bed with a dog of that size. A dog who could literally crush you with his girth as you slept in the night? I'd be scared. What if I'd forgotten to bring home the yummy dog biscuits that night? Is that a crime punishable with nighttime crushings?
Which brings me to the second fact of the day. The Guinness Book of World Records is no longer accepting largest or heaviest pet records. They stopped in 2000. Though no amount of googling has produced the reason why.
This is distressing, because CLEARLY, Hercules has discovered that there's another dog on record, and he's going for it. He wants that crown. And even if he manages, he's not getting written up because they simply aren't taking those records anymore. This news is going to crush him. As a result, he might be so miserable he won't get out of bed for a week. Trust me, I've seen him sulk like this before.
The poor pup. To counteract the impending sadness, I bought him his own crown. Direct from Windsor Castle. It's a replica of the real thing. I'm hoping that he accepts this honor and forgets that he was on his own quest to obtain greatness.

Why can't we just have a proper showdown at high noon?

I'm engaged! (insert appropriate squealing now!!!)
ENGAGED! As in, someone wants to marry me and live with me forever. He wants to deal with me when I'm whiney (which is often), he's comfortable with my random antics (which are ridiculous and only amusing to some, as evidenced by my last not quite so amused significant other), and he even joins me in my loud off key singing renditions of songs at every hour of every day. It must be love right?
He loves my puppies, he even calls them (overgrown monstrously spoiled +100 pound beasts) "puppies."
He's English, so I swoon whenever he opens his mouth to say, well anything. And he seems to find me, all of me, ridiculous history, demons, skeletons (all of whom have been neatly hung on racks in the closet after being properly aired), and "interesting' family--all of it together, he finds me perfect.
Ok, so you're sick of this, you're wondering, "Seriously, is she just posting a rant about how happy she is? Because if so I'd rather stop reading this and go shove a hot poker under my fingernail."
Well no, that's not the point, and I'll get onto bigger and more important things.
So here's the thing. I'm happy, thrilled with my life, but much more importantly, I'm thrilled with me. I'm thrilled with the changes I've made in my life. I'm proud of me, all of me. And goddamn, it's been a long difficult freaking journey.

So a week or two ago both myself and Mark receive anonymous emails. Mark being warned to steer clear of me. Mine telling me I'm a hopeless drunk and that I'm a horrible person.
What?

I mean seriously?
Best part? There have been several emails. Each more rude and out of line than the next.

Now I'm not even going to address the pettiness of such emails. I mean, if you've got a problem with someone, come out and say it. Call me a bitch, say I've run over your kittens (I haven't, no really, I swear). Call me out into the center of town for a showdown Ok Corral style. Because I'll come. Anyone that knows me knows that I'm not only absolutely thrilled at the idea of a showdown at high noon, but also inclined to get a whole outfit and show up guns blazing.
I mean, I am after all, my fathers daughter.
I am genetically programmed to have a tendency to lean towards guns and violence. So, to whomever you are out there, the coward hiding behind false email names and throwing out rude and childish taunts and insults, "Grow the fuck up."

But speaking of my father...
Before we go further, you each need to understand that my father, he's, well, a LITTLE eccentric. He's got a canon, a WORKING canon in his living room. It's got a doily on it. He's got the most extensive collection of firepower I've ever seen amassed outside of Windsor Castle, and frankly, it's more menacing than that because it's newer and much more functional. He's also slightly paranoid. And has a STRONG belief that he needs to prepare to fortify his house and property for a fight to the death.
Now, bearing that in mind. He's also against marriage. Entirely.
He's also convinced the war for America's freedom from England is still ongoing.
And I'm bringing home an English fiance.

Now I ask you, rude emails from an unknown source, or overcoming my father's predisposition against the English? Which do you think bears more weight in my life? I mean, while those emails are slightly amusing, I'm completely flabbergasted that someone has gone to so much effort to bug me. They clearly have far too much time on their hands (yes, I'm aware that I'm stating this while writing a blog, which probably means that I too have too much time on my hands).

Oh, and PS: Cyberstalking and email harassment; this is pretty illegal in several states already, and growing due to the silly actions of persons just like yourself. And it's highly illegal in all of Europe (don't worry, you've already been reported:)

Fake Boobies

Mark: Fake boobies are like a Dime bar. Hard on the outside, squishy on the inside. Wait- soft on the outside, crunchy on the inside.
Sarah: Crunchy?
Mark: Yeah.
Sarah: Are they edible?
Mark: Well no. But the silicon is dangerous if you get too much in your bloodstream.
Sarah: They don't make them with silicon anymore.
Mark: Fine, the stuff. It's.....
Sarah: Saline?
Mark: Yes! Saline. There was a woman on a plane. They burst and she was on a long haul flight. She died. They aren't a long term solution. You're supposed to get them replaced every twenty years or so.
Sarah: It's 4:40 in the morning there huh?
Mark: Yeah why?
Sarah: Just checking.
Mark: I swear, if this conversation turns up on your blog.
Sarah: I love you.
Mark: Damnit Sarah.
Sarah: I still don't know what a dime bar is.
Mark: You haven't googled? Google. Watch a commercial. Watch it now
Sarah: Omg. Ok. Ok.
.....silence....
Sarah: "the surprising alternative to armadillos?"
MarK: That's them.
Sarah: Weird.

no seriously....watch it.

http://youtu.be/ZwTHVZHqSb0

I need your nose to help me find the dead thing

There's something dead in my kitchen. Although it might be in my dining room.
I'm not exactly certain what it is or where it is. I simply know it exists.
Okay, I'm not actually certain of that either, but I've got a strong suspicion that SOMETHING dead is hanging out in there.

And let me clarify, it's not like some dead spider on a dryer sheet rotting quietly (in fact, the spider has been removed- Demetrius pitched a tantrum and outright refused to eat at a table that also displayed the carcass of a large arachnid. After three weeks, he stubbornly threw it away for me since I still refused to touch it).
No, this dead thing is smelly.
I think.
Perhaps I should explain that i've been sick for about a week. I've been suffering from a curious strain of virus lovingly known as the pneumonic plague. My erstwhile colleagues contracted it while in England, and brought it back to me as a souvenir. They are always thoughtful and kind in their gift giving. They also brought me a smushed penny from the Tower Bridge, which I will cherish much longer than the plague.
Said plague reached a nearly lethal level late Monday night and by Tuesday morning I had been reduced to a quivering pile of mucus. My human remains were untouched as the week passed, excepting only the growing tower of tissues. Hercules, was in his finest form, and keenly slept by my side during the entire ordeal. Indeed, I believe he thought he was being rewarded for some previously unremarked deed. Kora however, grew ever more tense, which cumulated in my Saturday mornings 4am wakeup call, by which time, she had clearly, had enough.
I open my dreary eyes to see the form of an enormous St. Bernard crouched over me, her nose level with my own. I blink, once, then twice, and she begins to bark. The noise is enormous and only quenched when I drag my weary butt out of bed and take her on ridiculously overdue walk. It's animal warfare.

All of this is beside the point though. The dead thing.

Today I regained my appetite. And my smell. Actually, I can smell only one thing. And that thing is dead. And somewhere in the kitchen. As near as my nose can tell, it's dead center in the middle of the kitchen. Possibly on the floor. Which I've checked.
And double checked.
It's rancid.
That or else I'm still sick.
I can't tell. Which is maddening. I think I smell it. But I can't smell anything. Which makes me distrust my own nose.
All of which brings me to my desperate plea to several friends this evenings, ""I need your nose to help me find the dead thing. Please come"
No one has yet responded.
I'll be waiting.

Tea with the Queen

recent conversation

Sarah: TEA WITH THE QUEEN!
Mark: it's not tea with THE Queen. Just tea.
Sarah: Why would they say tea with the Queen if it wasn't? Is she coming?
Mark: She's not coming to have tea with you.
Sarah: What? Does she know I'm going to be there? She might want to come. I'm rather special.
Mark: She doesn't know you're coming. She's not having tea with you.
Sarah: This is ridiculous. After you taught me to curtesy and everything? Someone should tell her.
Mark: She's not coming to have tea with you.
Sarah: Do you like candy canes?
Mark: What?
Sarah: Candy canes. Do you like them? I love them, I eat them all Christmas season. But I hate them because I always suck them down to a point and end up poking myself in the gums with the really sharp point.
Mark: What's a candy cane?
Sarah: What?
Mark: (slowly, and with a VERY English accent) WHAT IS A CANDY CANE?
Sarah: You've got to be kidding. It's a candy cane. Like a peppermint, that's shaped like a cane. Long with a hook on it. Red and white striped. Like a barber pole. How can you not know what a candy cane is?
Mark: Well, it's called a "candy" cane, which means it's American, because we don't call them candy, we call them sweets.
Sarah: But you MUST have seen them! They're iconic. They're Christmas. They're, hell, they're candy canes.
Mark: Repeatedly using the word will not make me understand what they are.
Sarah:AAARGHH! How can you not know what they are? This is mind boggling. You must Google. Google them now.
Silence follows while Mark googles.
Mark: Oh. I've seen those before.
Sarah: Of course you have, they're candy canes. Do you like them?
Mark: I've never had one
Sarah: I'm hanging up now.

Blackout Shopping Disease

Today I'm getting ready to go to DC for the a couple days. Going for work, hoping to squeeze in some quality time with one of my best friends and her two week old adorable baby girl. A tiny baby! I get to start my corruption from the ground up. (insert evil laugh now).
All this means I should pack. Get ready to go to the install, etc, etc. Not actually a lot of work, I mean, at this point I could likely pack my suitcase with my eyes closed. Hower, I do need to finish cleaning the house. So I haven't.
However, while working through a monstrous pile of receipts, I discovered that my wallet was irrevocably stretched to pieces. And was not capable of holding anything, items simply slide out of the gaping pockets. Which is a shame and of course led me to the conclusion that I clearly shouldn't have emptied out my wallet. I considered putting them back in, but then remembered that I'd already mailed them. Therefore, since the clear solution was impossible, I was left with the second best option, buying a new wallet.
Which means, I ventured into a store.

Let's visit the facts:
Sarah needs new wallet.
Sarah has many things to do.
Sarah goes to store to get new wallet.

I remember walking through the front doors. Next thing I know, 90 minutes have passed, and I've just swiped my credit card fr my purchases.
The part in between seems a bit blurry.
Here's the part that completely flummoxes me. Items in my bag? Wallet (thank god), two uber cute shirts (okay, everyone always needs more cute shirts), and RED COWBOY BOOTS.
What?

While I'll admit that I've been wanting cowboy boots for....well ages really, I can't figure out what possessed me to purchase them. (I'm not revealing the price either so don't even ask. Just let it suffice that these are real honest to god boots, just like those expensive ones I'm always drooling over. In fact, exactly like them).
How does this happen??

I had no time to spare, I went in for a single item, and now, 90 minutes later, I found myself with RED boots and a feeling of being taken. Is this merely a symptom of being female? Does anyone else out there seem to blackout and purchase things?
I fear the disease might be spreading, so as a precautionary measure, I'm heading home, lounging on the couch (a safe distance away from my car keys and my wallet) and watching the second half of my Sherlock episode.
I mean really, who can pack when they know there's the second half to a thrilling episode to complete? Certainly not me!

Vacation bound!

In 24 days I will be boarding a plane to the United Kingdom. I can't tell you what sort of excitement is filling my heart at the thought of finally finally setting foot in the country that's held my fascination for the last two decades.
In preparation for my first proper holiday in over four years I'm getting ready for my British excursion in the best ways I know how.
Namely, I'm immersing myself in British TV shows; currently on my third episode of Sherlock in two days. I've finished the first three seasons of The Tudors (yes, I watched three entire SEASONS. What can I say? There's lots of sex and killing, it's rather addictive), and I'm on the second season of Luther. All of this is to attempt to numb my gut wrenching immediate reaction to British accents. Which is to say, I squeal uncontrollably. The trouble with having a life long interest in a place or person, is that, eventually, you get to go there or meet them. And you can either make an ass of yourself (like I did in March 2007 the night I met Eddie Izzard; it's a tragic story featuring myself as the buffoon) or you can prepare to try to conduct yourself as an adult.
Frankly, I'm expecting to fail miserably.
In other news, I'm getting excited. I'm thinking this might present the occasion to buy a hat. I'm thinking that the very act of setting foot in the "mother country" might be excuse enough for the purchase of a topper. I mean, Britain, it's the country of hat wearers. Hats for weddings, hats for special occasions. In fact, as a wedding photographer I learned to recognize a British wedding simply by scanning the wedding guests. Or rather, their head gear.
But this vacation. I feel like a kid waiting to go to Disney World. Not Disneyland, Disney World. The big one, the real deal.
Lucky for me, I've got an honest to god Londoner as my tour guide. So while the likelihood of me galavanting off at the sight of a black cab or a red telephone booth is still high, the chances that the lovely Mark will keep me from getting irrevocably lost are also high. Let us all pray for his sanity in dealing with an over eager and extremely excitable me for ten days. Perhaps I should pack some sedatives for when I get out of hand?
Did I mention there's been talk of Paris? Oh goodness. I haven't even considered it.
Yes, I'll be flitting around for the next 24 days in excitement. God help us all by the time I board the plane!

Note to self: Dog, Colonoscopy?

There's a cold war going on in my house. Actually, to be exact, it's more like a luke warm war. The war is being waged between myself, and my eldest pup, a 120 pound Mastiff mix named Hercules. (To his friends, he's known as The Hercum, or Mister Poop).

It's an established fact that dog farts are one of the more toxic scents in the universe. They trail behind the lethal squirrels of Papua New Guinea, but that's about it.
Now add to this the fact that Hercules is possibly the laziest dog known to man. His sheer capacity to sit motionless and/or sleep is unrivaled in the tristate area. He has, when given the chance, happily stayed in bed until 4pm, not even getting up to go pee. This is the level of devotion he carries for the art of sleeping.
Additionally, I've been instructed that Hercules needs more exercise, a declaration from the vet that he's been sulking over ever since. To oblige, I leash him and his "sister" (an overeager and caffeinated St. Bernard mix) up twice a day to go on walks.

Yesterday, this required leashing him on the couch. And then PULLING him off the couch and out the front door. I think I get more exercise during these endeavors. Regardless, these walks are the epicenter of the war. He thinks my offensive move is to drag him out twice a day. And so, in defense, he's taken to plodding up near me. Curling up (with his bottom facing me) and releasing the most foul, long, and LOUD farts ever. The stench is simply unbelievable. I've been considering getting a gas mask. In fact, last night I threatened to get him a colonoscopy. I mean, SOMETHING needs to be done. I'm starting to think there's a dead animal in there.

All of which, brings me to the weird fact for the day: "A recent study by Japanese researchers came out with an interesting finding that if trained properly, dogs can detect the bowel cancer even in the initial stages by sniffing out the patient’s breath or stool."
In these tests, a labrador correctly identified 91% of cancer victims by their breath, and 97% by their stool.
Impressive I feel.

But let's think about this, researchers spent LOADS of money, to study dogs, smelling poop. OH MY GOD. Seriously? There I was thinking that the All State Smelling team (my dogs for those who weren't aware of their title) were just trying to annoy me. But here's the other thing I can't stop thinking about. My dogs, when they've found some particularly smelly poop, LOVE to roll in it. It's literally all I can do to keep them out of it. And sometimes I simply don't succeed. Which leads to immediate baths. Which raises two main concerns
1. The "special" poop that gets my dogs all excited, could it be disease ridden and this is their way of telling me? (Which means, oh god, I've been washing cancer poop off them, WITH MY OWN HANDS!
2. Should I pay special attention to the next time Hercules meets a labrador? See if it's smelling anything not so good in his butt?

That seriously JUST happened. Well, yesterday. I'm a little behind in my update.

It was 6pm and I felt it was high time I leave the house for the first time that day. Lame right? The peril of working from home is that you never actually have a reason to leave the house. Anyway, I was out and about.
I've pulled up to a red light, at Eastern and Desert Inn and a little white convertible mazda pulls up beside me. The driver honks and waves enthusiastically trying to get my attention.
MY immediate thought is that either:
A. This is a weirdo and I shouldn't acknowledge them
B. There's something wrong with my car and I should acknowledge them

Ok, so I'm terrible at not giving into temptation. Unless the temptation is chocolate, because strangely, I've never cared much for chocolate. But, of course, I look over.

IMMEDIATE DOUBLE TAKE!
Gesturing for me to roll down my window (well, buzz it down, who has manual windows these days?) was Elvis.
Elvis!
He then called, "Sarah! How are you?"
Oh my god! Yes, we're getting looks from everyone. And this is when I realize, THIS ELVIS, this is my friend Chad.
Who is driving a brand new convertible. And apparently on his way to a last minute wedding. We chat for a while, ending the conversation with a promise to get together and have a drink or two soon.
And away we drive.

Maybe this doesn't seem like much.
But in my opinion, I was feeling the very epitome of being a Las Vegan. I mean, I was at a stoplight, an Elvis recognized me, and stopped to chat before heading off to officiate a wedding. (I'm likewise feeling slightly proud for spelling epitome correctly without needing spellcheck).
Ok, so sure, I live in Las Vegas. This isn't QUITE as bizarre as it would have been in my home town of Sylva, NC.
However, contrary to popular belief, you don't actually see Elvis all the time in Las Vegas. It's more like playing a grown up version of "where's waldo." You know they are there, you just can't usually find them. In fact, outside of Fremont Street or Las Vegas Boulevard sightings, I can narrow my personal Elvis sightings down to the following four incidents over the past five years:

1. Elvis, fat version, stumbling out of the Crazy Horse Two (a notorious strip club) around 6:45 am (i feel bonus points for the situational irony should be awarded)
2. Elvis, fat version, shopping in Sam's Club. (I feel this deserves an extra point or two as I also saw him prior in the parking lot too).
3. Elvis, fat version AND Elvis, young version, walking through a parking lot (clearly, double points!!!) This actually happened last week
4. Elvis, young version, events described above.

Which, in the, OMG It's Complete Proof that I live in Las Vegas game I've just invented, is worth about 50 points! I'm thinking I'm massively ahead of everyone else.

Other point earning items- people in the fountains. Last month I actually watched an idiot dive into the Bellagio fountains. I also have a random picture from last summer of a guy in the Flamingo fountains. I asked him to pose for me, he happily obliged.

PS: Rules for game, otherwise known as ways to keep it fair.
1. Sightings of Elvis or other celebrities on the Strip or Fremont do not count. All of it, so the wedding chapels and the signs are included.
2. Cirque parties do not count as Elvis sightings.

Welcoming any other thoughts on point worthy occurrences.

Currently very very glad my last name, or the last name of my boyfriend (hopeful to be more, and soon) isn't Potter.

Yup. I just "liked" a page named "I'm Jeffery Potter, if this page gets 500,000 likes I'll call my son Harry." The unnamed, thus far, child is due Sept 3rd. I'm guessing it's been confirmed that it's a boy for sure, because it'd be more than a little strange for the child to be named Harry and be a girl.
Not particularly appropriate. But definitely not as bad as Moonchild. Or Dewzel. So at least the kid isn't related to Frank Zappa. In fact, it can probably take a cue from Office Space; and the unfortunately named Michael Bolton, "There was nothing wrong with my name, until I was about 12 years old and that no talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys!"
But sadly, judging by the number of likes on the page (less than 80,000) the kid is going to be named Frank. Or Scott. Or something utterly unrelated. Meaning the last two paragraphs have been a complete waste of your, and my, time.
You're welcome.
Clearly, since you're taking the time to read this in the first place, you have nothing better to do. Or, (even better!!!) you have LOADS to do!
In fact, that's probably it. You're swamped. But, since you work best under pressure, you're wasting your time now so that you can work at a breakneck pace for the next several hours. Yes, that's it. It makes perfect sense, because that's what I do. In fact, even if I have an 8am Monday deadline, I'll find myself rolling out of bed at 7, making coffee, and rather than working on the project....yup, you got it. You'll find me reading every last one of the newest PostSecrets (they publish Sunday night), and the newest Textsfromlastnight. And of course, my favorite, Damnyouautocorrect. Then, around 7:48, I'll freak out. Close my browsers, open whatever file I should have been working on all weekend. And then crank out something absolutely brilliant in the next twelve minutes.
Actually, I'm totally serious. This is how I work. Pressure makes me brilliant. That or so impressively incomprehensible that no one can question my work. Either way, it turns out nicely for me.
Regardless, it's high time you, dear reader, get moving on your tasks for the day.
Taa Taa!

(and no, due to time constraints- explained above-I haven't bothered to reread this or check for errors).

I'm afraid of everything. Or nothing. Or maybe both, but at different times.

Yesterday I added to the list of things I am afraid of. My newest addition?
It's a cajun "eater" serial killer. Isn't it obvious? Isn't that just the rage in things to be afraid of?

I watched an overly terrifying show yesterday, and now this previously unidentified fear has been vaulted directly to the top of the list of things that scare me. All of which is slightly impressive as I'm a bit of a horror movie buff. Not to mention it succinctly displaced the spider fear which had been enjoying the title of number one fear for about a week and a half.

And let me clarify that. It wasn't just a random fear of spiders. No no. I'm not that lame. It was a fear of monster Shelob-esque sized spiders who hang out in my laundry.

Not my laundry room, in my actual laundry, this thing crawled out from between two shirts!!
Even after it was smashed and shriveled it was still the size of a half dollar.
As a side note to any spiders reading this and getting ideas, it's carcass is sitting on a dryer sheet on my dining room table. I'm leaving it there as a warning, much like a head on a stake, to any other spiders who might dare to mess with me. So don't! I may be terrified of you, but not so terrified to let you live.

I've been told these fears are ridiculous. But in my mind, it's best to be completely informed so that, when you are confronted with these things, you've already figured out what your course of action is. Otherwise, when confronted with the thing that terrifies you, you freeze. And frankly, I don't see that helping you.
I'm still thinking on how I'd deal with the eater. However, the spider thing? Well, the exact fear was that it'd crawl in my mouth while I was sleeping. (I KNOW right? That's horrible. It's disgusting, and frankly, if you weren't afraid of that before, you should be. And you should figure out your plan of action. JUST IN CASE).
But that's sorted. I bite and spit. Almost simultaneously. Then brush my teeth for about an hour. And yeah, I practiced the exact motion. Because that is exactly the time I don't want to freeze up.

Other items near the top of the list?
Dropping my iPhone into the toilet. Again. However, rather than not ever take my phone into a bathroom, I place a death grip on it from the moment I enter until the moment I exit. But I still think it'll happen and worry for the entire duration. Even if it's tucked safely into my purse. (At which point, I'll worry it might fall out, and check on it). See? Once again, not the time to be caught unaware, or to freeze up. Every millisecond counts in submerged phone scenario.

Australia. Big fear here.
Don't get me wrong. I'd LOVE LOVE LOVE to go to Australia. From the sounds of it, there's some seriously cool stuff there. But did you know that it's a seriously dangerous place? Not in the crime rate. Nor in the fact that it's so freaking big that you could literally get lost forever in the outback. Nope. It's dangerous in the fact that there are loads of lethal animals, spiders, insects, and seafaring creatures that call it home.
Random fact:70% of Australia is labeled desert, and yet, only 3% of the population dwells there.
Fact: many Australian websites claim that the HYPE regarding the dangerous conditions is ridiculous and a myth.
Let's think about this shall we?
3% of the population on 70% of the land? Australia isn't a small place by any comparison. However, just think how far and few between the people have got to be spread.
That means that Australia is like a cross between the The Shining (man goes crazy due to lack of interaction with actual people) and nearly every horror movie out there in which the cast of characters is cut off from the rest of the world. Now I'm not saying that I think going to Australia will lend itself to encountering an axing wielding maniac. However,it stands to reason that, if something bad DOES happen (say you encounter one of the approximately two million lethal creatures on the continent) that the situation is uniquely primed to go from not good to really terrible with lighting speed.

Conclusion of the moment?
-Go to Australia
So tell me- what are your fears. How do they compare to mine?

Smurfberries and Shattered Dreams

This summer we will all be graced with yet another destruction from our childhood; a 3D animated version of The Smurfs. Set in NYC, our lovable childhood characters enjoy new adventures while acting and carrying on in what is decidedly an unsmurflike manner.
I will not be in attendance as I'm opposed to altering my childhood memories of my favorite drug induced characters. And let's admit that everyone. The Smurfs are a clear indication that a large amount of drugs were consumed between the 1950's and the 1980's. Let's examine the premise shall we?
A. Little Blue People
B. Little Blue People who wear socks on their heads
C. Little Blue People who live in mushrooms
D. Little Blue People who are constantly battling the evil Gargamel, who wants to eat them

They live in MUSHROOM HOUSES! I feel this fact alone proves my point.
You know, I actually know two people who did acid, convinced themselves they had turned blue, and checked themselves into a hospital.
As a kid, the Smurfs were awesome. They infected our lives with their weekend escapades and little action figurines. As a kid, I even DRANK Smurfberry juice (which I later discovered was only blue kool-aid. Frankly, I'm still disappointed).
Which brings me to my random fact for the day.
Smurfberries.
Ever wonder what a smurfberry is?
A smurfberry is a smilax berry. Simply put the Smurfs are eating sarsaparilla berries.
What?!
Ok, first, this is like finding out that the Ghostbusters were really just a bunch of kooks with a ouija board Or that Ren and Stimpy are really just two flea ridden mutts. Regardless, I'm offended that this sort of reality inducing fact is out there, readily available to the general public. AND THE CHILDREN!
I can hear the advertising for it!
"Step right up ladies and gentlemen, we're here to shatter your childhood beliefs. First off, Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairies are elaborate lies concocted by your parents for no clear reason. Life isn't fair. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And lastly, all the exceptional things you've learned to believe in, from trolls to smurfberries, are just fantastical names for otherwise unexceptional items. Grow up!"

How dare we, as responsible adults, make such information readily available to our children? There's not even a warning or an age conformation page. This information is out there people. Just waiting to shatter dreams. What are we going to do about it?

Camel Races. The Fast and the Feral

Earlier today, a friend reminded me of a long standing promise I had made. The promise? To accompany her to the Camel Races outside Reno, NV this year. (Yes, they exist, and yes, we're aware how awesome that is. And no, we aren't bringing you a t-shirt).
Back to the point though.
FERAL CAMELS!!!!
Actually, this isn't the point either, however, I highly suggest that this is something you Google. Or Wikipedia or whatever your method of finding things out is. Unless it's picking up the "F" volume of an encyclopedia Britannica. Because I'm pretty certain that there's nothing in there about feral camels. Though I can't be certain. Who actually has encyclopedias anymore?
Ok ok, so you're getting tired. You'd like me to get to the point. To the interesting fact of the moment.
Right?
Here it is- directly copied from the Wikipedia article:
"The U.S. Camel Corps was a mid-nineteenth century experiment by the United States Army in using camels as pack animals in the Southwest United States."

Take a moment. Let this sink in.
CAMEL corps. Military operations, in AMERICA, being conducted on camel. Not quite the image you had in mind of our military right? Even for the 1850's.
Now for my favorite line of the article:
"On March 3, 1855, the US Congress appropriated $30,000 for the project. Major Henry C. Wayne, was assigned to procure the camels."

Alright, put yourself in Major Wayne's shoes. You're in the military. You've signed on to kill things, with guns, in the name of defending your country, your inalienable rights, and all that. (No, not taking a stab or belittling the military. Cut me some slack here).
Anyway, It's March 3rd 1855, a Saturday. A Saturday? What? Anyway, you're probably annoyed to be receiving an assignment on a Saturday. But then you open it, and read it.
"Find us some camels."
Ok. Me, I'm thinking BEST. ASSIGNMENT. EVER.
But that's me.
Major Wayne though? Most American's, in their right mind, would be pissed. He's signed on to defend and serve, and he's asked to find camels? Camels? In that day and age?
But, and here is the most incredible part---
HE DOES IT!!!!
Granted it takes him over a year. And he's literally got to cross oceans, and battle raging seas to bring them back. But he succeeds! Total success. High fives all around.

All of which brings me to the following conclusions:
1. The military might have access to secret camel black markets.
2. There's a possibility that feral camels are roaming the Southwest
3. I need to book tickets to the Camel Races



You're welcome. That's your random factoid for the day.