So, fall is my very favourite time of year, but fall is also ragweed season.  I am wildly, insanely allergic to ragweed, and thus have spent the past few weeks morphing into the world's most industrious snot factory (I know, I'm so sessy y'all can't even handle it).  Everything itches like mad... mostly the roof of my mouth and the insides of my ears, throat, and eyelids.  You know, all the places it's physically impossible to scratch without injuring myself.  Also, my eyes won't stop watering and I'm really congested, so I pretty much constantly look I'm crying.

HOWEVER.

Dude.  Seriously.  Oh my God, I love Benadryl so much, I can't even tell you.  See, I react pretty strongly to Benadryl.  It's kind of nuts.  I take half a dose of Children's Benadryl and I'm a little hazy for most of the day.  If I take a full dose (keep in mind, this is the dosage intended for 12-year-olds) I will sleep for at least eight consecutive hours and spend at least eight hours after that in a delightful, fuzzy bubble where everything is slightly shiny and far away.  It is AWESOME.  It doesn't fully suppress all of my allergies because apparently nothing short of my actual death will accomplish that, but I can almost sort of halfway breathe and I'm so rarely awake that I don't even particularly care.

In other news, it's been in the 50s all week and there's frost this morning and I'm going to a corn maze with Jenni this weekend and word on the street is there will also be hay rides and I have a bunch of yummy fresh apples and it's been very windy and the trees are turning colours and I've been wearing sweaters and socks and if I leave the window open in my bedroom it gets chilly and I can huddle under my down comforter and my nose and ears will turn pink and be slightly cold whilst the rest of me is warm and snuggly and BLISS.

Know you not, Miss Bennett, that Mr. Darcy has been Freestyle Disco Champion of all Derbyshire these last dozen years?


And on a somewhat related note:


You're welcome!

This blog is a chore and I'm kind of tired of it... or at least, I'm tired as hell of it feeling like a chore.  I hate scrounging for halfway passable subjects about which to write because I'm trying to avoid talking about anything real, and so I end up abandoning this joint for weeks or even months at a time.  I'd like very much to be better about it -- I know I've said that before and it's always been a pack of lies, but I'm genuinely serious this time.  I've been pretty uncommunicative for a good long while now; even when I talk a lot (or write a lot, as it were) I don't tend to say much of anything.  I feel like changing that and maybe starting to talk about some serious stuff, but not today.  Why?  Because today is Wednesday.  No Whining Wednesday, to be precise.

Around the middle-ish of July, the luminous Lainey started No Whining Wednesdays, because she is wise and good (she's also smokin' hot and funny as shit, but we'll get back to that on Frisky Friday so keep it in your pants for now, pervs).  The idea is a simple one: for one measly day out of every week, try to resist the overwhelming impulse we all have to bitch about every last thing that bothers us.  It's basic human nature to whine and cry over what we don't like; it starts in infancy and progresses from there until it's so entrenched it seems like we can't function without bemoaning every little slight or inconvenience.  Now, the philosophy of No Whining Wednesday is not to turn everyone into some sort of mindless Pollyanna drone because EW, GROSS.  I'm pretty sure we all know one of those walking sunbeam kinda people, and we all want to kill those jackholes in the head because it just ain't natural to be that goddamn happy all the time.  That being said, it's a total drag to feel surrounded by people who are reveling in their misery, and it definitely feels pretty yucky when we get immersed in our own negativity.

It's so easy to fall back on the lazy habit of complaining, you know?  And lord knows, I'm pretty much the laziest bitch I've ever met.  When Lainey started No Whining Wednesdays, I thought it was a fun idea and I liked reading updates about it from her and the other people who had joined in, but I wasn't actually participating.  It wasn't a conscious decision to avoid playing; I just didn't jump in right away.  A few weeks ago, though, I found myself -- completely unintentionally -- looking at things a little differently.  It wasn't a massive paradigm shift that led to visions of rainbows and seraphim or anything insane, but I started seeing a difference in my mood on Wednesdays.  Even just those few people who were playing No Whining Wednesday in the early weeks were enough to noticeably alter my thinking for the better.  Not in some crazy thought police way, but there was this subtle shift in focus happening.  It's just a small redirection of energy, really.  And I liked it, so I started playing.  Just on Twitter, at first, but my Twitter feed automatically updates my Facebook status... there was no identifiable point at which it started bleeding over into actual conversation in my fleshlife, but it happened nonetheless.  Not every day, not all the time, but just that one day each week I was finding this lovely lifting of mood.

It's a bit addictive, really.  And it's so small; just a newfound balance in content vs. tone.  It's so nice when people can talk freely about things that upset them or disappoint them or anger them, without absolutely wallowing in the negativity of it all.  It sounds ridiculously cheesy when I try to describe it, I guess, because silly things like "silver linings" always seem to come to mind.  It's not even so drastic as that, though, but more about how I'm choosing to express negativity without whining about it.  After just one day each week for a mere few weeks, I find myself tending to end on an upswing when I mention annoyances, finding unexpected benefits to inconvenient circumstances, or getting a laugh out of ridiculous situations.  The whole endeavour does wonders for maintaining a sense of fun, even on the most irritating or miserable of days.

I don't know how many of you have noticed the No Whining Wednesday thing happening, but for those who have, are you seeing any change in mood on Wednesdays?  I was even in a super good mood on Thursday last week, because I went to sleep revoltingly happy on Wednesday night.  Also, it tends to seriously creep people out when I'm in a really good mood, so that was a delightfully unexpected benefit.  I live to give you bastards the heebie jeebies.  As for today, I woke up with a headache which provided me with an excellent excuse to consume horrifying quantities of caffeine, so YAY!  I got invited to a barbecue with RIBS tonight and I can't go which makes me hideously sad in the pants, but the reason I can't go is because of tonight's Showgirls Shindig with Lainey and Anna von B and the rest of those crazy bitches, and it's gonna be awesome, so YAY!  What about you guys?  What can you not whine about this fine Wednesday evening?

Hey look, I'm updating!

So, I know it's been a few months since I remembered this joint existed, but I don't really have anything of consequence to discuss.  As my Twitter feed can attest, my daily life mostly varies from intensely boring to asininely stupid.  Jenni called me a little bit ago while she was in her car to talk about our BIG PLANS for tonight (primarily involving a bottle of Jag she found in her freezer) and we had a lovely conversation which once again showcased what a juvenile idiot I am.

Jenni: Hey, what are you doing?
Sarah: Eating Pringles and watching iCarly.
Jenni: Oh my God, you are so five years old.
Sarah: Yeah.  Actually, no, I'm more like 12 years old.  I did some laundry because I had to, and now I'm avoiding mowing the lawn.
Jenni: Ugh.  Well, I'm on my way from one job to my other job while you're sittin' there watchin' iCarly and eatin' Pringles, ya damn kid.
Sarah: That's sad for you.  This is a really good episode.
Jenni: I hate you sometimes.

It's been quite a walk, Manda.  In spite of everything, I wasn't really prepared to arrive here just yet... but then you were never one to be held back by anything.  I won't say goodbye, because I know I can always find you through the looking glass.

Child of the pure unclouded brow
And dreaming eyes of wonder!
Though time be fleet, and I and thou
Are half a life asunder,
Thy loving smile will surely hail
The love-gift of a fairy-tale.

I have not seen thy sunny face,
Nor heard thy silver laughter:
No thought of me shall find a place
In thy young life’s hereafter--
Enough that now thou wilt not fail
To listen to my fairy-tale.

A tale begun in other days,
When summer suns were glowing--
A simple chime, that served in time
The rhythm of our rowing--
Whose echoes live in memory yet,
Though envious years would say “forget”.

Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread,
With bitter tidings laden,
Shall summon to unwelcome bed
A melancholy maiden!
We are but older children, dear,
Who fret to find our bedtime near.

Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness--
Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow,
And childhood’s nest of gladness.
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.

And, though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
For “happy summer days” gone by,
And vanish’d summer glory--
It shall not touch with breath of bale,
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.

-- Lewis Carroll

In loving memory of Amanda Foley Amos, 1975 - 2009.

Codladh sámh, mo chara.

My primary complaint involves the wardrobe department (or, more specifically, their ridiculous penchant for excess).  Any reasonable person knows The Rock has no goddamn business wearing a shirt.  You know, pretty much ever.  But since this is a movie for children and they are breakable in the brain space, I was willing to make some concessions and do my part to preserve their delicate innocence.  I was not prepared for the rampant abuse of my reasonable agreeability on this issue, however.  Dwayne Johnson wore an offensively loose grey t-shirt the entire time.  I was tempted to demand a refund.  If a shirt absolutely HAS TO HAPPEN anywhere on or near the physical space of The Rock, it should consist of, at most, something like this:


Of course, something like this is always better:


Mmmm... socks.

Clicky the linky for my discussion with the lovely and charming Jeremy Feist about Race to Witch Mountain and the infinite fuckability of The Rock.

I'm supposed to be doing a pre-Purim pub crawl with Jenni tonight, but I am currently saddled with my sister's ex-fiance's kids (it's a long, stupid story, the moral of which is that I am a sap).  Anyway, conversations like these are why Jenni and I are best friends:

Jenni:  Hey lady, what time are you coming over tonight?
Me:  I dunno.  I gotta wait 'til somebody gets home to watch these fucking tiny tots.
Jenni:  Gross... you're a babysitter!
Me:  Jesus, tell me about it.  I goddamn hate children.
Jenni:  Well, I'll buy you a drink tonight.  You'll need it.
Me:  I might do some Googling about selling kids on the black market.
Jenni:  Cut them up and sell their organs.  You'll make more money.

The trusty Google did not let me down: BEHOLD.