Longing for the days when I was wispy and willowy, cry, cry, cry

Oh, how I long for my sartorially splendid days of yore. I used to be so into fashion. I was the best-dressed girl in high school (or so I thought–aside from my unfortunate paisley phase in 1992). I laid out my clothes the night before, making sure everything matched perfectly. I never wore the same thing twice, and yes, anal retentive freakazoid that I am, I even kept a running list of my outfits for this very purpose. I had problems.

In college, I relaxed my standards a tiny bit, if only because for the first time I was in charge of my own laundry and wearing an outfit only once was highly impractical. I also attended one of those East Coast liberal arts bastions of fleece, LL Bean, Patagonia, and pajama pants. I also went to school surrounded by women. I was dressing to impress no one. Still, I always wore a bit of blush and a spot of eyeshadow when trekking cross-campus, and I prided myself on my ability to fit into a size 2 Hooch Pant. (For those of you unfamiliar with Slutty Party Wear circa 1997, a Hooch Pant is a tight pair of black, stretchy pants, which clings to the derriere and is best paired with a tank top and platform Steve Maddens. The ideal hooch pant is easy to remove should the possibility for amore drunkenly present itself).

Fast-forward to 2008. I am no longer a size 2. Hell, I’m no longer a size 6. I can no longer fit into my catalogue of prepster finery, which now taunt me from their plastic hangers. This is due to many things. 1: My pathetic eating habits have caught up to me. 2. So has my disdain for exercise of any kind. 3: I’m getting old and my metabolism is slowing to a crawl. 4: I take Zoloft.

Now, I take Zoloft for panic attacks. However, if I continue to gain weight at my current rate, I’m going to check myself into a mental hospital anyway, and god forbid they throw me into a straitjacket, because it probably won’t fit. Me, the girl who always used to fancy herself a fashion maven, is now reduced to wearing stretchy Yoga pants in public and unbuttoning the top button of her jeans and hoping no one notices. I know, I know, if I’m in the yoga pants, I might as well…do yoga. Right. But if I have to wear those pants to work, what, oh what, am I going to wear to work out?

I’m the Whitney

With the writers’ strike still going strong, there’s little to occupy me during the scary hours after the gym and before bed. So, to avoid thinking about my recent break-up, I’ve been visiting the websites of teen magazines and taking the quizzes.

Thanks to Cosmo Girl, I know that if I were a Hills character, I would be Whitney, that my hip-hop boyfriend is Nelly, and that my ex broke up with me because he thought of me as a gal pal.

I’ve also learned about sex.

For months, I’ve been looking for answers. Finally, I have them.

Happy Hangovers!

Tonight I shall attend my third holiday party of the season.

The first one I went to this week was on Monday night. It was at a comedy club I perform at regularly and there was an open bar. Open. Free. Unlimited. Disastrous.

I’m not sure what it is about Monday nights but they’ve recently replaced my Saturday as the party night. While everybody else may be working for the weekend, stand-up comics work for the free drink they get after doing their set. And free drinks have no idea what day of the week it is.

I awoke Tuesday morning surprisingly well considering I had passed out on a friends couch in my pretty red party dress after vomiting and loosing my digital camera. While I was hangover free, I still promised to “take it easy” the rest of the week. And I did, until I got a call about another holiday party that night. Once again, it was at the drunkest place on earth: a stand-up club with open bar.

Cut to 4am this morning. I took it “easy” and drank free beer instead of free dirty martini’s like I did on Monday. Luckily the recreational drugs helped keep me from getting too drunk.

I assume by now you reading this are in awe of how cool I am. Listen, I shop at Forever 21 because sometimes I want to be just that, a young, foolish, extremely thirsty co-ed with a brand-new shiny debt-free, 0% interest credit card and a lot of friends she wants to impress by charging to that credit card endless rounds of SoCo lime shots.

And sometimes, I want to be a 30 + work-from-huge-home mother with a stable income and the ability to enjoy one, that’s one glass of Merlot.

But most of the time, I enjoy being who I really am: a twenty-something gal who works hard and plays hard, who is embracing being happily married yet still maintains her saucy style and fierce independence, and who is promises to go back to her cardio/weight routine just as soon as she finishes these last few drinks of 2007.

If I weren’t so hazy from all the holiday ho-downs I’d probably get into a long analysis of my inability to turn down anything free and how I learned it from my mother whom is the reason many take-out restaurants hide their napkins behind the counter. Yes, if it’s free we’ll take as much as we can. But that’s a tale for another time.

And I’m off to get dolled up for my friends party tonight. Last year at her party I ended the night sobbing on air mattress after shamelessly throwing myself at some random kid (note the word kid) from the OC whom I didn’t even like but wanted to simply conquer to boost my emotionally drunk ego. Let’s hope this years soiree ends with an equally exciting bang. Cheers!

A Poem About My Chin Hair, since I didn’t really get it all off my chest the first time.

Ode to my chin hair

 

You first arrived on prom night

Strong, black, and proud.

My friend leaned over and said, “You’re growing a beard!”

I wondered if she was speaking aloud.

 

I ran into the bathroom

While everyone else danced and smiled

And there like a limp, wet noodle

Was my firstborn hirsute child.

 

I jutted out my chin and pulled

Pulled, and tugged, and cried

And finally I lunged for the tweezers

My prom date thought I’d died.

 

At last, out popped the hair

Black and at least three inches long

Afterwards, oh the smoothness

Felt so right, but also so wrong.

 

I returned to the dance floor victorious

But my glee was fleeting indeed

For the next morning I noticed another

As though on my chin I had planted a seed.

 

I began to pluck on the daily

Noticing hairs where there really were none

And then they’d grow back even darker

And I’d pull them out shouting, “I won!”

 

Today I have at least ten hairs

I name them like they’re my babies

My friends all think it’s hilarious.

My husband thinks I have rabies.

 

As a girl I razored my legs so close

And lathered them lovingly with lotion

But I was an outcast, a leper

All salt and no pepper

A modern-day Hester Prynne.

Oh, what a sad sin

(Please pass the gin)

While I was shaving my gams

I grew a beard like a lamb.

I should’ve been shaving my chin.

Mad at the world

Ever have one of those days when you wish you had the power to ignite people’s eyebrows with a single glance, or could crush the skulls of egomaniacs with a casual flick of your pinkie?

I hate everyone. Seriously, I want to kick the shit out of every single person I know.

Except you, of course. You’re pretty.

-Sara Faith

Drunk? Yes.

Dear Vodka,

Thank you for being a good friend. And also for not being spelled “Codka”, as was my initial hunch.

Love, a shitfaced Sara Faith

Ode to my chin hairs

I just discovered that I have not one, not two, but three thick, coarse hairs jutting from my chin. Usually I tend to these unsightly monsters before they get out of control. But my personal hygiene and physical appearance have both gone down the shitter of late, and now I’m a Tweezer or two from turning into a mountain man.

Snow mice

It’s a blizzard out there. And my dog, Murphy, LOVES it.

Rather than shield himself from the wind and the snow like a normal creature that has any Darwinian sense to him, Murphy likes to barrel outside to frolic in the snow, tossing it into the air with his nose. Then, out of nowhere, he’ll bury his head under the powder and root around, like he’s fishing for something. Some years ago, my mother dubbed this, “Digging for snow mice”.

My dog defies all laws of nature, and my mother makes up cute anecdotes for it. No wonder I caught The Crazy.

-Sara Faith

New habit!!

Mumbling to myself while driving, as well as shaking my fist at people who cut me off, instead of honking my horn.

Fast track to old ladyville! Now all I need are 17 cats.

-Sara Faith

The crying game

You may think that a 28-year-old sobbing inconsolably onto her Dad’s shoulder because she can’t make ends meet and she got a run in her only pair of stockings on her way to her lame temp job today and her car insurance denied an accident claim because she lied to them about where her car is garaged because she can’t pay the exorbitant premiums that her own address will incur is pathetic and laughable.

And you’d be correct! Wheeeeee!

-Sara Faith