I don't understand you. Most of the time you pass by and I barely even register the fact that everyone around me is wearing green, talking in incredibly awful faux-Irish accents and drunk. I don't think I've ever been intoxicated on St. Patrick's Day, and I'm not sure why. Maybe you just don't encourage me to drink as much as Christmas does.

Christmas is crazy, because there are so many family things happening and everyone is merry but also, possibly, insane, and then suddenly your drinking aged Merlot in the kitchen with your mother helping her make a bizarre Christmas breakfast consisting of Kraft Cheese Slices and inappropriate spousal abuse references.

To be honest, I don't drink much at all. Two large glasses of Strawberry Zinfandel eventually lead to me phoning the guy I like and giggling at him in a drunken stupor, as though I'm a graduate of the remedial class of dating. My cheeks get all flushed red and everything is endlessly hilarious and I have tons of great ideas that mostly involve taking off my pants and dancing with a broom to some random Christina Aguilera song.

Tonight I'm going to a party! Yesterday, because I am smooth as butter, I slipped and fell in a patch of mud along one of the back paths and skinned both my knees. I am pretty much as graceful as a sack of really awesomely dressed potatoes. "Awesomely dressed" because nothing is hotter than coupling a brown velvet skirt covered in sequins with a pair of bright red crocs. And then wearing it to a job interview.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, St. Patrick's Day, I GOT A NEW JOB!! I am a lab aid at the hospital now, which means I get to wear a lab coat and say things like, "To the Lab-Or-A-Tory!!" while possibly singing an especially operatic version of "Monster Mash". I'm pretty excited. I might have "I'm a Lab Aid" emblazoned on a tshirt. And then I'll wear it to work. And do a backflip-round off-splits combo just to enforce how awesome I am.

Anyways, what I'm really trying to say here, is that this is the first time I've celebrated St. Patrick's Day since elementary school when I made construction paper leprechauns, and while the huge parties we used to have then were riddled with booze and recess showings of Helen Keller's Miracle Worker, I am pretty excited to be officially embracing you again as a blatant, entirely transparent excuse to party.

Keep it real,
Sarah

Labels: Open Letters

We need to talk.

Back in Grade Nine I found a book via a church yard sale (lovingly placed next to the Playboy Interview with John Lennon) that quickly became one of my favourite horror novels. At night when I slept on the hide-a-bed in the basement, in between working out what colour of overall I would wear to school the next day and whether or not Seventeen magazine would be okay with me wearing Nan's Pink Confetti shade of lipstick because I'd spent all of my potential makeup money on the new Spice Girls CD, I would devour Phantoms.

From the small town overcome with mass disappearances to the troubled romance between Sherriff and Doctor, to the wonderful questionably historical information pertaining to the Virginia settlement, et al, Phantoms was superb and took precedence over all of my homework, including that really big History project I did on the entire decade of the 50's.

And then came the movie. I can't say much because I actually own this movie, as in ... spent a whopping $1.99 towards it's purchase, but I can shake my head disappointedly and say, "Ben Affleck, Dean Koontz? Ben Affleck?" before falling into a desolate heap against the wood pannelled basement walls, weeping as my faith in humankind leaks from my eyes and falls in tattered ruins to the floor.

Did you like that Dean Koontz? Don't steal it. I know how you roll.

So I was listening to Twilight Eyes tonight on Audio Book, which is what I do when I'm at work and emtpying garbages, cleaning sinks and dancing around like a nut with the vaccuum. (Plus, just between you and me, Mr. Koontz, the last time I tried listening to that Deja Vu song by Beyonce I started singing along and gyrating around ... and that's when I ran into one of the night employees. Staring. Backing away. Possibly confusing my keen sense of rhythm and daring interpretation of every So You Think You Can Dance move for insanity, boldly brandishing my Fantastik Orange Spray like a makeshift Antibacterial microphone. ... What I'm saying is, audio books require a fraction less shimmying.)

But I'm listening to Twilight Eyes and suddenly I hear: "a dog mouthed goblin ramming it's vilely deformed penis into the cold and mutant vagina of a red eyed and pig snouted bitch."

WHAT?

WHAT, DEAN KOONTZ? "Mutant Vagina", Dean Koontz?

I swear this might be worse than reading Darkfall.

Also, I would really appreciate it if you left sex scenes out of your next books on tape. If I have to hear the smooth and silky baritoned voice of the Reader talk dirty one more time I may vomit. Not to even mention your / his frivolous usage of the word "seed". No one should say "seed" unless they are planting SEEDS or buying SEEDS, and even then... it's questionable.

I'd say keep up the good work but ... Ben Affleck, Dean Koontz? Ben Affleck?

Love,
Sarah

PS: I forgot about Intensity. That is a great book and an even better made for TV movie. The shellshocked little girl screaming "BADGER!" across the room made me laugh so hard my mother called me "heartless".

PPS: Badger reminds me of a story my Uncle Ron once told me, wherein my Uncle Gord woke up to find a badger rummaging through a bucket of chicken he had on his desk, the badger running off with a chicken bone much to the hilarity of all. Likely it was more like a muskrat, though. Or Uncle Ron.

Labels: Open Letters

How are things? Record any music lately? Fight for world peace? Bump up and down in your little red wagon?

My friend Laura, what we like to do sometimes, is we like to roll around in Laura's minivan, listening to your Raffi tape in her audio cassette tape deck. We like to sing along, with the windows down, doing all the actions to "Brush Your Teeth" while holding our other hand in a faux microphone. You need the faux microphone if you're going to sing, because you'll never be Jem and the Holograms if you don't practice.

Anyways. I've listened to your tape a few times now. I am a big fan of that Halloween song, and that song about speckled frogs, even though I think you might sing it too slow. But what I'm not a fan of, Raffi -- I'm not a fan of not being mentioned in any of your songs. Even Laura gets to fix your little red wagon with her pliers. I AM HANDY, TOO, RAFFI. YOU SHOULD SEE ME WIELD A HAMMER.

Wibbledee, Wobbledee, Wanya, an Elephant sat on Tanya. You even mention a girl named DAVID ANNE. Who the hell names their child David Anne? Please don't even get me started on Akenrum. Little too hard was it? Adding THE MOST POPULAR NAME OF 1983?

Much love,
WIBBLEDEE WOBBLEDEE WARAH, AN ELEPHANT CAN SIT ON SARAH, RAFFI.

(Some of you may know Raffi as the talented young musician who went through a hollow log and straight into our hearts mornings on PBS. But you would be wrong. FRED PENNER, RETARD.)

(Psst. I first did this first at work with my trusty audio recorder. I am the coolest girl since the New Kids On the Block decided to freestyle rap. You can listen to it in all it's glory here.)

Labels: Open Letters

Maybe someday I will be finished.

But that time appears to be in the distant future, when dinosaurs have been genetically recreated by a bored billionaire bent on theme park domination and have been given free reign to roam the land, eating people.

What? Jurassic Park? I have no idea what that is, Internet.

Footnote: Dear Thunder Bay,

Please be a dear and stop switching your goddamn street names. Golf Links to Junot to Some Other Street Whose Name I Can't Even Recall? YOU HAD ME DRIVING AROUND FOR TWO HOURS TONIGHT.

TWO HOURS.

AND I HAVE LIVED HERE FOR 19 FUCKING YEARS, and yet, COULD I FIND BIRCHGROVE STREET? NO.

THAT IS TWO HOURS TAKEN AWAY FROM EDITING. Really, Thunder Bay, I have stuff to do that doesn't involve careening down side streets on a semi-flat tire cursing at pedestrians who don't know the real meaning of "right of way" ... aka, WHO HAS THE GIANT VEHICLE PERFECT FOR MAIMING?

Love,
Sarah

Labels: Open Letters

As I sit here in Helen's office trying not to think about my 5 a.m. wake up call, or my impending cold, or clowns bearing weaponry* I can't help but think instead: I'm leaving you.

It won't be for long, and I won't really be that far away. You get my parents -- The Rev. and Al -- out of the deal and that's none too shabby. He may break into song in the middle of your hilarious travelling story and she might get after you for tracking dirt into the house after an intense swiffering, but they aren't all that bad. She knows some really awesome children's stories and sometimes licks her finger before turning the page (this is the epitome of talented storytelling, as I'm sure you know) and he certainly knows an awful lot about Arnold Schwarzenegger films.

I'll call, and I'll write, and maybe some day, when I'm older and wiser and finished film school with absolutely no idea about what I really want to do in life, I will come and see you and we can live together with much merriment and tons of chinese food made with those little cashews I like so much.

This really isn't goodbye as much as a "See you later" or a "Til' next time, America". After all, you have so many of the things I admire in a province: forests, an ocean, excellent shopping, and places named Squamish. Try saying it. Squamish. It sounds like something cuddly you'd whine for hours about in Walmart until your mom finally gave up and bought it for you, except that on the ride home you actually took a good look at it and realized it wasn't as awesome as you thought and so you left it in the backyard where it was destroyed during the next rainstorm and eventually wound up as a chew toy for your miniature schnauzer, Katie.

I've had a lot of fun here. Things I will need further of next visit: sunshine but also... sometimes ... fog, more Internet, Mel, Sarah E, Gencousin et al, Mr. Jax, hot pants OH NO WAIT I ALREADY HAVE THOSE, miraculous motion sickness pills, friendly neighbourhood mormons. Preferably in hot pants.

So, dear British Columbia, I say adieu. But don't worry. I am coming back at Christmas, where I'm sure you and I will learn a thing or two about celebrating the birth of Jesus with party hats and fresh ocean crab dip.

So long, and thanks for all the fish,
Sarah

*Really, when aren't people trying not to think about that.

Labels: Open Letters