Last night I went out to a fancyish sort of dinner. I dressed up -- kind of. Lately I have been wearing the same outfits almost all the time -- either my brown velvet skirt with red knee high socks, my new pair of jeans that DON'T FALL DOWN, AND THIS IS AWESOME, or glaringly bright plaid hot pink pajamas bottoms ....because I like to be as fashionably offensive as possible before going to bed.

And yes, KNEE HIGH SOCKS. They are amazing. I throw them on and my legs are all warm and suddenly I'm transported back to my childhood church days, wearing white knee high socks with the Scottish kilt my mom forced me to wear. Sock Dreams is an amazing company specializing in socks, which is brilliant, because now I can finally buy tons of socks ... and lose the second sock of each pair almost immediately.

So, I go to this dinner, wearing niceish clothes. I have pretty excellent manners -- god forbid I ever know which piece of cutlery is my desert fork, and I used to use my knife and fork in a sort of retarded jabbing motion for about three years too many, but I don't eat with my hands or use my sleeves as a napkin so.... I'm doing well.

However, it doesn't matter how well your motor skills can wield a fork, if you are clumsy -- which I am. And unfortunately, we had shish kebobs. Delicious, awesome, amazing shish kebobs skewered with roasted red onions, tomatoes, zucchini and chicken, but the first time I very politely attempted to slip a chunk of chicken off my skewer I used a little too much force and that piece of chicken.... soared across the room and hit the wall.

It might not have been noticed if I hadn't made a sound, somewhere between an illegible groan and a totally inappropriate "Fuuuuuck", while reaching over as nonchalantly as possible to retrieve my momentarily airborne poultry, but everyone at my table very politely continued on with conversation.

Until I dropped my knife. It slipped off the table, cascaded off my lap, and landed on the floor with a clatter akin to an atomic bomb.

Now, I am pretty ample in the breast department which is mostly awesome, unless you're in track and field in Grade Nine and your gym teacher pulls you aside to talk about bra support, but this can make for an incredibly huge landing area for things like, oh, I don't know... squash soup. I dare you to find a big breasted woman who has not once ever sloshed some sort of food all over her top -- it's like food can't keep itself from leaping off your spoon and ruining your favourite goddamn sweater.

The restaurant that we ate at included a section with incense, consignment clothing, sandalwood soap and various fleece socks, pine salve, chocolate kiss lip balm and various other bits of wonder, and I couldn't stop myself from shopping after dinner. ... which is why I eventually came home with a new black shirt and, for the first time since I was 12 and owned the largest collection of cotton sweatshirts featuring adorable painted prints of puppies in vibrant gardens and kittens resting in patches of sunlit staircases in Canada, I bought a Northern Reflections top. Because I can hear Sarah in Thunder Bay clapping her hands with glee all the way over here in Masset, I will say it doesn't feature any barnyard animals drinking from collected dishes of rainwater or loons resting peacefully on tranquil pond surfaces, but it does have faded brown-pink flowers peppered across green cotton and it's the most comfortable thing ever. I don't know why I'm not wearing it right this minute in fact.

I just love the idea of going to a fancy dinner and then shopping thriftily afterwards.

Some time after me and Ann made NACHOS!! and watched 'Ratatouille' while I pet her cat, who was alternately licking my hand and biting me as though trying to figure out how delicious I might taste.

Labels: Sarah Land, Stories

Brad and I waited eons too long to get our licenses, which ensured that our friends were driving our asses around for quite some time before we were able to return the favour. Melissa, Sarah E and I actually went to driving school together. We spent the entire time in the middle to back rows, not listening to the lectures whatsoever and writing top secret notes to each other on the backs of our super important driving lesson handouts.

We still talk about the time Melissa accidentally poked Claude's ("My NAME is pronounced CLODE.") bum, and we thought it was the most hilarious thing she had ever done because we'd just spent six hours sitting in a dimly lit room learning about what the dash in the middle of the road signifies and we disrupted the entire class with our laughter until Roger, our instructor, had to look pointedly at us while clearing his throat.

Anyways. Brad still got his license before me, and at that same time also procured his very first automobile: his beloved Tempo. I am pretty sure the Tempo was made from the various parts of other dead cars, much like Frankenstein. If the Tempo could've spoken I think it might have made desperate, mechanical pleas for "Friend?" while accidentally drowning small children.

... too far?

Anyways. He had this new car, and it was amazing. Except for like, how the subs rattled the trunk so hard it was like the entire car was going to fall apart... and that whole exhaust problem. But other than that, the Tempo was AMAZING. Brad let me drive it once, when I had just gotten my licence and was still petrified at the thought of leaving the neighbourhood, and I nearly drove us off the highway and straight into the ditch with my superhuman night vision. Brad didn't let me drive it for awhile after that.

This one night though, we were all piled into the Tempo cruising through the orange lit neon streets of Thunder Bay at 3 a.m., when an old model Oldsmobile pulled up beside us. We couldn't immediately see the people inside the car, but Brad sort of revved his engine, and the Olds revved it's engine and when the light turned green we both sped off. For awhile the Olds was winning ... we were just behind it, still unable to see the people inside.

Finally, Brad slammed down the gas pedal and the Tempo, miraculously, gained speed and we cruised by the Olds.

Inside were two elderly men wearing their full military uniforms, from the pins to the World War II issue hats, and as we passed them by they saluted us.

And that is my favourite story about a car.

Labels: Sarah Land, Stories

This one night, Laura and I stole political signs off the lawns of the elderly. See, we know this guy named Paul Wolfe, except he is completely seperate from the Paul Wolfe that is running for Red River Warden... so stealing Paul Wolfe political signs and leaving them on the lawn of the other Paul Wolfe... that is pure comedy gold right there.

... and as such, should be illustrated in pencil crayon and written into the pages of my journal, photographed, uploaded and shared with the Internet.














If you pay any attention to the retard page numbering, it's totally off in the illustrations. But I have accepted that I can't properly count. Coming soon: I accept that I can't sing like Mariah Carey. ... maybe. I might not be ready.

Labels: Stories

Laura went to Dryden and was manhandled by a bra professional, and her experience reminded me of my own measuring incident, which happened sometime around the age of 15, and has thus inspired me to share my own rack stories.

I have a huge, heaving bosom, Internet, and maybe it's time you knew that. Although most of the time the heaving part is due to hot weather, or possibly wrestling out of a tshirt, usually also connected to hot weather, because disrobing is hard and I dream of a world where people just wear magic togas ALL THE TIME and never remove them, not even for bathing.

I developed early, like most Sovereign girls (I'm thinking of my cousin Melissa in particular, who was fully developed by about four.) and this lead to my first (albeit, very late) training bra in Grade Six. I really should have been venturing beyond the training bras at this period, which was evidenced during an unfortunate football game between the Grade Sevens, where, while carrying the football and running for a touchdown for the wrong team, my breasts popped out of my top and just kind of flopped around there until, triumphant, I scored a touchdown and lost the game for my entire team. After that I became one of those pasty, potentially borderline retarded girls who stayed indoors during gym period to work on crafts cut with safety scissors.

(Which is pretty much how, in elementary school, I fell in with the Special Ed crowd, who were all awesome. We hung out in the Spec Ed room during lunch hours, where we'd discuss the goings-on of the latest episode of Sailor Moon, which is where, in Grade Seven, I finally burst out that my secret dream was to BE Sailor Moon, just because I would do a much better job than the fictional Anime character currently playing her. ... Yes, Internet, this is a time for sharing.)

I eventually became a touch more bra savvy, which worked just fine until the age of 15 when, after a jaunty match of track and field, my gym teacher Mrs. Thompson pulled me aside to let me know that I might want to invest in a bra with more support, since I'd just given a free show to the entire football field.

Embarrassed, I ran home and cried to my Alzheimer-ridden grandmother all about my gym humiliation (not to mention that I was wearing grey spandex stirrup pants and a white tshirt at the time.) and she kind of shrugged, told me I was a nice girl, and then proceeded to welcome the chiming of her beloved patented bird clock with her hourly response of "PRETTY BIRD! PRETTY BIRD!" I loved that woman.

My mom took me to see a bra specialist who actually measured me. She was this kicky, outgoing woman who had the pleasure of being the first person to reach second base with me.

I have no idea what my measurement was at that time, but I do remember her taking a bra the size of a hefty bag off the rack and telling me to try it on. Many bras later I was introduced to the wonder of underwire and my world has never been the same.

Labels: Sarah Land, Stories