Arachnophobia: Shower Edition

                I am seriously terrified of spiders; scream and flee the premise, jump off your lawnmower, run shrieking in the other direction, terrified! My first scary spider memory is from the day I learned about black widows; it still sends chills down my spine! I am not sure how young I was, but I was with my mom in my god-mother, D.W.’s kitchen. She has this amazing tall, old barber’s chair that I have always loved to sit in. D.W. held an old jar up to me to show me the small, brown spider, curling up in death, within and told me about its’ poisonous mate. I still feel the same terror coursing through my body from that sunny afternoon every time I see a spider. I have had nightmares, jumped off of moving vehicles, cried, thrown up, almost crashed my car more times that I will willingly admit to, you name it! Those little monsters scare the shit out of me!

                In the fall of 2016, my daughter and I lived with my grandmother while we waited for our Canadian visas to be processed. Nanny is a wonderful woman with the spirit of a selfless child, the wit of a confident woman’s mid-twenties, and the wisdom of Albus Dumbledore. Accepting of all, indubiously hilarious, undeniably kind (and have I mentioned she’s a boss-ass-liberal?), she began asking me not to use the word “hate”. She always says, “There’s enough of that out in the universe already, and we shouldn’t be adding anymore.” She makes a solid point. This extended to my treatment of spiders. “Next time don’t kill it,” I was scolded as I wrung my hands in terror after smushing a spider with a napkin, “come and get me. I will put it out!” Nanny, if you’re reading this, I tried to let them live, really I did! They just won’t stay away.

                A couple of weeks ago, I was sweeping out the bathroom and saw a tiny, nearly translucent spider crawling away from the pile. Trying to take my wise grandmother’s advice, I waited until it was clear of the sweeping area before I continued. When my husband came home that night, I proudly told him of my feat (because he is always making fun of me for being scared about little things). Jude laughed at me, saying, “Sarah, it was probably poisonous! The smaller ones are the most poisonous!”

                “No way,” I retorted. “What about tarantulas? Or those giant camel spiders? Or the female black widows?”

                Jude laughed coolly and walked away, calling back, “Whatever you say, Sarah.” That bastard always knows how to get me real good.

I tried to tell myself he was just kidding, but the thought haunted me for days! As I played happily with my daughter, I felt the sudden clasp of panic around my neck, imagining the spider quietly biting my child in the night; getting dressed in the mornings, I suddenly worried the spider would be on my hairbrush giving it a thorough search; when a loose hair fell on my chest, I clawed frantically at my skin for a moment. All in all, I was really freaking out about this dumb conversation. A few nights later, I was getting ready to step into the shower when I saw, crawling along the baseboard of the tub, that spider. I totally freaked out! I wanted to go get Jude to crush it for me, but suspected he would tell me to get over it. (Marriage means nothing, girls!) As I tried to determine what to do, I thought back to the spring of 2016 and the great Jumper Spider Panic. As I had tried to identify that spider (it was found twice in my laundry room), some research suggested I could test if a spider was possibly venomous by poking at it with something; if it attacked it, I should run for the hills. I poked at the spider with the pen from my bathroom guest book, shaking with fear, and wouldn’t you know it? That freak of nature attacked my pen (sort of). J’accuse! I crushed it with some toilet paper.

                Tonight, as I showered, I was busting a sweet move and flipped my hair too excitedly leaving a long line of water dripping from the ceiling. (Oops.) I have done this enough before that I know it needs to be cleaned up quickly. As I finished up drying the ceiling with a hand towel, I saw it: ANOTHER OF THOSE SPIDERS!!! I knew there was only one reason it would be there: IT’S COME TO HAVE IT’S REVENGE FOR IT’S FALLEN COMRADE!!! I jumped out of the shower in a panic, balled up some toilet paper, and hesitantly went back for the beast. I have a bad habit of missing things and them falling down (often onto me), but I did my best. After pressing firmly for several seconds, I pulled back the tissue to reveal…nothing? OH SHIT! CODE DANGER! I shot out of the shower again, grabbing my glasses to see where the little devil was hiding. Turns out his little body just fell down onto the side of the tub, but damn, it scared me. Now I am living in fear, certain at any moment, more of them will come for me. If I die of poison, Jude really is innocent…maybe.

Stage 3 Boobs

                My mom is really great. (Obviously! She raised this bossy, empowered, feminist bitch!) One of the many wonderful things about her is that when I was growing up, she made sure I was accurately informed about how to take care of my body (so I didn’t get sucked into myths like “pulling out is 100% effective” later in life). When I was in fourth grade, my mom bought me a copy of The American Girl’s Care and Keeping of You: The Body Book for Girls. I remember my first glance through it; as I flipped through the pages, I caught glimpses of topics such as how to insert a tampon, bra shopping, shaving tips, and properly washing your face. As a girl of ten, I was unimpressed and honestly, a little bit disgusted. The book remained on my shelf collecting dust for about two years. In sixth grade, however, I was starting to have some changes. My first period had come a few weeks before the beginning of the school year, my mother had made it clear to me (in no uncertain terms) that I needed some deodorant stat, and it seemed like whenever she would buy me a few new bras, I went up another cup size. Suddenly topics like “Moody You: Emotional Roller Coaster” were very interesting to me.

As my body threw me ovaries deep into puberty, my life-long love for romance and flirting reached new heights. (You might think I am joking, but I am not. As a mere four year old, I terrorized my cousin Dylan by chasing him with Tinkerbell lipstick smeared across my mouth trying to catch and kiss him. As a girl of seven, I spent a full year of Sunday’s AT CHURCH trying to impress Tyler Kilmon with my “fancy voice” to trick him into being my boyfriend. Obviously, flirting was never my strong suit.) Ever observant, my mother quickly added The American Girl’s Smart Guide to Boys to the docket. It was basically a how-to book for the novice flirt with topics such as “what boys want” and “kissing basics.” (Mom, you were so brave to place a book like this in my hormonal little hands.)

I took that book very seriously from the moment I laid eyes on it.  I scoured it for weeks, trying out each new technique on my serious crush, Joey. Joey was the bad boy of Northampton Middle School’s sixth grade class (and was expelled the next year for selling prescription pain killers at school. My excellent tastes strike again.) He was super cute with cherubic cheeks, a killer smile, and dark and dreamy eyes. Most importantly to me: he was funny. I pushed myself every day through mornings of science and math to get to the afternoons of history and English because I am terrible at the former and good enough to scrape by at the latter but mostly because I shared those classes with Joey.  By the end of the year, Joey and I were pretty good pals. Looking back on it, I would bet he saw how desperate I was for his attention (I’m sure it was easy enough to see through my American-Girl-taught flirting techniques). At the time, I definitely thought it was my charm and edge winning him over. I wanted for him to be my boyfriend so badly (I hadn’t ever had a boyfriend yet), but I just couldn’t stick the landing! Not realizing that there was nothing I could do to tie that wild mustang down because he was a player and failing to see that it really didn’t matter BECAUSE WE WERE TWELVE, I started to think outside the box.

One Thursday afternoon near the end of the year, I sat on my bed surrounded by my American Girl self-help books scouring the pages, searching for my next big move to win Joey over (if only I had put as much effort into my schoolwork). Time was a-tickin, and I had to tie this boy down before the summer started. I had tried every single thing in the book (literally). I have always been pretty a self-aware gal. I knew these techniques were the basics for a nice girl, but I knew I wasn’t just a nice girl; I am a nice girl with a serious edge! I can’t be tamed either, Joey, and I’ll prove it to you with a new, edgy pick-up line! I just had to find it! Desperate, I began flipping through The Care and Keeping of You for a stroke of inspiration, and there it was: the perfect topic to get that boy’s tiny twelve-year-old hormones a-whirlin’ for little Miss Sarah C. Hold onto your trousers, boy, because this rocket ship is taking off!

                On Friday morning, I felt like the end of the day could not come fast enough. I had been practicing what I would say all night, and I knew exactly when I would make my move. Our English/history teacher always gave us ten minutes of social time on Friday afternoon’s. All I had to do was get Joey to spend it with me. For once in my life, I was acting super confident; I think that boss-bitch energy really sucked him in that afternoon. I was high on my romantic-empowerment, I was sassy, I was going to pull this off! I spent the entire afternoon shooting him flirty smiles and rolling my eyes at everything the teacher said to capture his attention, and it worked. Finally, our free-time came and with it, my moment to shine. Joey moved to sit with me in my desk clump away from our peers and we started chatting. I was wearing my favorite outfit, a skirt, shirt, and long, fingerless glove combo. The skirt and gloves had a swirled black and white stripe pattern and the shirt was white with a butterfly made of the same pattern but with sparkles in the black stripes. (I know, so hot. How could any man resist me? I had on FINGERLESS GLOVES that went PAST MY ELBOWS like Cinderella!) I had specifically worn a black bra underneath so it would stand out (my ace in the hole), sneaking it by my mom that morning by wearing a hoodie.

 (Here is the outfit in question the year before at the Great American Model and Talent search.)

                “I can see your bra,” Joey said, grinning as he sat down.

                “Oh, really?” I said, feigning ignorance and glancing down at my chest, which I had thrust out, making a big show of my baby boobies. “I didn’t even notice!” (Lie.)

                “I like it. It’s cute,” Joey said, practically drooling all over me. (Can I get a hair flip, ladies?)

                I felt like standing up on the desk, shouting, “EAT YOUR HEART OUT, JOSEPH,” and dancing like the Queen I am inside, but I kept my cool. “Yeah, it’s a really cute bra. I just got it because I went up a cup size.” Oh, young Sarah. There’s just so much I need to warn you about.

                “Wow…So like...how big are your boobs?” Joey asked me, leaning in and hardly looking at my face at all.

                This was it. This was the moment I had been waiting for. The American Girl’s Care and Keeping of You had prepared me for this moment, for I was about to drop a bomb on that little boys mind. You see, the night before I had come across a passage about breast development, describing the three phases of growth and I thought it the perfect hook to catch and reel in a bad boy like Joey. Chest puffed up with pride (and for attention), I confidently leaned in and whispered, “Well, I’m in stage three of breast development.”

 (Obviously, I was not really in stage 3.)

                His eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open a little bit before he sputtered out, “Wow…so they’re like…big?”

                “Yeah, pretty much. I’m like, almost in a C-cup,” I bragged on.

                The remaining few minutes we had to talk, he could not stop staring at my boobs, but I had all of his attention just as I had planned. He called me twice that weekend, and flirted with me more than usual for the next couple of weeks. Eventually, that faded, and I was left stumped as to why he hadn’t asked me to be his girlfriend yet (and honestly, it took me several more years to figure it out).

                Joey moved away to Texas when he was expelled and I never saw him again. I did find him on Facebook a few years ago, though. Curious to know how my old flame was doing, I decided to shoot him a message and catch up. At the time he was recently married and trying to become a boxer. As I quietly thanked the universe for helping me to dodge that bullet, he asked me if I remembered the time I told him I had stage three boobs. Of course, I remember, Joey. How could I forget? The real question is why couldn’t you have done me a favor and forgotten about it? I begrudgingly admitted I did and let the “lol’s” wash over me, turning my face red in their wake. I must confess I have not tried to contact him since.

This essay is dedicated to my Mom for letting me (perhaps unwittingly at times) make mistakes and learn from them on my own.

College Parts Two and Three

Part Two: Roommate

         Three days later, the peace in room 609 was really deteriorating. I could not stand Darla and I'm confident the feeling was mutual. Darla had refused to sleep in our room or be in it with me for long since I had come home super stoned. My friend and future roommate Amanda was also living in a pretty hostile environment down in 209 with her roommate, Paige. Paige was pretty difficult and strange. She had an anger management problem, had grown up a few towns over and never left a fifty mile radius from her home, wore only cowboy boots (even in the shower), and was a math major. Seriously, she loved math which is possibly a super power. We thought that if we could just get Paige to switch rooms with me, maybe everyone could be happy (or Darla and Paige could torture each other but at least we would be rid of them). We went to the student mediator who we will call Mr. D (because I forgot his name -Sorry dude). You couldn't switch rooms without trying mediation at least once or getting his permission.

         Mr. D was a great guy; He was very kind and understanding, super patient, and had a good read on people. Seriously, there was no bull shitting this guy. Amanda and I went to him the same morning Paige had threatened to beat her up and had thrown a text book at her and pitched our idea to him. After a moment's reflection, Mr. D said to me, "What's your name again?" I repeated it and he said, “Yeah, I have a meeting with you and Darla later today already so I guess we just need to set one up for Amanda and Paige." JAW DROP. Darla had set up a mediation meeting for us and not told me so I would look like a big steaming turd by not showing up! (That was low, Darla. Yeah, I hope you're reading this because I'm talking to YOU, GIRL!) I was pretty shocked, and I've never had much of a poker face so it seemed like he had picked up on that when he asked, "She didn't tell you?" He probably figured it out because he was so good at reading people, but it might have been the way my mouth fell open and all the stuttering as I tried to find appropriate words.

         So it was that I returned to Mr. D's office that afternoon full of jittery nerves and feelings of approaching doom. When I arrived Darla was already chatting Mr. D up. She always acted pretty entitled; her mom had also attended VI for photography back in the day so obviously that made Darla some kind of legacy. I sat next to her and Mr. D stated that we were having a meeting to see if we could work out our problems or find a solution that worked for us. I took the opportunity to say my piece; I explained I had found a room I would move to if Darla was okay with Paige becoming her new roommate. I told her I knew 609 was important to her because it had been her mom's room before and I was happy to be the one to leave. I said my problem was just that we kept very different schedules and that wasn't working for me, that it was clear it wasn't working for her, and that I felt it would be best if we didn't live together so resentments didn't build up. I saw no reason to attack Darla even if I did think she was a total buttface.

         Darla took a different approach. For twenty minutes, she personally attacked me. She told Mr. D a lot of personal information about my break up on the first day and what an inconvenience it had been for her, complained about my every personality trait she could think of, ratted me out for smoking pot (which I should add she had said was no problem when we first met), and bookended the terrible hate-fest by telling me she was scared I was going to rape her because of the one hug I had given her the night I got super stoned with Jimmy. (She also took the liberty to share all of this with the rest of the school.) For twenty minutes I held my tongue if only to keep from crying. Mr. D proclaimed that indeed, we would be allowed to swap rooms as soon as he had spoken to Paige and Amanda. I waited for Darla to leave before I wept all over Mr. D, practically begging him to believe me that those terrible things she had said were not a reflection on my character and I would never, never rape someone or intentionally make them feel unsafe around me. Luckily for me, Mr. D was a good judge of character, kindly told me he knew, comforted me by saying he could see I was having a rough time, and allowed me to compose myself before I left his office.

         There was a happy ending because within a week, Amanda and I were roommates (and what an adventure it was!) Before we became roommates, Amanda and I would have "window dates". We would stick our heads out of our dorm room windows and shout up and down the building to each other while drinking juice boxes. One memorable night in the midst of our window date, Amanda shouted up, "YOU LOOK LIKE BATMAN LOOKING DOWN ON GOTHAM CITY!" The nickname stuck. Amanada became my Robin, my blue Ford Focus became known as The Batmobile, our room was The Batcave, and we had a few enemies: The Joker (a creepy old guy with a crush on me who sometimes bought us alcohol), The Riddler (our upstairs neighbor who often had loud but fast sex in the middle of the day [the riddle was how someone kept having sex with him]), and Two Face (a dramatic, back-stabbing girl in our friend group). People around campus actually called us Batman and Robin probably 60% of the time and IT WAS AWESOME.

(Amanda and me prowling the halls of our dorm as our own versions of Batman and Robin)

        We had a great time living together. We would have Lord of the Rings marathons that involved drinking games, we discovered the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall together (after seeing it, we often greeted each other with the famous “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”), we went with each other to get piercings and tattoos (and even hung out with our piercer, Scotty, pretty often). We found a strip club the next city over called Fuzzy Holes (we did not go in), went to drive through movies, and had many rounds of hide and go seek tag with our friends in the local (and huge) Wal-Mart.

(Me, Kaitlyn, and Amanda on a Wal-Mart adventure)

         One of the best things about living with Amanda was that she is a huge animal lover. She had a huge aquarium and was super serious about taking care of her beautiful fish. Although fish were the only pets we were allowed to have, Amanda decided she was getting more pets. She had the best pet rat that has ever been, a grey and white guy named Trevor, and convinced me to get the best hamster ever, a tiny grey Russian dwarf hamster I dubbed Cherokee Jack (as a tribute to Creed Bratton from the US version of The Office). They lived mostly in the hoods or pockets of our sweatshirts and were our awesome buddies. We even dog-sat two dogs for a full weekend without getting caught.

Here are some other great things about Amanda:

·Always decorated for holidays

·Respected my sleeping time

·We had the same friends and never left each other out

·Called me "Dragon Lady" in the morning

·Tolerated my rebellious tendencies

·Didn't care if I made a mess

·Tumbled with me (as in Tumblr, not gymnastics)

·Got drunk on strawberry vodka with me a lot

·Brought me food when I was sick on the toilet

(Amanda, Kaitlyn/The Spirit of Christmas, and Gopher decorating the hall outside of the Batcave for Christmas)

As you can see, Amanda was the best roommate of all time. Living with her was a dream; it was so great I knew even then that these were "the good old days.”

Part Three: Goodbye

         There was one really huge difference between Amanda and me: Amanda was a hardworking and serious student who knew how to balance her time between work and play and never skipped class or half-assed an assignment. I, on the other hand, was unmotivated, uninspired, and uninterested. After the first semester, I was on academic probation. In the second semester, I stopped going to classes most of the time in order to work more hours as a server at Red Lobster ( which I obviously preferred to school work).

          By the time midterms rolled around, my really great voice teacher let me know my grades were so bad that if I didn't drop out, I'd be kicked out and probably never get into another college. A week later, I packed up my car, gave Amanda one final hug, and made the 8 hour drive home with Cherokee Jack in my cup holder. Although I did not succeed at being a student (although if anyone thought I would in that stage of my life they were kidding themselves), my parents did accomplish something by sending me away: I got my first real taste of freedom and would never stop craving it again. I gained a lot of experience even if I wasn't yet able to put it to practical use and I learned so much about myself. Being at VI was a life changing experience for me; I have never regretted that time of my life (however misguided I may have been back then.)

(“I am a flaming ball of faaaaaaaaaaart!” –Amanda Wiehrs)

This essay is dedicated to my college roommate, Amanda Wiehrs; you changed my life with your love and true friendship. Thank you, I love you, you're the greatest roommate of all time.

College Part One: The Lung

(Snuggling in the student lounge with my roommate, Amanda. September 2011)

Part One: The Lung

       My first stab at college was short lived. In an effort to push me from the nest, my parents forced me to attend a tiny college a mile from the Virginia/Tennessee boarder called Virginia Intermont, which later closed due to immense debt. Originally an all-girl's, Baptist-based private college (that was smaller than my high school) tucked away in the south-western corner of the Virginian mountains, it was naturally an excellent choice for me, an outspoken, rebellious, bisexual liberal. It was my best option since I was offered a talent scholarship that covered almost half the tuition and because I had been too afraid to apply anywhere else (they were desperate for students so I knew I would be accepted). Luckily for me, my high school friend Ashley (who I fondly called Gopher) was also attending VI so I wasn’t totally alone right away.

         Upon arrival I met my first roommate, Darla who looked, dressed, and even had the haircut of a giant toddler. She was a sophomore photography student who claimed to have a severe peanut allergy and I'm pretty sure hated my guts upon first sight. (I say "claimed" because I'm pretty sure she just didn't like the smell and/or wanted to get me out of the room more often.) There's no nice way to say this: Rooming with Darla sucked. She stayed up all night, slept all day, made me leave the room to prepare my pb&j's, wouldn't share her mini-fridge, and spread some pretty nasty rumors about me (more on that later). I also met a basketball player who lived down the hall from me and pursued me relentlessly and aggressively (until I moved to a new floor) named Rhonda, two soccer players who roomed together (one was nice and one showed me his penis upon meeting him), my roommate-to-be Amanda, fellow theatre major Angelique (who is 100% fabulous), and my soon-to-be friend Kaitlyn on my first day.

         The big upside to living with Darla was that she introduced me to Jimmy, a huge teddy bear of a dude. Over my summer before college, I had become interested in marijuana. I had tried to smoke a few times without having any real success. Enter Jimmy. On my first night at VI, my girlfriend cheated on me and dumped me. Darla, out of the tiny ventricle of goodness in her heart, introduced me to Jimmy to get high.

         Maybe a week later, Jimmy and I sat in the parking lot of my dorm building in his car to smoke. After some small talk, Jimmy whipped out a 2 liter soda bottle with the end cut off and a plastic shopping bag attached to it and said, "Have you ever used a lung?" I had definitely implied I was a more experienced smoker than I actually was, and I did not want to lose face so I told Jimmy no I hadn't, but I was sure I could handle it. I'm pretty sure he knew I was full of shit and wanted to see how far I was going to take this. If you've never smoked from a lung, here's how it works: first you ignite your weed with the cap on the bottle and the bag pushed in. Then you slowly pull the bag out to fill both the bottle and length of the bag with smoke. Finally, you take off the cap, and slowly breathe in the smoke while pushing the bag in. It's pretty intense plus we were hot boxing. Jimmy was an experienced smoker and (I think) getting a kick out of my refusal to admit defeat. We ended up hitting the lung seven times each, and, man, I was beyond lit. Hopefully, I at least impressed Jimmy with my perseverance because I didn't have any kind of intelligence going for me in that moment.

         After what felt like an hour but was probably only ten minutes of chatting, a panicked thought occurred to me: This guy is huge. I am beyond impaired. He could do anything to me he wanted and I would be powerless to stop him. No one knows where I am except Darla who would surely not give a damn if I never came back. I played it cool (visibly freaked out) and asked Jimmy to take me back to my dorm to which he pointed out we were in the parking lot of the building. The problem was it was on a hill and to get to the door from there I would have to climb a small set of steps (and I was confident I couldn't). As any lady of class would, I made up a really lame (and very transparent) excuse to get him to drive all the way around campus and up to the door to drop me off. As I exited his car, I breathed a sigh of relief that I had escaped whatever terrible things I later realized he would never have done to me anyway. That ended as I approached the door and realized I had to somehow fit my tiny key into that tiny lock to get inside, would then have to pass the building's R.A, just to get my key into yet another tiny lock. Eventually after an unknown amount of time struggling with the key, some kind person came along and let me in. I lived on the sixth floor and didn't think I could make the stairs, so I took the elevator that, of course, opened in front of my R.A.'s more-often-than-not open door, but luckily she wasn't there. As I faced my final obstacle, unlocking my own door, I felt I was home free until I heard from the opening elevator the sound of Rhonda's drawling voice.

         Let's back up for a second. Earlier that week, as I was returning to my room from a shower in only a towel, Rhonda had followed me to my room begging me to take my towel off for her, have sex with her, and finally let her see "just one boob". When I had unlocked my door she had forced her way into my room ahead of me and it had taken a lot of pleading to get her out. Then, when I tried to shut the door, she had tried to force it open and then stood outside begging me to let her in for a full ten minutes. (Fun fact: later that year she got in trouble for trying to take advantage of a sleeping drunk girl after a party.) Now back to the story of the lung!

         As I heard Rhonda approaching from the elevator around the corner, time seemed to move in slow motion. I watched each desperate stab of my key missing the lock, felt my heart pounding with fear that I would not escape her in time, heard her words in slow motion, and each footfall echoed in my ears like terrible screams. Finally, my key went into the lock; SUCCESS!! As I slow-mo flew into the room and Rhonda turned the corner, I heard her call out, "Heeeeeeyyyy, Sssaaaaaarrraaaaahhhhhh," and I slammed the door shut in her face! After about five minutes of her knocking and saying "I know you're there. I saw you go in," as I hid in my closet (high-dea), I was able to come out. I ate every single thing I had in my dorm, binge-watched Friends, hugged Darla when she came in, and passed out.



(Part 2 to be released on Wednesday!)

Sex Store

                When I moved to Vancouver, I noticed immediately that there was a sex store a few blocks away from my house. Naturally, I was dying to go in there. It’s called Roxy’s and has many advertisements outside with messages such as, “We sell 50 Shades of Grey merchandise,” and, “Your sexual health is our passion,” accompanied with images of oiled up babes with super toned muscles. For weeks, I excitedly imagined the kinds of amazing items I would find inside that would magically bring a whole new level of sensations to my sex life. I giggled on the phone with my friends, telling them surely I would find a time to go shop there soon. I nagged at Jude to give me ideas of what kinds of taboo toys he would find most appealing. I had several opportunities to go in, but always found a reason not to. (To be fair, I never feel very sexy as I am lugging home a week’s worth of groceries twenty blocks in a backpack, muttering curses to the Fancy People driving their beautiful cars.)

                After weeks of talking a lot of talk, I decided it was time to start walking before I lost all credibility. I chose the perfect time to go: when my sister was visiting. It was Susannah’s first time in Vancouver so I used my superior knowledge of directions (and the help of alcohol) to trick her into walking right by Roxy’s before I announced we were going in. I dragged her (unwillingly) towards Roxy’s full of confidence and sporting a strong buzz. As we grew closer to the door, my big head was getting bigger by the second. All my traditionally short-sighted inner voice could think was, “I’m doing this! I am so proud of me! I am so cool! I am going to buy some naughty stuff, and those sex-store workers are going to be so impressed by my confidence and sexual awareness!” I practically skipped the last few feet to the door, imagining isles of dimly lighted toys and gear that would blow my mind.

                As soon as we opened the door, the sharp sting of reality popped my self-involved confidence bubble and it deflated in seconds flat. The store was not at all what I had imagined. It was a completely opened space; everything was hung on the walls (not in isles) so the only employee and any other customers could see every single thing I might be looking at. The blue-toned lighting made me feel immediately nauseous and dizzy. My fantasy of being the confident, naughty sex kitten shriveled up and died at the sight of the small, open room. I could practically see Sexy Sarah collapse in the center of the room, reaching out for help, pathetically whimpering as she wilted away into dust and disappeared with the passing breeze…and all that bitch left behind for me to work with was Shy Sarah. The customer at the register and the cashier immediately looked over at Susannah and me when the door opened. I felt like all the spot lights in the world were following my every move as I darted over to the closest wall of dildos muttering a feeble hello to the sex-people. I wished dearly I could just bang my head against the wall, but all the walls were covered in sex paraphernalia (NOOOO!). I wanted to turn every corner of my body in on itself until I was just a little fuzzy lump on the floor, wheezing in horror. At least then the sex-people might take pity on me instead of noticing how much of a wuss I was suddenly becoming.

                The customer left almost immediately and Susannah and I were left alone with the cashier in the very quiet shop. A sea of panic roared in my ears; I was sure I couldn’t be the only one hearing it. I prayed my heavy breathing wouldn’t be mistaken for sexual pleasure as I quickly (too quickly) darted past countless dildos, vibrators, and pretty much nothing else until I reached the farthest wall. I lingered there, knowing I had to buy something to save what little bit of pride I had left. I stood staring at a few decks of sex-card-games, a handful of butt plugs, and vibrators that connected to your mp3 player via Bluetooth as Susannah DISCRETELY (as if) laughed at me.

                “Okay,” I thought, “just find the cheapest thing near you and get the hell out of here.” My eyes darted around the wall in front of me looking for something in the ten dollar range, but the only things I saw were in the thirty dollars or above range (and there was no way I was forking over that kind of money for something I was buying out of humiliation). Finally I saw a tag for $15, immediately reached out, and started tugging on the package. To my horror, it did not budge as I registered that every single item in the store was locked onto the walls and I would have to get the sex-cashier to actually come pull anything I wanted to purchase off the wall. It was too late to leave without buying something; I was balls deep in shame and obviously trying to pick something up. I hung my head, took a deep breath, and glanced over my shoulder at the sex-cashier. “SHIT! He is staring RIGHT AT ME!” I thought whipping my head around to look in sheer horror at my sister who was barely suppressing laughter.

                “Could you please help me with this, sir?” I managed to warble out. It wasn’t until he was walking toward us, keys in hand, that I realized the item I was pointing at was a butt plug. “WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST BUY A VIBRATOR LIKE A NORMAL PERSON?” Shy Sarah shrieked in my mind, eyes rolling in her imaginary head. “BECAUSE THEY’RE LIKE A MILLION DOLLARS YOU FREAK!” Normal Sarah retaliated.

The War of the Sarah’s came to an abrupt halt as the sex-cashier said, “It’s kind of small, don’t you think?”

Not knowing how to even begin to respond to that kind of judgment on my butt, I stammered out, “Thank you.” On the inside, I wondered if this could possibly get any worse as my body betrayed me, flushing my every pigment in a shade of crimson defeat. I numbly followed him to the register and stood quietly as he rang up my tiny butt plug. I finally was getting a good look at him (because he wasn’t staring at me for once), and I suddenly realized he looked exactly like Mike Meyers except Asian, and I somehow felt even more uncomfortable. It was like Austin Powers was selling me a butt plug and laughing at me for choosing the smallest size. (Bitch, it’s the cheapest one!)

Desperate to make some kind of a small recovery, I glanced frantically around the room for something to start a conversation with. Apparently, the owners of Roxy’s spent a lot more money on stocking their shelves and outdoor advertising than on making the rest of the store look nice, because there was pretty much nothing else going on in there except for a photo of a man that said, “WANTED: MAGAZINE THIEF.” As I swiped my debit card and tapped in my pin number, I said (super smoothly), “I hope you catch your magazine thief.”

“What?” Asian Austin Powers said.  As I started drawing myself a soaker-tub full of shame and regret to wallow in in my mind, he said, “Oh, right. Yeah, that guy has been to every single one of our stores except for this one.”

“Great,” I thought, “there are more of these stores in the city I’ll have to avoid.”

“I guess it’s only a matter of time before he shows up here, then,” Susannah said.

I gave her a wide eyed look that I hoped said, “Bitch, don’t you dare try to keep this conversation going! I will leave you in here!”

“Yeah, I hope I catch him,” Asian Austin Powers said.

“Well, good luck! Bye!” I yelled over my shoulder, dragging Susannah and my tiny butt plug out behind me.

A few days later, I passed Asian Austin Powers in the street and he gave me a curious look as I darted down a side street to avoid him. We might have to move away if this becomes a regular occurrence or I will probably melt the sidewalk with the sheer heat of my blushing face. I guess the lesson I have learned is that I should start shopping for naughty nifty’s on the internet since I clearly don’t have the disposition to do it in person.

Bandits of the Night

          At the end of October 2016 Lucy, Jude, and I moved from Virginia to a nicely done basement apartment in Burnaby, BC.  Thankfully the apartment was furnished because my parents could not drive our things out to us for another month. There were still a few basic things usually needed in every day family life that weren't in the apartment already and one of those things was a trash can. We also did not have access to an outdoor trash can until the night before trash day each week. We were living in the suburbs without a car and constantly dragging a stroller through the snow, so we weren't able to get trash cans until my mom came to visit with all of our stuff at the end of November. Not wanting our house to stink of garbage all the time, we piled small trash bags in a corner by our front door. It was our best available solution at the time, but came with a few problems: it always smelled really bad when you were trying to unlock the door, earth worms would always be piled up in our doorway, and it drew to us the bandits of the night (A.K.A. raccoons).

          As adorable as the two raccoons who frequented the buffet de Smith were, the trash strewn across our walkway each morning was less so. As much as I disliked cleaning up the trash, I was very fond of the raccoons. First I met Jerry, the outgoing ringleader, who came most often. I later learned of the second raccoon, who I dubbed Rodger, Jerry's life partner, but it is Jerry who I got to know the most.

          Every couple of nights, I would catch Jerry red-handed busting into my trash bags. I would shoo him away to a nearby bush he liked to hide in, stand in my doorway, and wait for his inevitable return. He would poke his little head around the corner, see me glaring at him, and give me a look of baffled innocence. He was so charming, that I started to feel guilty for trying to keep him away from his source of food. As a fellow lover of eating, I understood the pain of being kept away from your dinner. His big round eyes looked so sweet and hungry that I quickly caved. I didn't want Jerry trashing my stoop anymore, so I started leaving him scraps just beneath his bush when I saw him around. (I should add that I didn't tell Jude knowing he would disapprove.)

          One night, I saw Jerry outside poking around in the trash, opened the door to shoo him, and went back to grab him so food. I thought he must have run into his bush so I left the food there. When I came back around the corner, however, Jerry was half way down the steps going for the trash again.

         "Jerry!" I hissed in surprise. Jerry was surprised, too. He was so surprised in fact, that he took off straight through my open door and into my living room. Half of me panicked that Jude would hear our commotion and bust me for befriending "a wild animal" and half of me was running through a fantasy of Jerry becoming my pet. I started to go inside after Jerry to try to chase him out before Jude became aware of the situation as Jerry looked around bewildered, turning a few circles on my welcome mat before taking off past me up the stairs. I was semi-disappointed, but kind of relieved that Jude hadn't busted me for unintentionally letting a raccoon in the house.

          About a week later, we finally got an outdoor trash can. I started leaving more food out for Jerry and Rodger. It had just snowed and one night the bread I left out for them froze before they found it. Unfortunately for me, Jude did find it as he left for work the next morning. That night we had an interesting discussion.

Jude: Sarah, I found some bread outside by the bush this morning.

Me: What did you do with it?

Jude: It was frozen. Did you put it there?

Me: Maybe.

Jude: Are you feeding the raccoons?

Me: Their names are Jerry and Rodger, Jude.

Jude: Saraaaaaah! Why?

Me: I feel so guilty, Jude! They're so accustomed to getting their meals here, and now we're locking it all up in a can! They need to eat, too, you know!

Jude: Saraaaah! You're going to get us kicked out of our home if you keep doing this! Mr. Lou was just telling me they're having a problem with raccoons!

Me: We won't get kicked out! They're not even going into Lou's part of the yard! He'll never know!

Jude: Sarah! They're wild animals!

Me: That's racist! Or...species-ist! Raccoons need to eat just as much as we do. And they're so sweet!

Jude: No they're not! They could have rabies and Jerry ran right by me the other day. It scared the crap out of me! And they are plenty fat; they're getting plenty of food somewhere.

Me: They do not have rabies, Jude!

Jude: They could! How would you know?

Me: I saw a rabid raccoon up close when I was a kid! They are not rabid! And if they were, they'd come out in the day time, not the night time!

Jude: Saraaaah! You don't known what kinds of diseases they could have! Plus they could be vicious!

Me: They are not vicious. Jerry has excellent manners! He was such a gentleman when he got in the house!

Jude: WHEN HE WHAT?

Me: It's no big deal, Jude!

Jude: HE GOT IN THE HOUSE? WHEN??

Me: A couple of weeks ago!

Jude: Where was I!?

Me: In your office!

Jude: WHAT??

Me: I thought he went into the bush, so I followed him to give him some food, but when I came back he was on the steps and he ran inside.

Jude: What? HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN FEEDING THEM?

Me: It doesn't matter! He realized he was in our house and politely excused himself right away. I think he even said he was so sorry for intruding in raccoon language probably.

Jude: Saraaaaah! No more feeding the raccoons!

Me: They have names, Jude.

Jude: Fine! No more feeding Jerry and Rodger!

Me: Ugh! Fine!

Jude: Promise me!

Me: Fiiiiine, Jude!

Jude: Sat it! Say you promise you won't feed them anymore!

Me: You don't trust me?

Jude: SAY IT!

Me: I said fine!

          This is the point where I started pretending to be asleep to avoid saying I promised. I actually did stop feeding them because Jude did make a good point that we are renters and could get evicted, but it's really fun to leave him in suspense sometimes.

Update:

        It has been only two days since I wrote this, but things have taken an unexpected turn. Jerry and Rodger are on my donezo list. I got a package later than usual yesterday. Our mail is left on the front step of my landlord's house and we live in the back so we don't always know it's there. The package was a Christmas gift from my childhood friend, Alexus, containing a gift for my daughter, cookies, chocolate, and hot chocolate packets for Jude and me. THOSE ROTTEN NIGHT MONSTERS RIPPED INTO IT AND ATE MY COOKIES!!!!!!!!!! (They missed the chocolate though, so who's the real winner here, COONS?)

My Meth-Dealing Boyfriend

        I first met my husband, Jude, when we were high school age teens. He was the lead singer of one of the few actual bands in my small town (and the best one), Black Thursday and he was dating a really popular girl who I completely idolized. I knew who he was and in my mind he was a total rock star. We met in passing a few times and I saw him play with his band a lot, but we didn't really know each other. When we actually started to get to know each other several years later, things happened pretty quickly. I was nannying in Maryland and he was not quite an hour away at The Art Institute of Dulles-Washington. We were both a little homesick and excited to see someone familiar. It sounds corny, but I just knew he was right for me right away.

         One of the first times I ever had him over to my parent's place, we were sitting up in my room having a chat when he casually slipped in something about how he was a meth dealer and then just kept talking like it was nothing. Completely shocked, I asked for some clarification.

Me: Wait, did you just say you're a meth dealer? (I start wondering why I have been the one paying for all of our dates if homie is making bank dealing meth!)

Jude: (Super casually) Oh, yeah. It's really good money. It helps me pay for college.

Me: Are you serious?

Jude: Yeah. I have this neighbor named Jesse who helps me make it for a cut.

Me: Jude, there's no way you're a meth dealer. (Starting to get kind of freaked out)

Jude: Yes, I am, Sarah. Anyone can learn to make meth with a basic knowledge of chemistry.

Me: Yeah, but...selling meth is not a good thing...

Jude: People are using it anyway. I give them a good deal.

Me: (Head spinning, trying to justify how I could stay with this amazing guy who I was falling in love with if he was a meth dealer, but also thinking about what nice jewelry he could afford to buy me with that kind of money)

Jude: (Grinning like The Cheshire Cat) (Yammering away about meth)

Me: (Having internal crisis and wondering what is wrong with me and how I always end up with such terrible people and how I'm going to have to break up with this incredible guy because he's actually an evil, immoral hardcore drug dealer!!!)

Jude: I'm messing with you.  I'm not a meth dealer.

Me: ...Really?

Jude: Yeah, that's the plot of Breaking Bad.

And that's the story of how Jude tricked me into thinking he was a meth dealer because I wasn't paying attention while he was trying to talk about Breaking Bad. He has been equally as mischievous since then, thank goodness. He keeps things interesting, and I love it (even though he often drives me completely nuts.)

John Travolta

(Some names have been changed for privacy.)

(I do not own this image. Obviously.)

         I have been blessed with the gift of extraordinary dreams. I have a wildly entertaining movie-esque dream almost every night. They are vivid, colorful, and have intricate plot lines. (This is why I love sleeping so much. The dark side of this gift, however, are my graphic, semi-frequent nightmares.) I've had several gems crop up over the years, but none quite as glorious as a dream my friends know as "The John Travolta Dream."

    Backstory:

         The area I grew up in is a pretty small and boring place so everyone mostly knows everyone else. There are universally "cool" people and their counterparts, the universally "lame". Lee Gene was one of these poor people who got crapped on by the rest of us regularly (even me, and I was massively lame). Looking back on things, I think we were really unfair to poor Lee. Now that I'm older, I just see a kid who had been through a lot more than the rest of us and who was going through a phase most of us didn't reach for another several years. That isn't to say he wasn't annoying or creepy (because that dude was seriously scary sometimes), but I do wish my younger self had been able to show him more kindness.

         In 2007, Lee Gene ended up moving into a house on the same street as my childhood friend, Naia. It was kind of surprising because even for where we lived, Naia's house was back in the middle of nowhere surrounded by horse farms and semi-wild peacocks. (Yes, peacocks.) We could not believe our bad luck. Of all the people to move down the street! "At least it's not Michael Jackson," I told Naia helpfully. (It had been rumored that year that Michael Jackson was moving into a house in Bay Creek, local rich-peeps neighborhood. As if, Eastern Shore. You should be so lucky to house the King of Pop!)

         I regret to tell you it was a little worse than we had anticipated (because really we were just insulted that Lee would dare to enter our safe haven territory.) It started with Naia and our friend Alex walking through the woods wearing cloaks. (Yeah, I already warned you we were pretty "lame" so stop laughing. Cloaks are awesome, and you're just jealous. We were practically woodland elves.) Lee Gene materialized out of thin air using his dark powers and started following them. Now, for the record, this was not a menacing kind of thing. Lee Gene was just trying to coerce them into conversation and probably friendship, but we were pretty anti-social and saw this as a threat to our peace. (You can say it. We were stone cold bitches.) Lee Gene was the kind of person you could give an inch to and he'd take a mile. Their few cold responses that would have said to anyone else, “Okay, these weird chicks don’t want my company,” only added fuel to his fire. He followed them all the way home until they shut the door in his face. These kinds of interactions continued. For example, he showed up knocking on Naia's door early one morning trying to get them to hang out with him. Unfortunately for Lee Gene, his timing was terrible because one: Naia and their family sleep in pretty late unless forced to do otherwise, two: Naia was wearing only a small kimono robe, and three: their parents were out of town. Three strikes, you're out, Lee Gene! Between the fury of being disturbed so early in the day and the discomfort of being surprised home alone in only a robe, Lee Gene destroyed any slim chance that Naia would ever give him even a centimeter again.

         As I have stated, it can be super boring where we lived so gossip (one of the few forms of entertainment) could often be running low. Naia, Alex, and I often amused ourselves by making Lee Gene the butt of our jokes. Lee Gene was regular conversation to us. Lee Gene was fair game to us. Lee Gene was our comedic crutch. If all else failed, it was totally acceptable to make a Lee Gene joke. (Honestly, we would have been smarter to hang out with Lee Gene more often to supply ourselves with more gossip-ammo.) And then, in early August of 2007, I had "The John Travolta Dream" and everything about Lee Gene became an even bigger joke.

                  The John Travolta Dream

        It's the middle of the night and I am wide awake. I am on a mission, and I cannot be stopped. Lee Gene has built a house right in my backyard. That bastard is sleeping snug as a bug a mere twenty feet from my mudroom door, but not for long. I sneak out of the mudroom and let the cool night air wash over me, filling me with confidence, waking me up inside (that one's for you, Evanescence). I am focused, I am alert, I am the night! Using my super speed (because apparently I had powers in this dream although they remain unexplained) I start running around Lee Gene's wide, modern, one story, brown rancher. It was a simple operation: in and out and no one will know. After a warm up super-speedy lap, I start using my X-Ray vision to look through the walls of the house. My goal? To locate Lee Gene's room so I could bomb him and eliminate the threat of his existence! (Bomb him? What the hell is wrong with me? That's so mean!)

         I see it! I see his room! Target acquired! Okay, back to bed I go. But wait! No! What's happening? I can't stop! I'm going too fast! I have to take a third lap around the house to slow down. This was not part of the plan! As I am coming to a halt, I glance back at the house and THE HORROR! MAY DAY, MAY DAY! I HAVE WOKEN LEE GENE UP AND HE IS COMING OUTSIDE! I hustle my ass back into the mudroom, but it is too late. As I start to climb the steps to the laundry room, Lee enters the mudroom! There is no polite escape! (I'm seriously worried about being polite at this point? I was just spying on this guy and planning to blast him out of existence, but by all means, let's not be rude to him now.)

Lee: Oh, hey, Sarah!

Me: Hey, Lee Gene...

Lee: What are you doing up so late? (Lee dives his torso into one of two huge trash cans just inside the door and starts rummaging through my family's garbage.)

Me: I...What's with the third degree? What are YOU doing up so late? What are you...why the hell are you digging through my trash?

Lee: (Head in trash can) Oh, I'm just looking for some treasures.

Me: (edging slowly up the steps while Lee rambles about the great things he has found in the garbage.)

Lee: (Suddenly pops up and gasps loudly, holding a thick CD case) OH MY GAWD! WHAT IS THIS DOING IN THE TRASH?

Me: Uh...I don't know. What is it?

Lee: (reveals CD case that reads: Hairspray! Special edition CD set. Includes: full movie soundtrack, bonus tracks, karaoke tracks, DVD of unseen rehearsal and recording footage with exclusive interview with John Travolta.) JOHN TRAVOLTA! HAIRSPRAY! I LOVE JOHN TRAVOLTA! CAN I HAVE THIS?

Me: Uh...I guess?

Lee: (squeals like a little girl) But why was it in the trash?

Me: I think someone gave it to my sister and she thought it was lame.

Lee: Who would ever think John Travolta was lame? That's crazy! (But not as crazy as digging in garbage apparently because he tucks the CD in the waist line of his pants and returns to my trash cans, loudly rattling off fun facts about John Travolta's performance in the movie Hairspray)

Me: Uh...that's great Lee Gene. I'm going to go to bed now...

Lee: (interrupts me with an epic girlish scream, pops up from the garbage can holding a massive pair of sneakers with images of John Travolta as a woman in Hairspray plastered all over them.) OH. MY. GAAAAAWD! (Said in the voice of Janice from Friends) WHAT ARE THESE DOING IN THE TRASH?

Me: They're too big for my sister to wear...

Lee: CAN I HAVE THESE???

Me: Take whatever you want! Just get out of here!

Lee: (screaming) JOHN TRAVOLTA! HAIRSPRAY! OH MY GAWD! JOHN TRAVOLTAAAAA! (Suddenly, Lee is wearing the sneakers and swooping me into his arms Hercules style) Thank you, Sarah! You have made all my dreams come true!

         Suddenly the scene is overtaken by a black and white swirly backdrop like I'm old horror films, screechy violins start playing, and Lee Gene's smiling face starts circling in the opposite direction of the backdrop. He recites in a sing-song voice, "John Travolta! John Travolta! John Travolta! John Travolta!”  His voice gets louder and louder until....I woke up screaming.

(Like this but with Lee Gene’s face instead of John Travolta’s.)

~Fin ~

         After the initial shock wore off and I finished checking to make sure Lee Gene wasn't hidden somewhere in my room or waiting outside of my house, it became very hilarious to me. It later inspired me to create "The John Travolta Dance".

         "The John Travolta Dance" must only be performed in Banana Republic or other equally unnecessarily snooty stores. You must attempt to be as mismatched as possible no matter how short notice it is. Here are a few fun tips to do so:

·         Try moving your bra or underpants to the outside of your clothes.

·         Try switching one shoe with a friend’s.

·         Try wearing a sock on your hand.

·         Put on a child's hat.

·         Roll up one pant leg.

·         Smear your make up like a lunatic.

Don't feel the need to stick to these ideas though. Get creative with it!

         "The John Travolta Dance" is very simple. Anyone with legs and feet and a sense of humor can do it. It is merely a bounding skip as you chant "John Travolta" in ever rising volume using a sing-song-y, high-pitched voice, and point at random objects and people in your path. An occasional break to jump while using jazz hands in front of particularly grumpy people is encouraged. I give you this gift as a token of my love. May it get you all kicked out of as many Banana Republic's as it has for me.

(This essay is dedicated to Lee Gene. You inspired me albeit in a strange way. I wish you a long and happy life. May all your dreams actually come true.)