Headbands, remnants of Valentine, & slow dancing

A night or two ago I walked in the door and saw a package from one of my all time favorite people.

I met this girl through her sister (who I also adore with reckless abandon) and have come to think she is the summation of all things darling. And luckily, she married a friend of mine from Irvine, so now she is sealed permanently into my hometown circle with glue of the most super variety.

And the good things don't stop there.

She is an artist (pronounced ar-teeest)! Take a gander at what she made for/sent to me:

Having such a fun and fancy free thing to wear abroad my cranium makes life feel a bit like

You want one on your cranium too? You can get it here.

Were I nominated for an Oscar, I would wear this headband with a fluttery and whimsical gown made of a creamy silk chiffon, and when Ryan Seacrest grabbed me by the arm on the red carpet and said, "Sarah! My you look lovely tonight. Who are you wearing?" I would say, "Oh Ryan, I'm wearing the Sydney Signature Collection. This was designed specifically for me!" To which Ryan would say, "It's so-- it's so stunningly-- beautiful that I... I... I'm speechless." And that would be the last thing he said all night. You're welcome, Oscar viewers.

And then I'd take pictures with this pose all night long.

In other snips of non-related news, Harry left me little one sentence love notes all over the apartment on Valentine's Day ("I love you like a _____ loves _____."). I'm still finding them. In my book, scriptures, the box of dryer sheets, my shoes, everywhere. Today I filled up my mug with an "S" emblazoned on it all the way with scalding hot water before I saw a slip of paper feebly floating inside it bearing the words, "I love you like peanut butter loves jelly" on it. Oh I love that man to bite sized bits.

Merz sent me this today-- a picture from her day of nuptials...

... doing our very best to look like we are serious about slow dancing. Really though. We mean business.

And on an even more unrelated/less related note, it's Sunday night, which means pizza, so...

Peace.

Outburst

I wrote this to my sister in an e-mail yesterday. Then I decided to post it so that everyone can see how my latent frustration can make its unexpected debuts.

I was sent to the store to get lunch for everybody today (not for myself, because, oddly, I always bring my lunch from home, and yet I go out to get everyone else’s 5 days a week), and I was in no laughing mood. I was paying at the register for the ill gotten gains, getting rung up by the same guy who usually rings up my ill gotten gains (and sympathizes whole heartedly with my daily lunch-delivery plight), and a guy in line behind me plops down on the rubber conveyer belt what he wants to buy-- 8 mousetraps. The cashier guy was like, "Oh no! Why do you need all those?" and the mouse trap guy is like, "I have an infestation! The worst part is, my 8 year old daughter has read all these cute cuddly stories about mice and will be so sad if I kill them." I laughed and said I thought that was too bad. And then, my mood uncontrollably manifested itself because I suddenly burst out with, "I HOPE YOU KILL THEM ALL!" The two guys exchanged surprised looks, laughed, and the mousetrap guy said, "Wow, you're really a catch!"

Thank you, Mousetrap Guy. I needed that.

I take my twist with a shout.

Many a belated event to blog about today. Which I'm sure all of you are on tenterhooks about.

Numero Uno.

Many Happy (meh, belated) Returns of the Day, Mum!

Look at this saucy photo I got of her from her oldest bro's wedding. What a dish! I'll claim those genetics anyday, yes ma'am!

If I turn out 49% as wonderful as she is, I'll be one lucky lady. My sister Merzy put it very accurately and eloquently when she said, "People ask me if there is any fault to be found with my Mom. The only fault I can find is that she has the tendency to occasionally burn a pot of broccoli. Beyond that, she really is perfect."

To which I would add, "But even when she burns broccoli, she does it without error."

Happy Birthday Momsy Pie, from one of your kittens.

Numero Dos: Valentine's Day.

A mish-mash surprise of Stake Conference, Chinese food, and the all-too-eager-to-commercialize-off-a-Catholic-holiday-flick, "Valentine's Day" (yes, we joined the herd, and mooed in unison).

It was, altogether, delicious. Harry bought me a gargantuan Diet Coke and shared his nachos with me.

On the actual February 14, we concocted our newest domestic masterpiece: Sichuan Pork with noodles.

An explosion of porkiness. In all connotations.

Then we topped it off with

Homemade Vanilla Pudding with blackberries and a smattering of crumbled graham cracker crust.

All is going fine and dandy in our corner of the US. The one and only real recent fly in the ointment occurred this past Thursday, and it has prompted a letter to spring forth from my keyboard.

Dear Coworker X:

Thursday’s insult was not the first. But I decided afterwards, that if your demeaning and patronizing words are good enough to be spoken aloud while I’m doing YOUR dishes in the kitchen, they are good enough to be posted on the internet. Immortalized, even.

As much as you think I want you to yell at me because of things like the coffee machine not being clean enough or the printer being out of paper (things that you yourself are capable to fixing when the need arises because you DO have functioning limbs and my desk is on the opposite side of the office), I find it a most rotten aspect of this job.

To put a cherry on top of all of these humiliating episodes, on Thursday you cornered me in the midst of my sudsing your sullied flatware, pinched my hip, and said, “Is it getting to you?”

“Is what getting to me?” I replied.

“The food here. I can tell you’ve put on weight. I can see your muffin tops when you sit.”

I don’t think I responded, but the shock was no doubt written all over my face. You continued to say, “You know, there’s a lot of food here, and some people just don’t have any willpower. But look at me. I only eat one piece of chocolate for dessert and I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing.”

I don’t remember saying anything other than, “Okay.”

Before you turned on your heel and left, you did say, “Just thought you ought to know.”

Ooooh. There are many things that you ought to know yourself, Coworker X. After all of the demoralizing things you’ve said to me, and the fact I’ve never ever done anything in retaliation except smile back at you and say, “Sure, thanks for letting me know,” I find it so stymieing that you find it necessary to twist the knife.

Twist and shout indeed.

I have a friend for you to hang out with. I call him/her the Cretin. He/she steals purses and Bibles. I’m sure HE/SHE could benefit from the things you have to say. And they way you choose to say them.

Most sincerely,

SAR

Happy Saturday, one and all!

Happy Valentine's Day Eve Eve Eve

I don't have lots to say to explain why you should drop what you're doing and watch the following video. That is, other than "You should drop what you're doing and watch the following video." If you possess the physical capacity for laughter, this SNL clip will most likely send you into convulsions. In the best sense, naturally.

I almost choked on my Lucky Charms and then almost accidentally kicked Harry with my flailing ankles due to unbridled chortles.

Happy (T minus 3 days to) Valentine's Day.

"Nice work, bone daddy."

I went with the "less is more" mindset.

Ostensibly, I am more excited about it with each passing second.

And yes. That is garbage that will be taken out behind me. We are classy, classy people.

Will I miss this long and untamed mane (pictured here the day before my darling sister's nuptials at a nail salon where the woman also pictured frightened the wits out of me with her military-esque demeanor)?

Herm. Yeah.

But I'm dazzled at all the possibilities of short hair that I haven't explored since early 2004 when one of my homegirls and I chopped off 11" of our coiffure for Locks of Love.

Thanks for your suggestions, all. Even though I didn't follow most of them. Please don't get your panties in a twist. I just had to follow my heart and become the "best" me. You know, like Heidi Montag did.

Oh wait, no no no. I meant "Heidi," you know, the Shirley Temple movie.

Happy Saturday!

A Long Time Coming

For those of you who don't know, I've been working on my latest album for three years now.

I love music, what can I say? I feel compelled, regularly, to pick up a guitar or sit at some keys and let it all out. And for the last 10 years or so, that's lead to a regular compulsion to also record.

I've done four albums in the past.

The first was my introduction (trial by fire, crash, and burn) to recording methods. Good luck finding it :)

After that, I decided to do some homework and read my brother Mac's textbook from his college music recording class, cover to cover. It helped a little.
(Couldn't Remember the Title, but Imagine a Photo Here)

Next came a collaborative effort.

I was in a band in high school called Coto with my brother Dan, my cousin/best friend Joe, and other close friends Troy Lea, Mike Slater, and Aaron Van Wagoner. Bad Rock = Good Times.

Then I did another by myself.

And then another.

You can find a couple of the songs off these here.

Then I made a compilation / Best Of (not included in my count). It's choose your own cover (a la choose your own adventure):



Then I took a songwriting class at BYU. It was fun.

But all this time, I had been hoping to grow up one day and make a real album of real music, like



or


(my namesake)

or



So, I set myself to it, and at long last (5 years since my last original release), I present:



Yes, my recording artist alter-ego is "harry j reynolds". Deal with it.

You can, if you like, listen to samples, or buy it, here.

Blessings forever be upon my wife for putting up with endless hours of