tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45772452561283875012024-03-12T20:57:47.935-04:00Barbers without borderssarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.comBlogger201125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-43753223250033605102020-03-08T21:21:00.000-04:002020-03-08T21:21:29.539-04:00Once, twice, three times a lady<b style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">The unexpected nature of finding myself living in New England for many years has presented innumerable cultural experiences that I could never have experienced otherwise. Although it's not been quite three years for me in Maine, I have lived here for a total of three full NFL seasons. NFL, living in New England... can you sense where I'm headed with this one? You bettah believe that this post is about none less than the NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS(groans from some, cheers from others). More specifically my time here amongst the Pats fans, thriving in their natural habitat, New England.</b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>You see the past three NFL seasons have provided me the opportunity to witness the Patriots and their legion of local fans go through one Super Bowl loss, one Super Bowl win, and one season where the Patriots completely missed playing in the Super Bowl. All of this happening at the near end of what is the Tom Brady and Bill Belichick dynasty era of unparalleled success. This fact leaves me in the current position to also watch Patriots fans suffer immensely as Tom Brady becomes a free agent. So many beautiful facets to this story.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>In the beginning, having lived here for only about five months, the entirety of the 2017-2018 NFL season, it all had come to an end and with a Patriots' loss to the Nick Foles led Eagles in Super Bowl LI. Coming down to the wire of a crazy game, New England walked away defeated, and stunned. Now, the fans' reaction wasn't so, um, professional. The crying, the excuses, the shit talking about referees or some other thing that was "unfair!". Mind you this is all coming from the fans of a team that has cheated. The somber, sorry slump that fans walked around with for one to three weeks post-loss. The feeling that life was so difficult to live because the Patriots missed out on the win. Not wanting to talk about it, and a general melancholy everywhere I went. Slightly pathetic, but overall not particularly annoying; I dealt with it fine. All the Patriots' fandom was super optimistic, if not out right in-your-face about the fact that the Pats would go back again in 2018-2019 season and win it all. And that's exactly what happened.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>In a 2018-2019 season dominated by teams like New Orleans, Kansas City, Los Angeles Rams, Seattle, The Patriots were also strong, but not for sure favorites to take it all. Then the Patriots do what the Patriots do in the NFL Playoffs and just win, taking them back to play for Super Bowl LII battling this time with a much younger offensive thunderstorm in the LA Rams. The game was something of a defensive slugfest and it ended up as a snoozer, if you ask me. Low scoring and overall not exciting, but alas the Patriots were victors again where they are so comfortable being. Fans rejoiced. Patriots Nation was whole once more as Tom Brady delivered again as the messiah. Many fans weren't too loud mouthed about that particular victory due to its boring nature, but it was still a win. It happened to be an historic win as well, being the 6th victory </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Our most recent NFL season was one that I followed more closely than any year prior, and also enjoyed more than any year prior. Of course as reigning champions the Patriots had just as good or better a chance to make it back to the big game as any team. After a decent start to the season the Patriots struggled towards the end and barely made the playoffs, where they lost in the first round. Not to summarize it too easily, I reveled in the glory of the Patriots' early playoff loss. Dancing around my living room I sang, "Ding dong the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead!!!" I was PUMPED that after two years and two NFL seasons living in New England, I was finally going to get to watch a Super Bowl that the Patriots did not appear in! Many New England fans in this area acted as if football didn't exist after the Pats lost in the wild card playoff game. Various mourning clients at the shop would slump in the chair and say how they weren't watching any other playoffs. I'm like, damn, y'all are sorta weak, in fact not sorta. For a group of people so accustomed to extraordinary success, Patriots fans really, really don't know how to handle a loss. At all. </b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>Playoffs and the Super Bowl did not disappoint and Kansas City took home the prize, the first Super Bowl appearance and subsequent win for their team in 50 years. Imagine that, Patriots fans! Fifty years with no Super Bowl appearance, let alone a championship! It's truly unfathomable to these New England fans, because they have literally in the past twenty years never had to imagine being too far removed from a Super Bowl championship. But that might change this season, if not for sure in the next few seasons. </b></span><br />
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<b style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">You see, the best part of all of this is not only have I borne witness to a variety of Super Bowl experiences with Patriots' fandom, now I get to see them squirm while they await official decisions regarding Tom Brady's final years in the NFL. Will he stay in New England or will he go to another team and make a run for it in a whole different way?!?!?! That very thought is absolutely torturing those that love the Patriots and Tom Brady. They are LOSING IT, to put it lightly. Should Tom Brady decide to stay with the Patriots for the final years of his career, the collective sigh of relief from this region will have the potential to shift weather patterns. On the contrary, the sheer volume of tears that will be shed if Brady leaves for another team will probably make up for the lack of precipitation we've had this past winter. I sit back and take it all in. I truly don't know what Tom Brady will decide and I sort of don't care. I'm just so grateful that I have been here observing such a wide variety of </b><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>experiences</b></span><b style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> regarding the New England Patriots fan culture during a time of historic success. Witnessing the highs and lows of the Pats fans, and especially loving the discomfort brought upon them by the impending end of the Patriots dyansty. Suckahs. </b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-10674157331090844542018-01-28T21:19:00.001-05:002018-01-28T21:19:05.838-05:00Ride or die.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">On my street there's a poor, frozen bicycle locked to a tree. During the fall time I remember thinking, "Is that gonna be there all winter? Does that poor baby have a home?" Even if it does have a home, it's not allowed to come inside, regardless of the weather. This bike was on the verge of disappearing in that glacier, if it weren't for a couple consecutive days in the 40's. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then New England got blasted with a "bomb cyclone" and I saw this frigid, two-wheeled friend left to bear the brunt of the storm. Then the plows came, making for an even sadder scene. Has anyone ever shoveled their bike out? Cars, yes. Doorways, yes. Bikes? </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> This is Maine, bikes get shoveled out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">C'mon now, what did this bike do to get left out in the cold? Bicycles are our friends! They get cold and lonely too. Not to mention the damage various parts will suffer due to the freeze/thaw and all the damn salt, sand and grime ever-present on the sidewalks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Call me crazy, but I don't think any bicycle should be an outdoor pet, they want to be warm and dry like the rest of us. Plus, who rides in this New England winter madness? You'd be surprised... I feel like nothing stops the New English from living life, not even the gnarliest winter ever. Inspiring folks they are. Or maybe just insane.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-32757654816986841742018-01-04T17:15:00.000-05:002018-01-04T17:25:09.766-05:00Siwa.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Of all the places in all the world I've had the pleasure of seeing with my own two eyes and feeling with my own bloody heart, the oasis of Siwa in Western Egypt is one of the top, tippy-top best. One day, a few years back, I attempted to start writing about my experience there and found it too difficult to sum up. I was rambling, trying to put every detail into words, the smells, the sights, the feelings, the people, and I couldn't do it. Siwa affected me so deeply and was such a joy of a place to be that it was impossible to write a blog post about it. I have always wanted to write about Siwa, and the other night I had the idea of one experience I had there that would be a good story to share. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Let me set the scene. Siwa lies in a deep depression in the Sahara desert of Western Egypt with an altitude well below sea level, hence its access to ground water to create life in the sand. There are palm tree groves as far as the eye can see. There is a large salty lake west of the oasis, fittingly called Siwa Lake. In the center of the small town the remains of an enormous, centuries-old mud brick village still stand. Partially destroyed by heavy rain decades ago, the mud brick village is largely abandoned, but some families still live on its outskirts near the more "modern" town. Open air markets vending fresh fruits and vegetables, donkey carts(taxis), veiled women milling about, the echo of the prayer call coming from minarets, and ample sunshine add to the enchanting nature of this delightful place. Hundreds of miles away from anything, Siwa Oasis is special.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW426CfyAtH_VQKeoDb1xDR_acORY9kuUg0RRLfIwWyfGlO9hoHOQnXDZeJp8jsFP9-L6vXlDScI6u8ZTJ6Y-GqPL__wttQluPs_IwKREyPKAv6iNcvVBGktjuNmGmM0iVRnt4rQVA-ULU/s1600/DSCF0489.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW426CfyAtH_VQKeoDb1xDR_acORY9kuUg0RRLfIwWyfGlO9hoHOQnXDZeJp8jsFP9-L6vXlDScI6u8ZTJ6Y-GqPL__wttQluPs_IwKREyPKAv6iNcvVBGktjuNmGmM0iVRnt4rQVA-ULU/s400/DSCF0489.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A portion of the mud brick village.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Market at night.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More common than any other form of transport.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">The Desert Rose hotel where I stayed was about a mile or so outside of the main town, down a dusty road. Being disconnected from the rest of the grid of the town, Desert Rose did not have electricity. Water was gas heated and all food was cooked over gas as well. At night we used candles to light the rooms. So charming. The courtyard was open air allowing for the sun to pour in onto the white stucco and tile mosaic. Behind the hotel lies a vast set of dunes, appropriately called the Great Sand Sea. These dunes went on for hundreds and hundreds of miles. Straight out of a movie.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Desert Rose courtyard.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edge of Great Sand Sea. View from Desert Rose rooftop</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Ali is the name of the man who was in charge and he embodied the friendliness and gregarious nature that Egyptians are legendary for. This guy could cook a fierce meal, guide a desert safari, and run errands for the hotel all in one day. I felt blessed to be in such a gorgeous place, in the company of such a gracious host, with the backdrop of the stunning dunes shimmering in the full moon light. Ali loved the desert and sold safaris in his well equipped 4-Runner; deflate the tires a bit and head out into the endless dunes. I took him up on this two separate days and those safaris are some of the most beautiful memories of all my times visiting Egypt. Along with sharing his knowledge and love of the desert with me, Ali would come to save me from great harm at one point in the few days I spent as his guest.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ali in his beloved desert.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">During one of the afternoons I was at the Desert Rose, I wanted to get into town to enjoy the evening and buy some fruits for my bus journey the next day. Ali was not at the hotel to give me a ride so I decided to go into town on foot. The walk was an isolated road of sand and dust, lined with tall grass on either side and passing the occasional structure. There was nobody and nothing on this road besides me and the desert, or so I thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">At one point as I was taking in the breathtaking serenity I heard some growling. I stopped and quickly noticed not far off the road was a pack of desert dogs. Four or six of them, large dogs, intensely staring at me and slowly inching forward, baring their teeth. Their faces were bloodied adding to the terror. They were eating a dead donkey and my passing was certainly a threat to their meal. In an absolute state of overwhelming fear, I froze. The following moments were consumed with thoughts of, "If I run they will chase me. I have no where to go. There is nothing here to protect me. I am a dead woman." Those moments felt like an hour. Paralyzed with fear, I literally did not know what to do. I knew I was gonna get attacked. It was over, life was gonna end for me like it has for so many, in the Sahara. Then suddenly Ali pulled up in his 4-Runner and with this thick accent was like, "Do you want a ride into town?" Do I want a ride?! I jumped into that truck for my life! </span></div>
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I couldn't believe his timing. I couldn't believe that as my life flashed before my eyes I was suddenly picked up by this upbeat Egyptian, you know, just on his way into town. I got into the truck and said something about the dogs, about how scared I was and that they were gonna eat me. Ali chuckled and said, "Nothing would have happened." Easy for you to say, you are a badass, desert hardened Egyptian who could have fended them off with one hand tied! I'm a soft, pasty American with zero desert survival skills that I'm sure would have been quite the treat for those desert dogs dining on stringy old donkey.<br />
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Ali dropped me off in the town square where I enjoyed my last evening in this fascinating oasis that had touched my soul. I purchased some fruits, watched life go by and eventually got a ride back to the Desert Rose for my final candle-lit evening.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still alive! Siwa town square in the full moon light.</td></tr>
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Siwa was a profound experience for me in so many ways, this dog story being just one of those ways. Siwa was the furthest away I had ever been from myself and everything I had known. A deep love for the desert began to blossom for me in Siwa's Great Sand Sea. I was seeing a very real part of Egyptian culture that was far from the famous history of the Nile. And it is the only place in Egypt that I ever rode a bicycle.<br />
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For years I carried an intense fear of all dogs, not realizing it was born that day, on that road faced by those bloody faced wild dogs. A dear friend helped me realize the fear came from that experience and it was a great revelation that helped me get over it. I love dogs now, but I don't ever want to be in another situation like that. There's a big difference between domesticated, well-taken-care-of dogs and wild African desert dogs with a mission to survive. All of that said, Egypt is, and will likely always be, my favorite country.<br />
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</span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-12025663641902490202017-12-12T20:20:00.002-05:002017-12-13T09:53:05.681-05:00Black don't crack.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Many a jacket hangs in my closet. There are two down jackets, one large and puffy, the other is more of a down pea coat with a great hood. There are numerous hoodies of varying ages and thicknesses. Some of the hoodies have been adorned with the graphics of old t-shirts sewn on the the back as a way to customize and preserve, so punk rock. From my travels to other countries, I have a great collection of Adidas soccer jackets, Team Argentina, Team Mexico, plain black with white stripes and a high collar, etc. I even have a hoodie that I adopted from the barbershop after no one came back to claim it. Being someone who wants to avoid the cold touching me at all time</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">s, I have collected these jackets over the years and refuse to part with any of them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Today it snowed all day, nothing major, just a consistent flurry of the heavy, fresh-off-the-sea snow that I guess is the norm for Portland Maine. This breed of snow is all new to me. Heavy, sticky, makes slush as soon as it hits the ground. Strange to this Colorado girl who's only experience with snow up to this point has been the dry fluff of a high altitude, landlocked climate.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> And then the sun went down, the temperature went up. And then it started to rain. It's still raining. WHAT THE CRAP?!(insert mind-blown emoji) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">How in the world does snow turn to rain? Rain turns to snow, period. When the sun goes down, the temp goes down, period. Not so quick, I'm learning. The ocean is a powerful determiner of all things weather and being right by it means I need to throw out the rule book on what I've experienced, having never lived in the coastal climate of New England. Or shall I say, having never wanted to live in the coastal climate of New England. I truly cannot believe I am hunkering down to endure a Maine winter. sigh.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Though I hate winter and snow, I love shoveling snow, gets the anger out. Having good intentions to shovel some of the snow this eve, I got all dressed up and went outdoors only to find the rain has completely soaked the four inches of snow that had fallen. It is complete slush; deep, icy slush. My Famous Footwear snow boots are no match for this, I need real boots. Alas, I at least used the opportunity of being outside and brushed the slush off of my car before it has the chance to turn to four-inch-thick ice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">When I came in I removed my soaked boots, my soaked gloves and hung up my soaked jacket. Clothes be gettin' soaked. The jacket I had chosen to wear outside is the one I thought best suited for a rainy situation and proved to hold its own for the fifteen minutes I stood in the sopping wet snow and got poured on by freezing rain. This black hooded jacket has been in my life for almost ten years. It's technically a lightweight ski jacket, lined with a thin fleece, that I bought for the "cold" nights I would experience living in Guatemala back in 2009. We are talking about 55 degrees at the lowest. It is the closest thing I have to a real rain jacket that would also provide me warmth. It's still hanging and will probably take the bulk of the night to dry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">What prompted me to write tonight about jackets and weather was the thought that I NEVER, EVER would have known that the jacket I bought nine years ago to keep me warm in Guatemala would be out in the freezing December rain of Portland Maine. This black jacket has been through torrential downpours of Bogotá, kept me guarded from the winds of Okinawa, admired the fall leaves and majestic glaciers of Patagonia, and has even ridden the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier. Life never ceases to amaze me with its twists and turns that have led me to so many wonderful places, black jacket in tow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My black jacket has seen the world. Take a minute, look through your clothes, find one of your older pieces be it a jacket, pants, gloves. Think of all the life you've lived in that single piece of cloth, and reminisce. You'll probably be surprised at how much life you've lived with something you didn't realize was there with you the whole time. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perito Moreno Glacier, Patagonia, Argentina<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Okinawa Island, Japan 2011<br />
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</span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-88955310740932497422017-11-28T21:05:00.000-05:002017-12-06T10:54:33.976-05:00Barbara Morgan Hansen<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Has it really been fifteen years? Fifteen years since that call came? Close to half my life... Where has the time gone?... And though I often think of that day and the memories are crystal clear, I've never written about it. Until now. Fifteen years later.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Fifteen years ago, November 28 2002, was Thanksgiving Day. The bulk of my immediate family and I were at our Mom's house in Littleton preparing for dinner. The weather was mild as November can be in Littleton, I remember the sun shining through the windows of the kitchen. Hanging out, doing what families do best, BS-ing, the phone rang and it was my dad calling from his home in Highlands Ranch. Brady answered, told my dad, "Yes, we'll go right now", and hung up the phone. Dad had called to tell us that he had received a panicked phone call from his father, our grandpa, and that our grandma had fallen and they needed immediate help to get her up. My Mom's house was barely a mile from our grandparents and my father called us because he knew we could get there sooner. Jason, my sister's boyfriend at the time said, "I'll go with Brady" and I told him no, that I would go. I didn't want a stranger going over there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Thinking, Oh we'll go help Grandma and be home in time for dinner, Brady and I hopped in the car and within minutes were at Grandma and Grandpa Hansen's house, a place we'd spent ample time at and formed lasting childhood memories. The energy upon entering that house was not what I expected; intense, heavy, almost twilight-zone-like. Brady and I turned the first corner into the hallway and saw our precious grandmother on the floor of her room. Our panicked, pacing grandfather and a neighbor who had come over to help immediately following the accident, were also there. They were able to turn Grandma over so she was not face down, and helped clean her up as she had messed herself in her moment of weakness. What my grandfather and his elderly neighbor did not have was the strength to pick Grandma up and carry her to bed. Nor did my grandmother have the strength or energy to do so on her own. Grandma's breathing was labored, she was clearly stressed out and likely in great pain, but she was communicating clearly and aware of what was happening. I'll never forget the sense of urgency and anxiety that consumed my grandfather in those moments; he was beside himself, helpless to help the love of his life in her time of greatest need. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Brady and I went into work mode, knowing we were there to do a job, one that required great strength but one that we did not know would require deep levels of tenderness. Brady and I positioned beautiful Barbara Hansen in our arms, Brady's arms underneath her armpits and mine underneath her legs. The bed had been prepared for her to be laid down and all we had to do was lift and, in one fell swoop, make sure she got to where she could rest. As we lifted, she was heavier than I expected, the weight of the world it felt like. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We got Grandma into bed and proceeded to bandage some injuries. At 83-years-old, Grandma's skin was as thin as tissue and a large piece on her arm had peeled back likely from hitting a door frame or piece of furniture. Being someone who doesn't deal well with flesh wounds, I thought of who I was helping, what she meant to me, and how much she needed me in that moment to get past the sight of the wound. I remember thinking, How is this going to heal? It's so big. I loaded the wound with antibiotic cream and placed a large bandage over it. There were a few other smaller wounds Brady and I bandaged and took care of some other things, making sure she had water and such. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Grandma was off the floor, comfortably in bed, still breathing heavily from the stress caused by the situation. She expressed her gratefulness for us coming over. Brady and I hugged her and she said something to us that I'll never forget, "Thank you so much. You are such good grandchildren." There was hugs and I love yous all around. We made sure Grandpa was feeling alright and after a very, very intense experience, got back in the car and headed back to Mom's. Thirty minutes absolutely seared in my brain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As we drove away from their house, I felt infuriated that Grandma was living like that, needing such care and not having it provided for her in her home. I had last seen her in September of that same year and did not realize she was in danger of scary situations like that, living with only my grandfather to help her. I told myself that after Thanksgiving was over I was going to have a talk with my dad and Aunt Linda about her needing more care, a home nurse, something! What Brady and I saw in their home that day made me realize Grandma needed help, I did not want this special lady to suffer like that again. And she would not.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Following the holiday, I was at work that Friday and my father called the salon to tell me that grandma had passed away that night as she slept. A wave of relief washed over me, so much of uneasiness of the day before made sense, Grandma had been at the end of her life. And I found tremendous peace in knowing she wasn't going to hurt or fall anymore. Then I realized of all Barbara Morgan Hansen's grandchildren, Brady and I were the last ones she ever saw. That thought really meant something to me as it sunk in the day of her passing. Brady and I are close, and I'm sure part of that bond came from sharing that experience that day with our beloved grandmother. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I decided to leave work immediately and to return to </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Grandma and Grandpa's house. It was something of the same surrealness, but much more empty. My grandfather was in state of shock, almost as if he couldn't feel or communicate. I don't remember much of "the day after" to be perfectly honest except that it was colder outside and the angle of the sun felt distant. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As funerals usually are, Grandma's was a forced family reunion of sorts. Everyone in our family undoubtedly loved this woman and even her grandchildren that grew up a great distance from her felt a deep closeness to her that was palpable at her service. She was a part of all of us and her love transcended. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">My siblings and I were the luckiest of all of grandma's grandchildren as we grew up so nearby and were at Grandma and Grandpa's all the time as children. My childhood memories often betray, but I do not forget the excitement I felt each and every time we were going to go to Grandma's house. Let's face it, it was a lot more about Grandma than Grandpa(God rest his grumpy soul). It didn't matter if we were stopping over for an hour on a Sunday or if we were going to spend the day, I was always pumped! We loved the kitties, the worn out old-fashioned games and toys, the cable TV, the abundant gum supply hidden in Grandma's purse, but really we went to be near Grandma. We loved the love that poured out of her from a seemingly bottomless fountain. Though there were many, many grandchildren that claimed her, she always made each of us feel like we were the only one. How did she do it? Grandma power. I still miss basking in her glow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Barbara Morgan Hansen was made of love, was made of joy and a sassiness that carries on in many of her children and grandchildren. Grandma was a committed woman. Grandma was committed to her family, to her husband, to her faith, all of which gave her ample grief from time to time, but whom she served with a smile. I remember as she aged, her asking me to come over and cut her hair, a way to bond with me, to help me learn, and to look her best as she always strived for. Anyone that remembers my grandma, remembers that if she had lipstick on her lips that it was also on her teeth, more evidence of her consistent, infectious smile.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I cannot remember a time where Grandma was mad at anyone or anything. I don't remember ever being scolded by her, which if it happened was likely disguised in some loving manner. In fact she even subtly covered her own "wrong doings", as was evidenced in the few R-rated VHS tapes she owned with the "R" rating being blacked out by permanent marker. Nice move Grams!! I mean, really, Grandma could do no wrong. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">But even though she was loaded with compassion, and goodness and non-judgement, and sugar and spice and everything nice, Grandma was no softie. In fact, she was one tough cookie(just like the ones she baked, I'm sorry, I had to!). Barbara was married to Whipple for over fifty years after all, and that should be commended! When I was a young adolescent, Grandma was diagnosed with ovarian cancer which she handedly beat, like a boss. I realize all these years later that Grandma may have formed the ovarian cancer from her use of talc powder which she kept in her bathroom; as talc use has now been linked to ovarian cancer. As kids we liked to talc our tummies, kids are weird. Alas, it was part of the magic of visiting Grandma's house, talc tummy. The talc and the fuzzy toilet cover were the best parts of Grandma's bathroom. I know Grandma also gave birth to giant babies(my dad), further cementing her legend, and suffered a miscarriage in between children. There's so much more I wish I knew about everything she endured and sacrificed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Grandma had her vices also, romance novels being one of my clearest recollections. I'm sure Grandma longed for some of the stories to be her own, but I also know she simply enjoyed reading. When I think of Grandma there's always M & M's somewhere floating in the memories. Usually milk chocolate M & M's, I was always slightly disappointed when there was peanuts involved. Easily forgiven however, as it was Grandma, and she had some other treat somewhere else. Ice cream, sugary cereals, packaged cookies, all to the grandchildren's delight. I could literally write a novel about her...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Being that she passed when I was at the tender age of twenty-three, I did not get to have much of my adulthood with my Grandma Hansen. As a selfish young adult, I didn't take much time to visit her, even though we lived in the same city. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I didn't get to show her who I became and am still striving to become. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Grandma is mostly a childhood memory for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Years after her passing, I had a very vivid dream. She was there, and she was alive, but she was going to die. There was an overwhelming urgency, a pressing need for, for something to happen before she passed. In my dream I could not identify what "it" was, but the emotion of anxiety was causing me to cry. As I felt the pressing and urgency of this thing that needed to happen before she passed, I "arrived", I was there before she passed. I was crying and in my dream I realized something very profound, Grandma could not pass away until I was there, just like it happened in real life. We needed to be together one more time before she rested. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I woke up crying, something that has only ever happened that one time. All the memories of seeing her that last time were instantly refreshed, and now had a new meaning. Grandma had come to me in my dreams to tell me how important it was that I was there on that day. I called my father to tell him, still crying and trying to explain in my morning fog, the meaning of the dream. That dream was extremely powerful for me, it still speaks to me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I have always been humbly grateful that I was one of two of her cherished grandchildren to see her and help her in her final hours. I know that I was meant to be there, and I am really really grateful that I did not let someone else go instead. I am grateful it is an experience I share with my favorite person, Brady. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a great-grandmother, Barbara Morgan Hansen blessed so many with her generosity and steadfastness. When I felt compelled to write this, I knew I would cry, and there has been streams of tears on and off the past three hours, along with some downright ugly crying. I also know that I could write millions more words for a woman that, though I only got twenty-three years with, is literally a part of me forever. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">To my Grandma: What you have meant to me and continue to bless me with is beyond what words can describe. I love you deeply and want you to know that your joy is with me every day. I cherish the thoughtful handwritten notes and letters you wrote to me over the years as physical memory of your tenderness and care. Don't be surprised if I keep writing about you. Thank you for everything. Love, your granddaughter, Sarah Kay Hansen </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Memoral Day 2015</td></tr>
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sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-55569109943536470132017-11-20T22:48:00.003-05:002017-11-20T22:48:38.864-05:00Fred.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Oftentimes we have no idea the degree to which we affect the lives of others. We also don't know when teachers will come our way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">At the tender age of twenty-one years old, I was diagnosed with a stress fracture injury in my left hip. The doctor said, "Is this the beginning of arthritis? We won't be able know." I was told that it would take a year to heal and that I was not supposed to ride my bike. I was obsessed with riding bikes, how am I not going to ride for a year??!! </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I was devastated by the news. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It was the beginning of summer and I had just left my beloved Vail and come to Denver to go to hair school. My heart was broken from leaving the mountains and I faced the uncertainty of going back to school for the first time since dropping out of high school. </span><span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;">Not being able to burn off the anxious energy of youth through cycling, I knew it would be one of the toughest years of my life.</span><span style="font-family: "courier new", courier, monospace;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In order to stay something resembling sane, I would go for long walks around Capitol Hill in Denver on the perfect summer nights. Focusing on flexing as many muscles as possible in my legs and bootie as I walked, I did my best to flush out the frustration through the limited physical activity I was permitted by the doctor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">One of these balmy nights as I clipped along at break-neck walking speed, I passed a gentleman with long dreadlocks. I complimented the dreads as I passed by and he proceeded to initiate a conversation with me. His name was Fred and he was a bit older than middle aged black man who had spent decades living on Capitol Hill. We walked and talked for I think nearly three hours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: courier new, courier, monospace;">I'm sure I vented significantly about how hard my life was at twenty-one years old. I'm sure I told him about the hip injury, and my obsessive walks. I'm sure I expressed in detail my heartbreak from leaving the majestic mountains. I'm sure I reeked of young adult insecurities masked by overconfidence. I'm sure he knew I needed him that night. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Nearly twenty years later most of the details of that night have faded into the depths of memory, but there is one thing that I hang onto to this day. Sitting in a small park on 10th Ave and Penn, Fred looked at me and said, "Everyday you have to find something that inspires you. You have to stay inspired." There was a subtle urgency in his voice, he knew he was saying something profound to me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Although we lived only blocks away from each other, I didn't see Fred until a couple years later, at a grocery store. He remembered me, but the magic I felt that summer night seemed to have faded for him. His gifting of wisdom towards me had affected me deeply for months and years after our chance encounter that night, and it was strange that I felt he looked at me as someone whom he met once and chatted casually with. No bother, it was nice to see him again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Over the years when I've been living in Denver, I've attended performances put on by the dance school Fred plays drums for. During another particularly difficult time in my early twenties, I knocked on his door, prying for more of the wisdom. It's been years since I've seen Fred and I think of him from time to time. But whether I ever see him again or not, he will always be with me. When I find myself in a tough time and need some hope, or whenever I see or feel something deeply inspirational, Fred is there with me, reminding me to stay that way, inspired. I sometimes feel like I made an unconscious promise to him and to myself that night. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So for what it's worth, Everyday you have to find something that inspires you, You have to stay inspired.</span><br />
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sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-46935138436034591192017-11-17T10:01:00.000-05:002017-11-17T10:05:49.662-05:00Bear market.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Yesterday two new clients came in to the shop. Slicked back, sharp looking gents, these two were excited to be trying out a new spot that has a golden reputation around this small city. One of them was scheduled with me and during his consultation he told me he had been going to a high-end men's salon in Portland but had lately been disappointed with the results of his haircuts. Upon inspection I definitely noticed quite a bit that was off about the shape and it seemed like whoever cut his hair wasn't sure how to deal with the unique nature of his hair type, and the dueling cowlicks that rested upon his crown. Disappointed in the work of others, which I often am as a detail obsessed barber, I told him the plan and began my work to remedy the mediocre mess he came in with.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Throughout the haircut I explained to him what I was doing, why I was doing it and the effects my technical approach would have on the final result and grow-out of his haircut. In the end, he was very pleased with the results complimenting me on my skills and execution of his desired look. But the best was yet to come from this client.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">After their cuts, the two men stayed around and enjoyed a drink, relaxing on one of the plush leather sofas in the shop lounge. At one point I walked by and my client told me they are hedge fund managers(I don't really know what that means, but I know it has something to do with rich people's money). He followed that up by telling me his buddy had asked him how I had done and if he liked his haircut from me. My client told me that his response to his buddy was, "I told him, 'She dissected it like a mismanaged portfolio!!'." I was in stitches and we all enjoyed a good laugh over that before I thanked him for the financial adviser's perspective of my work. Truly one of the great compliments of my lengthy career. </span><br />
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sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-8562448998560398852017-11-14T22:52:00.000-05:002017-11-17T10:09:35.857-05:00Beasts of childhood.<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Why are animals THE BEST??!! Their fuzzy faces, their expressive eyes, their adorable paws. Bah! I love them all! Literally all of them. No matter the species, the "ugliness", the things they do to other animals, I can't help myself, I am obsessed with all beasts. Yesterday my sister sent me a video of her precious dog being petted, I watched it four times and I squealed each time. Insane for them!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">In my house growing up, there was no shortage of animals. I don't remember having any less than four cats at any one time. We had dogs, one named Kitty even. We had birds, snakes, rats, hamsters, etc, etc. All manner of living creatures. I remember always feeling grateful that we had animals and I can't imagine the amount of crap my parents had to clean up. We even called our food pantry the "cat room" since it housed the litter box. Yep you got it, a box full of cat crap in the same place we stored food. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">We had this monster black and white tuxedo cat named Moosie. I think he pushed 25</span><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">lbs. Maybe he was 40lbs, my childhood memories make him larger than he likely was. This cat is a legend! Moosie had one eye, can't remember how he lost it, he just always had one eye. Moosie also walked with a severe limp which was the result of a shoulder injury he endured after being hit by a car and my parents chose not to pay for the surgery to repair it(maybe the eye went in that accident also). Even with all his gimpyness and that one eyeball, Moosie loved life! There was nothing this cat wouldn't put up with from us five kids in the house. He had the loudest purr ever, like ever, look it up in Guiness. We could sit on him, aggressively snuggle him, harass him to no end, and that loud purr just kept on going. Even just walking by, Moosie would purr. Moosie loved love. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The legend himself, Moosie. With baby Alex.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Moosie also had a girlfriend, a life partner, if you will. That's right, Moosie loved love from humans AND other animals. Noodles, a fluffy calico we also had, was Moosie's girlfriend and these two cats were inseparable. Completely enamored with each other, these kitties could be found cuddling together any time of day. It was heartbreaking for everyone when Moosie passed away at some super old age for cats. However, none of us felt his loss like Noodles did. Noodles was inconsolable and passed away just a few weeks later. We found her under the bed, cuddling alone. To this day, we are convinced that she died of a broken heart. We buried her next to her beloved Moosie. Noodles and Moosie, like Sid and Nancy, together until death, except without the heroin overdose and murder charges.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">As I became an adolescent, I took on my very own pets, bought with my own money. Mickey and Zoey, my rat couple. I would breed them and the lil baby rats were too cute for words. When the babies were old enough, I would sell them for $1 each to pet stores to then be sold as pets. All these years later, I realize many of them likely became reptile feed. Snakes gotta eat too I suppose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I had the rats for a few years and I'll never forget the day I realized Zoey was very sick. I bawled all the way to the vet to have her put down. I knew she was suffering greatly and I had to say goodbye to a tiny creature who had brought me so much joy and taught me so much responsibility. I had Mickey for a while longer, along with the lone baby from his and Zoey's final litter they had together. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">The luster had worn off after years of caring for rats, and one day I took the last remaining offspring from my rat couple and "released" him into the field behind my house. I don't know if I ever admitted that to anyone. I literally took a domesticated rat that probably didn't know how to fend for himself and abandoned him in a field thinking he was now free. He probably didn't last the night. I still have some guilt over that. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Throughout my adulthood, I've traveled and moved so much that I have never made the space in my life to have an animal. I have longed for it and came close to getting a kitty in Denver until I moved into the most perfect apartment... that wouldn't allow pets. I currently live with a kitty but he is the definition of a scaredy cat, runs from everything and will barely let me pet him. The feelings I've been having lately of isolation a loneliness are pressing me again. I mean, I'm almost 40 years old and I've never had a cat or dog of my own, even though I've ached for it for years, but feared the commitment. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lil Tucky, a beast who has made a difference for me.</td></tr>
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I've denied myself so many things in exchange for a gypsy life and I'm not so sure I want to continue to deny myself the joy of having a pet anymore. It freaks me out to commit to something like that, but I've also got to face my fear of commitment sometime before I die. I am so grateful to have grown up surrounded by so many pets in my childhood home. I have been blessed to have countless friends who's pets have made a real difference in my life. The experience I had volunteering at a shelter was profound. I squeal and get giddy at videos of animals. All the signs are there that it's right. It's time to honor my inner child who had so many pets, and spoil myself with a pet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-37552147456836698642017-11-13T13:25:00.000-05:002017-11-13T13:25:30.561-05:00Artsy fartsy<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Lately in my life I have had a mix of feeling completely lost and uninspired along with periods of feeling overwhelmed with insight, inspiration and newness. Lately? Who am I kidding, that mix is my life summed up. Perhaps what brings me back to this blog after two and a half years is finally coming to terms with the fact that I have to get off my ass and commit to something again. I have to begin to search again. I have to reignite my urge to push boundaries(something I am a self-trained expert at, just ask my parents).</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my faves ever. Bogotá, Colombia.<br />(not the artist from the documentary)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Between last night and this morning I watched a Hulu documentary about a street artist who's art I have seen and appreciated over decades of my life. My first of many light bulb moments was that I had never stopped to register that there was a creative genius with a tremendous story behind the images. The documentary left me with a myriad of emotions from enlightenment to frustration to acceptance; acceptance that I have to stop sitting on my ass, numbing out with TV streaming, and start doing what comes so naturally to me. I need to tap back in to that part of me that woke up when I was an angry 16-year- old with no other outlet. I need to create my own art. I need to honor my own gift...I need to write. And write. And write, etc.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This year has been tough for me. I am living somewhere that I am enamored with, but never planned to be. I'm not close with anyone here, I am lukewarm about my employment situation, I am achingly far from anyone I can truly lean on and New England's North Atlantic winter is on the way. However the most pressing part is that I am feeling a choking feeling when it comes to my self expression. Literally feeling like I'm being choked since arriving here, a tightness in my throat. And it's not allergies. I have to do what it takes to release, I have to express. And write. And write, etc. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Art of one of the most prolific artists ever to live. Denver, Colorado, USA </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The inspiration to create doesn't seem to be the key factor in my lack of production. Every day I experience </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">the beauty and sadness of our earthly existence. Every day I notice moments, observe love, listen to seagulls loudly squawk. Every day I am taking things in, and every day the moments die inside. </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">To the point that I'm making myself sick. Things feel off. I feel lost. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How life should be. Buenos Aires, Argentina.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New", Courier, monospace;">What has been absent for me is motivation. To watch that documentary and realize what a gift this street artist has given the world on an incredible scale made me feel like a chump for not creating my own art when I damn well know I have the ability to do it. I could feel the motivation awakening. Do I think I'm going to have the impact that he does? That's not the point, it's not a competition. It's not about scaling my own art, it's simply about doing it to honor myself and to explore where it takes me, to give in to the gifts of destiny. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There may be no one that ever reads this, and I'm okay with that. But I am not motivated by fame or "being known" or whatever. I am motivated by being bored and frustrated and feeling lost. I am motivated by the feelings that I get when I watch others go through their journeys and realize I've taken way too long of a lazy break of my own. I am motivated by the longing to feel like I belong somewhere, a struggle of my entire life. I really want to feel like I belong in my own skin, on my own crazy, blessed, unique path. I can't lie when I say that I do want to feel like I'm helping others, making a difference, not matter how small. But I can't help anyone else until I help myself first. So I write. And write...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-43513870130790797042015-05-02T12:45:00.001-04:002015-05-02T12:45:29.129-04:00Pep talk.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"In the beginning there is not much difference between the coward and the courageous person. The only difference is, the coward listens to his fears and follows them, and the courageous person puts them aside and goes ahead. The courageous person goes into the unknown in spite of all the fears." - Osho</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Tossing and turning, tossing and turning some more, that was my night of "sleep" last night. I had this obscure dream where I was downtown in the early morning hours to pick up my car after being at a rave(or something like that)all night. As I waited on the corner, chillin' before getting in my car, all of a sudden it was gone. Stolen? Towed? My dream state didn't say, so I called my dad to pick me up so we could figure out how to advise the police about my missing vehicle. I was relieved when I awoke to realize that my car is still parked where I park it every night at my apartment complex. Glad I didn't have to deal with police...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">I would be lying to myself if I tried to say I wasn't sure what's causing the temporary insomnia. </span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">This morning, I find myself having quite the internal conflict. A bit too personal to describe in detail, I'm being faced with a situation where I have to make a decision where either choice is neither right nor wrong. Both choices are positive, allowing a lot of growth, and both choices can potentially cause a lot of questions that could remain unanswered. Therein lies the conflict, and the fear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I feel compelled to stay the course, allowing myself to move through this particular experience and become pressurized. That pressure will either make me stronger, teaching me or, it will break me; but it's got to be better than being sedentary. This gypsy can't stay still, and that includes internally. This is why I'm so intrigued by this situation, the unknown it will bring into my life. I'm addicted to the unknown, I'm addicted to its reflections and its lessons. I have an impulse to forge ahead despite the fear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Coupled with the impulse to forge ahead is the impulse to walk away, realizing that this situation is not something I need to continue to involve myself with. Realizing that I have learned what I need to learn from it and the time has come to have a new adventure. But wait, aren't both pathways a new adventure? Isn't life itself a new adventure every day? Oy vey.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am left to remain in conflict for the time being. Deep down, my intuition is signaling that either decision is okay, I cannot choose wrong. I am simply baffled that I have reached a point in my life of such neutrality, a gift of enduring the awakening process. Both choices bring the unknown, both choices present fears. There is no other choice except to accept my own decision and the decisions of all parties involved with a response of love. After all, the only choice we have in life is to choose between love or fear.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"To accept the challenge of the unknown, in spite of all the fears, is courage. The fears are there, but if you go on accepting the challenge again and again, slowly slowly those fears disappear." - Osho </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." - Franklin D. Roosevelt </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-91998526067135057302014-11-13T22:34:00.000-05:002014-11-13T22:34:21.891-05:00Red tent.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I could describe in words how unlike myself I feel today, and the past few days in general, it would be welcome relief. However, I can't. I feel totally and utterly out of sorts. I don't generally have to question where this kind of mood comes from; fortunately for me, I always know. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Usually, I don't have unexplained moodiness, i</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">t's the uterus, it's an especially bad case of PMS. One that has me crying as I write this. Please don't feel bad, I don't even have a legitimate reason to be crying, but alas, I cry.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">During all of this crying, I found myself thinking, "If I only had a place to go where I could cry and no one would question it. If there was a place I could go to get away from the world and just feel crappy PMS ass." Then I cried even harder wishing that my world had safe places for women who need support before and during menstruation; I want to go to the red tent. Sure, the red tent is reserved for women who are actually menstruating but I'd kill to be able to go to one today. I am craving escape, understanding, comradery, a nap, a good laugh, distraction, and the empathy of other women.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Many cultures around the world currently have menstrual huts as part of life. Native American cultures are famous for the menstrual huts that women would go to during menstruation to bond, celebrate femininity, and encourage creativity during a time where women were believed to be more connected intuitively. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It's clear as to why we don't have these special places in the Western world now. Our periods are something that we are supposed to hide. Our periods are something we are supposed to be ashamed of and feel is "disgusting". A menstrual hut would not only blow these bullshit beliefs and habits out of the water, but would encourage the beauty and special nature of this time, the connection with our womanhood and our sisters, the celebration of all things feminine. Celebration?! That's right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Rarely do I feel <i>this</i> out of sorts. Perhaps it can be chocked up to the fact that the weather is HORRIBLE these past few days and I'm likely mourning the arrival of ultra-wintry weather, but fuuuuuck I feel awful. I even got into a Facebook fight with a dear friend in Egypt. Then I cried. Then I texted a friend. Then I cried. Then I listened to music. Then I cried. This is madness, nobody should be forced into society in this condition. I want to be locked up in the red tent until emotionally functional Sarah returns.</span></div>
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sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-51509420361426286472014-11-02T15:26:00.000-05:002014-11-02T22:49:40.934-05:00Saving Private Daylight.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Today is a day that many folks do not look forward to. Today at "2am" it suddenly went right back to 1am. I literally watched my phone change time from 1:59am to 1:00am. An extra hour of sleeping, or other extra curricular activities..., don't mind if I do!! I love it, I love the time change. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Sure, I think it's stupid that we change the clocks in some sort of human attempt to control the uncontrollable; time is relative anyways and, what difference does it truly make to change the clock? Though most of the world </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">does not practice "Daylight Savings Time",</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> and even some states in our country, alas it is here: Five months of darkness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Now, I'm no ignoramus, I understand that it is, in fact the orbit of the Earth around the Sun and not the changing of the clocks that makes the daylight fleeting. But the fact that we change the clocks, in turn, makes the sunset happen earlier bringing what I call "The Darkness". I LOVE The Darkness!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For a lot of my life, I struggled with the lack of sunlight in the winter. I had the typical seasonal depression, hated the change of seasons to cold and dark, and the nights that never seemed to end</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">(I still hate the change of seasons to cold)</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">. Spring eventually worked it's way back into life and the daylight increased after what felt like years of darkness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">About eleven years ago, I decided to make a change. I consciously decided that instead of choosing to loathe The Darkness, I would embrace it; I would enjoy it, love it, need it. I decided that I would fool myself into liking The Darkness by telling myself that I needed it to do certain things; for example, if I wanted to watch a movie I would need to wait until it got dark. If I wanted to make a phone call or smoke a bowl or clean my house, I would need to wait until it got dark. Pretty easy to do really since the sun goes down at like 4pm for a good part of winter. But the seemingly magical part is that it worked like a charm! By simply telling myself that I needed The Darkness, wanted it and loved it, I found that I <i>did</i> need it, want it and love it. Yay for The Darkness! My personal mind game proved fantastic results and I've never been the same since, almost looking forward to this time of year as opposed to dreading it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There is so much that is mysterious and magical about the dark hours of the day, especially when there are so many dark hours in one day. Darkness is when we rest and rejuvenate. Darkness is when we feel more comfortable with intimacy and, darkness beckons love making. The Darkness allows for for much of the external world to be unavailable for viewing thus allowing introspection and self reflection. The Darkness is when we escape the hustle and bustle of the daylight hours.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So as the season of The Darkness is upon us, I reflect back on that day when I changed my mind about it, and I feel really grateful. I will embrace and enjoy the many lightless hours of night in the next few months. Now if I could only convince myself of the same when it comes to the cold temps, I'd be set...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-51902339752616415102014-10-02T02:02:00.002-04:002014-10-02T02:02:44.016-04:00Branding.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"My soul is not contained within the limits of my body, my body is contained within the limitlessness of my soul."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"You cannot define yourself in reference to other external coordinates, you must define yourself internally with your relationship with a higher entity. Think of yourself as a manifestation of some higher thing, some higher frequency. This is the visible realization. And you know that because you can't see atoms, can you? And you certainly can't see the forces that hold atoms together. There in the micro-quantum world lie the answers to everything. We can't understand it with our biological, rational minds, but we feel it intuitively. Get yourself in line with that stuff and you'll beam like the sun."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">If I challenged each and every one to guess who quoted the above listed quotes, I am certain that nobody would come close to guessing who the two men are that said those two things. One is Canadian, one is British. Both are extremely famous comedians, movie stars, funny men. In fact, both are known as complete goofballs, guys who push the limits of comedy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Jim Carrey and Russell Brand, in that order, are the two men who said the two profound, deeply meaningful things that are quoted above. How is it possible that those kooky guys, whose mission it is to make us laugh, can come up with such substantial, spiritual inspiration?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As a society we pay attention to, only seem to take notice of, the superficial. We are more obsessed with what someone is wearing than the actual composition of their character. There is no doubt in my heart that both Jim Carrey and Russell Brand have lived multiple lives before this current one and the wisdom of their old souls knows full well that in our modern world we do not acknowledge and value spiritual strength. So, in order for these messengers to be able to deliver the real message they are intended to deliver, they must first earn our attention with silly antics. If Jim Carrey did not grab our attention with Ace Ventura and Dumb and Dumber, would we ever have listened to his true wisdom? If Russell Brand wasn't touring the world with stand up comedy in order to make a name for himself internationally, would we be willing to sit and listen to his penetrating, almost uncomfortable ranting about the state of humanity and the power of connecting spiritually?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Both of these men have used their gifts first to make us laugh and now to challenge us to look deeper within ourselves, beyond the laughter behind which so many of us hide and to truly begin to understand something greater; that of our true selves. Looks like they are good for more than a laugh after all... </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-65202683999609014822014-07-15T00:53:00.000-04:002014-07-15T00:53:48.420-04:00A period of mourning.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I walk with no skip in my step, my head hangs a low, my eyes are dull and lifeless, I can barely muster a half-smile... The FIFA World Cup 2014 has ended. *sigh************* And stupid Germany won. Whatever, they kicked butt and were a very strong, well organized, and disciplined team. Part of me feels like Germany shouldn't be allowed to win anything for at least a few more centuries. I guess they have to prove they can win World Cups since they can't win World Wars. BOOM! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For the better part of four years I waited for World Cup 2014 Brazil. I talked about it with every foreigner I encountered(lets face it, Americans don't know shit), I dreamed of going to Brazil for the event, and a few months prior I began counting down the days. I was pre-obsessed in preparation for the true obsession that I knew would take over once the matches began.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Out of the 64 matches, I think I missed two or three. Sure a lot of them I wasn't able to fully watch, but you better believe they were on the televisions at work. I spent two weeks of absolutely gorgeous summer days indoors, watching three games in a row during group stage. In fact when group stage was over and there was a day off, it was strange, I felt lost. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">From the beginning I found myself very emotionally connected to the Colombian team; to this day and for the rest of my life, I will feel emotionally connected to Colombia. In a country so conflicted as Colombia, soccer is the one thing they all agree on. The Colombian team went further in the tournament than ever before and one of their young players received the honor of the Golden Boot, having scored the most goals of any individual player in the tournament. Not bad for a team that went out in quarter-finals. I cried when Colombia scored their first goal and I cried when they exited the tournament, heads held high.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Another team I ached to see do well was, of course, the formidable and famous footballers of Brazil. Who wouldn't want to see the home team win a World Cup?!? But destiny had other plans and Brazil exited the tournament with their worst loss ever. The 7-1 lashing by the Germans was the only game I deliberately turned off. Some things are too painful to watch, and being able to literally watch dreams of players and fans alike be crushed in such a ruthless manner was rough. It was one of those moments that made me very glad I had chosen to not go to Brazil for the tournament. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As the knockout rounds left fewer and fewer teams, my obsession with each team, each game grew that much stronger. With fewer teams and games to enjoy, I found myself practically talking to strangers about the tournament. In the final I was able to watch Argentina, another team I was pulling for, but they couldn't hang on long enough and lost to Germany to accept second place. And then the mourning began.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I'm not sad that Germany won(sort of not sad), I'm not sad about any one thing in particular. I'm just sad that it's over. The anticipation, the excitement, the anxiety of extra time and penalty kicks, the needless obsessing, the Uruguayan biting, the players' goal celebrations, the face painting, the Spanish speaking announcers screaming "Gooooooooooooool!", the emotion, the love, the beautiful game. *sigh, again* </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I feel like a part of me is gone. I find myself scouring YouTube and fifa.com for videos, interviews, articles. I even was on Wikipedia looking up historical facts about the tournament and current player statistics. It's not the same, but hopefully it can ease the pain of withdrawal. Even while writing this, I went back and forth to YouTube at least six times to watch goal scoring videos and player interviews...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I will get through this hard time in my life. It hopefully won't take too long to recover from Post-World-Cup Depression, or as I call it PWCD. The countdown to Russia 2018 begins today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-57751255889365986732014-05-22T20:46:00.001-04:002014-05-22T20:46:26.044-04:00Rental car.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Being on some kind of permanent rebellion against "the man" I have gone the vast majority of my life without owning a car. As a teenager I had a couple of cars, both of which ended up in a junk yard, totaled. And before you ask, neither was my fault. When the second car was totaled, I was too poor to be able to afford a new one, so I simply began using the public transit in the small mountain town I lived in. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In my early twenties I took up bicycling as a hobby, pastime and way of life. I lived, worked and shopped all within a small radius, making bicycling the only thing I needed for transportation. I thought I'd never need a car! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Years later, living in Los Angeles, did it become clear to me that having a car would not only help me get around significantly easier, but improve the overall quality of my living experience in that vast, car-dependent city. Alas, I bought a car for the first time in my adulthood. I bought a 15-year-old Subaru from my mother with 180,000+ miles on it and that thing got me around LA just fine! When the road called to this gypsy again, I sold the Subaru to a dear friend and embarked about the globe again, carless. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Upon returning to Denver last year, I was like, "Sweet, I'm gonna live on Capitol Hill and walk and bike everywhere just like the good ol' days!" A few months passed and I quickly realized that I was over the good ol' days and I felt trapped in Denver, unable to get out and enjoy the tremendous amount that living in Colorado has to offer. I knew I wanted a car. I wanted to feel like and adult, to be able to go where I want when I want, not having to "borrow" someone's car. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">In order to skip over a bunch of details, I got a car, a brand new car. Brand new was never the intent, but having a car guy for a dad, he convinced me that for what I wanted(another Subaru), that it was best for me to go with new since used Subarus in Colorado are as rare as diamonds and cost about as much(due to demand). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am quite enjoying having a new car; the new car smell, the shiny new everything, the fancy dials and buttons. But I have to admit, it's a bit strange. I keep wondering when I have to give it back. I've been so accustomed to cars that I drive not actually being mine, that it feels like I need to give it back eventually. I've used lots of rental cars, and borrowed friends' and family members' cars so many times, that it still doesn't feel like the new Subaru on the street is mine and I don't have to give it back. My mother even made a comment along the lines of, "It'll feel like yours when you start getting the bills for it", and honestly it's not even that. It's going to sink it that it's mine when I can literally go wherever I want, whenever I want without having to call someone and ask, and without having to pick it up at a rental office. It took nearly 35 years, but I just may be starting to act like and adult. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-71679851186750769762014-04-02T14:58:00.001-04:002014-04-02T14:59:51.252-04:00Sleep like a baby.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As I laid in bed for an hour before getting up yesterday(and for 2.5 hours today)I had a thought, "I was born to lay in bed." As I chuckled to myself about this ridiculousness, I then realized that in fact it's true, I was <u>literally</u> born to lay in bed. Isn't that what all babies do, lay around in bed? Lazy babies, they don't even get up to go to the bathroom.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My personal, internal comedy routine continued as I also realized that I was born to lay in the arms of someone else; also something all babies do. So why do we think that as we get older that we need to sacrifice these essential pieces of happiness and health? I personally have zero guilt when it comes to laying around, whether asleep or awake. Fortunately, I do not suffer the same complex as so many Americans of needing to constantly be productive, constantly be doing something. I will lay around with the best of them! Guilt is not invited to this lazy party.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I understand we all have lives, jobs, and some crazy people even made kids to take care of, but time for ourselves, just spacing out and laying around is essential for recovery and to process our lives' events and responsibilities. So next time you're feeling like you "should get up and do something", just remind yourself that you were literally born to lay in bed! And do your best to have it be in the arms of someone loving :)</span></div>
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sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-59673448754058034032014-03-24T01:15:00.001-04:002014-03-24T01:15:18.716-04:00Realistic realizations.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Yesterday, I didn't write here. That means I made it five days into my projected 100 days that I was attempting to write. Honestly, I didn't even think about it until it was "too late", and I was home late by myself after a night out with a friend, commiserating about our life's recent circumstances. Quite frankly I came to this conclusion: I can't and shouldn't force myself to write, nor should I feel bad if I can't make it to 100 days consecutive. Done and done. Perhaps I can think of a more realistic challenge as not every single day permits a time to sit and write. As well, oftentimes I find myself frustrated to feel like I'm writing something worthwhile, adding to the stress of the self imposed personal challenge. This shouldn't be stressful, this should be fun and challenging, but not guilt inducing. </span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At least five times each day, a great idea for writing crosses my mind. However, it's usually at a time, fleeting moments of inspiration, that I cannot immediately stop what I am doing to write down the idea or to even think much further on it than it being an idea at all. And isn't that what this is all about; simply finding that inspiration in the everyday "normality" that is my life? I do not need to expand on every single idea I've ever had to write. I do not need to put into writing any and every life experience I'm having or have had. What I do need to do is look at life through the eyes and heart as though I intend to share them through writing. It makes for richer moments, while I'm having certain experiences that trigger the inspiration; somewhere in the vast expanses of my mind, there is a memory being forged, thus being "written" in my life's tale. Finding that inspiration is far more important than the act of turning it into some form of data to be stored on the internet.</span></div>
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sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-43030670010682936562014-03-22T00:44:00.002-04:002014-03-22T00:44:55.294-04:00Recipe for disaster.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I had a moment yesterday that was the biggest decision that I had made all day: Do I sleep on my couch or do I sleep in my bed? I literally stood between the two, looking back and forth for minutes, all the while at a true loss for where to lay my tired body. Ultimately the couch won over; wise choice. Gotta love a day where "couch or bed?" is the biggest decision of the day. </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-80397684784552736762014-03-20T22:12:00.000-04:002014-03-20T22:12:25.490-04:00MIRACLES!<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I saw something yesterday that I have not seen in about six months. I saw green leaves on trees. YES! I also saw flowers blooming, bees buzzing and heard birds singing. I have done it. I will toot my own horn about it for a while though everyone else I know also did it; I survived winter. And I hated probably only about half of it, another grand feat. Now as a disclaimer: I am aware that the cold, snowy, shitty weather has yet to fully cease until summer comes with her heat, her minimal clothing, her long days, and her cruiser rides, but winter is over! Nine months winter free begin today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Poor pathetic winter. Must be hard to be so cold, so harsh, so dark and lifeless. Imagine being something that drives people indoors to avoid it, that makes depressions more pronounced and whitens the skin of Caucasians to an impossibly pasty shade the world over. And all of this in three measly months. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have run away from winter and its cold weather for seven consecutive years. This most recent winter happened sort of by accident as I would never intentionally put myself through the woes of a Denver winter. But, alas, I made it through and surprisingly, it went faster than I could have expected. I also know for a fact that I won't do it ever again. This snowbird will migrate, likely to a Mexican beach for month or two every winter until I die or decide to stay permanently on that beach.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Spring is here with all its new beginnings, life sprouting on every patch of dirt and winter's pasty whiteness being displayed on the chests of men and the legs of ladies in parks all over Denver. May the longer days drag on and on and on so that the next nine months feel like another seven years free of winter's bite. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-42378939982243326612014-03-20T00:33:00.000-04:002014-03-20T00:33:06.038-04:00Barber Theory.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have a long standing personal belief/theory about what will</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> happen to the earth, how it will heal, when humans are long gone: insects. When humans are wiped out from pillaging every last natural resource we can, and we have heated the planet to a degree that kills us all as fragile, needy mammals, the bugs will be waiting in the background ready to clean it all up.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was reminded of this today when I saw an article posted explaining that corn worms have evolved to be able to eat the genetically modified corn designed to kill them. I was honestly elated at this news as it goes to show that us as humans are extremely foolish to think that we can fool nature with science. Well, insects have much shorter generations than humans, thus evolve at a much quicker rate than we do and it sure didn't take more than barely ten years for these corn worms to evolve past robo-corn. That is some tough shit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I remember hearing one time that there were termites discovered that eat fiberglass insulation. Ouch. Sometimes I feel that way after eating something too spicy. Whether this is true or not, someday I'm sure termites will evolve to be able to do so. And we all know that cockroaches survive nuclear bombs long after we have been vaporized. Incredible little creatures these bugs! Six legs and wings! Lucky! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I truly believe that insects will evolve to eat everything from Styrofoam and plastic bags to concrete after humans are decimated. And who can possibly imagine what other toxic remains we leave behind that these critters will evolve to feast on, turning it all back into perfect nature in the form of insect poo. I love to think about billions upon billions of tiny bugs fixing all the damage that we have caused as a species, one bite of fiberglass at a time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The reptiles had their day, well more like their eons of years, reigning supreme in the form of dinosaurs. Mammals currently hold the top spot on the food chain, and have for a few millennium now. But the common thread intertwined throughout the history of life on Earth is the presence and necessity of insects to clean up messes. A bit easier for them when it was something actually organic; a dead dinosaur, a fallen tree. It will be quite the sight when empty skeletons of skyscrapers come crumbling down because thousands of generations of concrete eating insects have had their way with it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">We generally think of insects and their presence in something as dirty, gross, infested. T</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">he world would be a much filthier</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> place without them; they already clean up so much. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Little do we know that they are waiting in the wings(not to be punny)for us to die off so they can eat our flesh and then our civilization. I'm sure they will be helped greatly by various fungi and bacteria that also evolves to decompose the pestilential leftovers of human existence. And the circle of life will be complete</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I crack up at the thought of us "all powerful" humans thinking that we are so much more than a stupid bug. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Insects have capabilities to withstand extreme temperatures, as well as far harsher environments than us weakling humans. They reproduce extremely efficiently leaving literally thousands of their offspring in their wake. Insects</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> outnumber us, they eat us, they kill us, they eat our houses, our food(which they also pollinate), our trash, they keep our soil healthy, they rapidly evolve to outsmart us, and we must accept that they are going to survive long after we are gone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Congratulations you sneaky bugs, you have proven throughout billions of years that it doesn't matter what goes on, you'll continue to survive and proliferate life on Earth. I hope you </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-37612438872873665772014-03-19T01:55:00.000-04:002014-03-19T02:16:10.180-04:00Right reasons to write?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking like a fat lady in a moo moo. Writing in <br />
Santa Catalina, Panama.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The question of why I write publicly(on this blog)was posed to me today and I have to be honest that it really, really got me thinking. My initial thoughts were, well I do it for myself, not necessarily for the public. Then I was asked why I don't just write privately. I have written for myself privately since I was 16 years old. I was filled with teenage angst one day and being unable to escape the frustration, I pulled out note paper and just wrote my feelings and thoughts down. I could not believe how much relief I felt after that first time and I have not quit since. I have written six "books", notebooks filled with handwriting, my life's work, my life. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Back to the point of this specific post. This blog began as a way to easily share my travel experiences with my family and friends and whomever else accidentally happened upon this page during their Google search. I would post photos, share stories, cultural events, and everyday life as I lived abroad in various countries. This blog has the few precious photos of my time in Guatemala that I posted before my camera became the property of a thief, breaking my heart into pieces. I also have used Barbers Without Borders to document any other shorter trips I've taken as well as write about everyday life in USA.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">But why do I write now, publicly? This has had my mind going all day... I am living in Denver, I am not taking any exotic trips anytime soon, so why am I so inclined to write, to randomly ramble about whatever the hell is in my head? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I do, definitely, do this first and foremost, for myself. Typing allows things to come out in a way that handwriting does not(and vice versa). I do this to preserve memories. I do this to be goddamned hilarious(haven't you read some of this shit?!). I do this in order to challenge myself creatively. I do this to challenge myself to be committed to something that is 100% good for me, for so few things are. And of those few things, I struggle to remain committed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Writing is something I can do everyday regardless of the weather. Writing is something I can do to express things/stories/situations/feelings that might otherwise become forever lost in the vast expanse of my overactive brain. The internet is a mighty fine storage facility after all. I have nearly 200 posts on this blog and when I return to the years past to read them, I have completely forgotten about a lot of them and am delighted to be reading my own story. First and foremost, for myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The question remains: Do I truly care if no one ever reads this stuff? That is difficult to answer. I am, ultimately, publishing this stuff on the world wide web so some part of me must care if someone reads it. There is something unique in that literally anyone can get at it. They can judge, they can laugh, they can do whatsoever they please with my voluntary vulnerability. Because of this, I have been careful writing mostly fun and silly things. But as of late, I have been more and more bold, truly not caring what others may think of of my overuse of the word fuck. I suppose part of my reason to write publicly is to see just how far I will go, just how free I will allow myself to be, all the while knowing that the internet and its freedom can and does seriously backfire for many people. I have had at least one situation where what I wrote was taken out of context, manipulated and used against me. I won't go back, I will continue to push my own limits, create my own personal writing challenges, see just how far I will go, how deep I will pull from to write something of substance(or not)according to my own standards.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">The right reasons to write don't come down to right or wrong. I have the right to write which in itself makes it right. I write right handed, does that count? </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images2.snapfish.com/232323232%7Ffp53452%3Enu=327:%3E377%3E:97%3EWSNRCG=3238%3C;9243;29nu0mrj" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://images2.snapfish.com/232323232%7Ffp53452%3Enu=327:%3E377%3E:97%3EWSNRCG=3238%3C;9243;29nu0mrj" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My notebook on the sand. Full moon walk, Egyptian Sahara.</td></tr>
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sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-70107886699086611062014-03-17T23:44:00.001-04:002014-03-17T23:44:45.869-04:00St. Fake-holiday.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Having been out of USA for most of the past ten St. Patrick's Days, I didn't realize it was such a big deal to so many douchebags. I mean I had people asking me last Thursday what my St. Patty's plans were. I'm like, "It's next week, and no I don't celebrate fake holidays." Frankly, I don't celebrate most real holidays. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I sort of can't believe that people give a shit about it, at all. </span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">But then again, I realize that it's not St. Patrick that these people care about, it's drinking that they care about. I always chuckle when the general public is like, "But it's an excuse to drink!" To which my response is always, "You're an adult(albeit a pathetic excuse for an adult), why do you need an excuse to drink? If you want to drink, then fucking drink."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The barbershop was SLAMMED tonight. A few of the guys I cut mentioned that they were surprised at how busy we were since it was St. Patrick's Day. Seriously? It's because not <i>everyone's</i> life revolves around drinking holidays(somewhat surprising in beer-soaked Denver), and when you need haircut, you need a haircut, green t-shirt or not. Maybe I'm just getting old and bitter, or maybe in all my time away from USA I am finding myself more and more shocked at how much dumber Americans get by the week. So damn dumb in fact, they believe that they are Irish. Durrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-76757064784197550572014-03-17T03:24:00.001-04:002014-03-17T03:24:33.229-04:00Here we go again.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I just wrote a big post, decided not to publish it and then proceeded to read a bunch of posts I wrote during my 100 day challenge, that turned out to be about 80 days by the time life consumed me and I had to stop for while</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">. I sort of can't believe I wrote all of that stuff and I'm feeling quite inspired to write again, to do another challenge, probably 100 days again. Mostly so that when it ends, no matter how many days it was, that I'll have a bunch of stuff to go back and read. Boom! That was the starting gun. . .</span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-6542810017862636242014-02-26T01:53:00.002-05:002014-02-26T20:49:38.771-05:00Lessons of winter<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">*siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh*</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The lessons of winter:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">1) I fucking hate winter. Still.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">2) Winter fucking hates me. It's mutual.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">3) No matter how much I try to convince myself I don't <i>hate</i> winter(in some foolish attempt to get through it slightly less painfully), I hate winter as much as ever. Probably even more.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">4) As Cassie and God are my witnesses, I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever do a full winter ever, ever, ever, EVER again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">5) 65</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16.1200008392334px;">°F</span><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"> days in January and February are great, until it snows later that same night. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">6) No amount of down filled clothing will make me think winter is okay or survivable.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">7) The <u>only</u> kind of winter I want is the kind they have in Mexico, Bali, Brazil, and Southern California. Hot and sticky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">8) Winter makes me feel like I'm 80 years old with all the aches and pains that suddenly show up when it's below freezing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">9) Snow is beautiful, in the movies.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">10) Winter is what has driven me to travel the world, and for that I am grateful. Sneaky winter! It continues to fuel that ambition. . .</span></div>
sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4577245256128387501.post-80416371649404337192014-02-13T22:37:00.001-05:002014-02-13T22:37:21.472-05:00My day.<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Sucks to be sick today. Today is my special day and I spent it mostly at home trying to feel better. I just watched The Biggest Loser Finale on Hulu and cried over all the inspiring people who have decided to take their lives back by committing to health; overcoming tremendous obstacles, suffering through pain and self doubt, facing demons. Then I remembered that this is my special day and I have arrived here fourteen years later because of my own personal battle, overcoming my own tremendous obstacles, suffering through my own pain and self doubt and facing the biggest demon of my entire life: alcohol.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Fourteen years ago today was the last time I ever drank alcohol. It wasn't a disastrous night like so many that preceded it, in fact it was quite a mellow evening, a few Red Bull and vodkas at a a neighbors party. I had even stopped drinking for about a month prior to that night(because of a disastrous, blacked out night), but for some reason thought I could "treat myself". The next day, February 14 is the first time I met Dr. Carpenter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was first told I was an alcoholic by a psychiatrist when I had been checked into a psych ward after an awful night in detox followed by a suicide threat and accompanying ride to the ER for what everyone thought was an attempted overdose. I never swallowed one pill that day, but nobody believed that and I was checked into the hospital. Things were very ugly for me, beyond ugly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Upon hearing the words, "You are an alcoholic", I didn't really know what to think. I did not grow up in a family where alcohol was present and I did not know what "normal" drinking was, therefore I did not know that what I was doing was not normal. I had only ever been told that drinking was wrong and that we don't do it. Period. Not really helpful advice for a strong-willed, rebellious teenager with her own agenda. I thought I just liked to get drunk, not coming close to realizing my behavior and alcohol consumption was abusive. I was 17 years old.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I spent some time in an outpatient rehab after my week in the hospital and managed to stay off the alcohol for almost a year. I decided at some point in my then 18 years of maturity that I could start drinking again. It only took a year and a half before the downward spiral hit bottom and I was forced to face the fire and decide between life or alcohol. It was some legal trouble I got into while living in Vail, Colorado that forced me to admit once and for all that I have a devastating problem with alcohol and that it was going to continue to destroy my life. Sitting in front of the judge, he told me I was going to go to jail for 30 days for what I had done...unless, I got help for my alcoholism. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I had contacted a few other resources and done an alcohol evaluation with some stupid government agency and was sorely disappointed, knowing that none of these would be the help I needed. I then just opened the phone book and started calling psychologists. I did not want to see a psychiatrist because I knew they would just put me on medication. I called a few different psychologist offices and was told the wait was anywhere from four weeks to three months to get an appointment. Knowing I needed to return to the court within two weeks with something to convince the judge that I was going to get better was pressing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I called one doctor's office and the voice of the doctor on the voice mailbox sounded strange and daunting, and I hung up. But after calling the others and realizing that there was nowhere else to turn, I called Dr. Carpenter back and left a message. He returned my call, and as we briefly discussed my needs he told me he could see me next Monday, Feburary 14. I was thrilled to be able to see someone in time to go back to the court. Dr. Carpenter then mentioned that, "Sarah, I'm old, I'm really old. And I'm blind".</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The night before my first appointment with Dr. Carpenter was the last time I ever drank. At that point, I was "just on a break" thinking that I would drink again on my 21st birthday, coming up a few months from then. As I met and sat with this old blind man for the very first time, we cut right to the chase and began discussing my alcoholism, my legal troubles, and my desperate need for help. Dr. Carpenter asked me when the last time I drank was and I told him, "Last night". He then said something so simple and so clear to me and I'll never forget it as long as I live. He said to me, "You can't do that". At that moment I knew that he knew. And I also knew that he was right. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dr. Carpenter was my soft place to land for that first fragile year of my sobriety and I don't know if I would have made it without him. I was there every Monday. The fact that he never saw my face, only listened to my voice, made for a special relationship. He retired on my one year anniversary, and we both knew that I would be able to stand on my own two feet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">There has been no decision with more profound impacts on my life than that of my decision to quit alcohol. I know with all my being that I would be dead or in jail long ago if I had continued down that path. I am so grateful for everything in my life that happened to lead me to sit me in that chair, that day, in that office with that old blind man. It was my destiny. I have my life today as a direct result of quitting alcohol and remaining committed to that decision every day that I live. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I never lose sight of the fact that my life is what it is, and I have done the extraordinary things I have done because I am not a slave to alcohol. When I see people suffering on the streets, alcoholics at their rock bottom, I thank the universe because I know that could very easily be me. Don't think so? Then you never saw me drink. It was a short and very fucking ugly two and a half years I drank, but it was enough to know, and I have no desire to find out again if I can "drink normally". I know that, contrary to what so many think, that I am not missing out on anything by not drinking at parties or bars or weddings. In fact, I know I have a lot more in my life <i>because</i> I do not drink. In fact I find it hilarious that people are so blown away when I tell them I don't drink, ever. Not even one. There is no such thing as one drink for me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Every day on this year, I reflect on the turning point that it was for me. This year celebrates fourteen years. Fourteen years! It's nearly half my life, but it is also my entire life because my life truly began the day I put alcohol down for the last time. I was chatting with a friend a few weeks ago and we discussed my upcoming anniversary. I told her that this would be one of the first years in a while that I was going to spend my anniversary in the United States. I then realized I have spent my anniversary in Egypt, Mexico, Guatemala, Colombia, Japan, and Argentina. C'mon now! Six out of my fourteen anniversaries have been spent in other countries. As if that would be possible for me to have gone all those places drunk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I am eternally grateful for the awareness and support made available to me as I came to accept my destiny as an alcoholic and the strength to get and stay sober all of these years. Being an alcoholic is one of the greatest blessings of my life. I have learned more and gained more by overcoming alcoholism than any other thing I've lived with and it has given me gifts beyond imagination. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">So just like those inspiring fat fatties on The Biggest Loser that I was looking up to today, I realized that I deserve my own special pat on the back and my own personal celebration for my own commitment to life, when I took the first step towards it and away from the fire, fourteen years ago today. Congratulations Sarah, you are an inspiration to so many.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"> </span>sarah the barberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07974113253995562380noreply@blogger.com2