Posts filed under ‘TMI’

Work-Related Observations & Sightings


I’m going to ignore internet sociopaths from these past couple of days and return to form, talking about real life sociopaths instead.
A co-worker asking me where “da O’s are at.” We’ve been instructed to be encouraging and helpful. How do you encourage a bag of rocks? Any ideas?

Thin, weird, middle-aged smelly man pushing his belongings in a baby stroller, conducts imaginary symphonies while listening to headphones.

The Mall Walker, older gentleman who follows my co-worker around the store, bending her ear about anything and everything can’t take a hint.

The homeless and otherwise marginal customers seem to enjoy my new hairdo the most. One of them, we’ll call Mr Saturday Nite, or Rain Man. He listens to every set of headphones in the store and will yell, stomp and curse profusely when one of them is not working properly. No matter what he’s listening to, he sings along with Native American raindance chants. He usually looks right through me, which is the response I prefer. But the other night, he looked right at me and smiled, “Ohhh your hair is blond now!” I was afraid if I stared back too long I’d be turned into a Pillar of Crazy.

Velvet Underground’s “Sunday Morning” still makes me sad for some reason. The same kind of sad as Duran Duran’s “Save A Prayer for the Morning After” or The Left Banke’s “Walk Away Renee.” A different kind of sad from Eurythmics’ “Here Comes The Rain Again.” That’s got a specific memory.
Haven’t wished any one who writes or edits for a living to be without a job except for Andy Pemberton. He made Spin look like the retarded child of Blender and Vice. On his editor’s letter alone, he deserved to be smacked upside the head repeatedly. I like seeing new writers and new points of view but when these things are new and bad, I have to wonder if he just called everyone in his cell phone and said, “hey, wanna put out a magazine?” Especially the chick who did the two-page map of Philadelphia, coining it the next Williamsburg and never seemed to leave Old City. And can all magazines please put a moratorium on the floaty, disembodied head graphics?

Good riddance. The question is, can it get worse, and the scary thing is that the answer just might be yes.

Excuse the disjointedness of this post. I haven’t had a full night of sleep in about a week. And then last night, Andy the Boyfriend woke me up at 2:30 in the morning because he was locked out of his house and couldn’t wake his roomie so he called to crash here. I couldn’t be mad because of course he’d do the same for me, and much more. Of course, after the last week of July, we won’t have to worry about these sorts of things anymore.

June 2, 2006 at 6:37 pm Leave a comment

Moving Along…

Saw my Aunt A tonight, who was visiting the area from Oregon. The last time I saw her was at my stepsister’s wedding a couple of years ago. She’s my father’s baby sister, speaks fluent Spanish, is whipsmart and doesn’t suffer fools gladly — at least not since she divorced my abusive uncle over a decade ago. Even before he came on the scene, that side of my family has a heavy history, subject of another blog post. The summer my parents’ marriage was falling apart, my little sister and I stayed with my Aunt A and cousins in Virginia where we swam, saw Grease for the first time (where I won a Frankie Valli 45), and played Barbie divorce (much to the dismay of my uncle).
My Aunt A and my cousins have been through a lot. A has a lot of health problems but married a sweet patient husband the second time around. My cousin B is living in Tucson and suffers from an eating disorder and paranoid schizophrenia brought on by a messy childhood and a traumatic assault from a couple of years ago. When I last saw B (few months younger than me) it was at another cousin’s wedding about five years ago and we hit it off, vowed to keep in touch and never did. My aunt says that B still cherishes that time. I want to contact her but don’t know what I can do to help since she can’t function very well these days. It’s really sad. D (a couple years younger than me) married and divorced a creep and got a beautiful kid and runs pilates classes, heading off the roundness that happens to women’s bodies on that side of the family. S, the youngest one, does special effects for big studios in L.A. and has won at least one Oscar. My uncle told him he would never amount to anything and still doesn’t acknowledge his success.

My Aunt A looked so happy and healthy tonight. I snapped a picture of her smiling on Moyamensing Street, right down the block from Cafe Valentino. It was the best picture ever.

June 1, 2006 at 12:35 am Leave a comment

Cuz I’m A Blonde

It’s official. I went to Twist and dyed my hair blonde today. Amy has been thinking about my haircut and color for the past two months. I love going to Twist because it’s like being in a big rock n roll sister’s bedroom. Walls painted silver, posters of the Stones, Bowie, T. Rex, and then little pics from music mags of Gwen and Courtney and Brody. Like a sister, Amy and I gossip about our lives, mainly about our dreams and loves and disappointments and of course, hair. We never hang out much, other than the few times I’ve booked her band, but we talk like old best friends or sisters when she does my hair.

So anyway, two monhs ago, I showed her pics of Sienna Miller’s new Edie Sedgwick-inspired ‘do and I wondered if I can do it, and she said “yes!” So today we spent about three hours, two processes, two conditions, getting my hair blonde. Other people’s have taken even longer, people with longer hair mostly. Short hair is easy to fuck with.

So tonight I went to a pirate birthday party and everyone ooh and ah’d. At home before I went out, I tried to take a picture of myself but I have not mastered the art of myspace digital camera girl self portrait yet and my nose looks huge. Tried to get Ricky to take my picture tonight with the fake swords that make a register cha-ching noise and he took a close up of my tits instead. It is hearwarming to know that gay men love tits.

More links and pics later, tired and drunk.

May 27, 2006 at 12:37 am 3 comments

I Say A Little Prayer

…Not that I believe in praying, but something like that.

My grandmother, who moved out to the West Coast with my uncle and his family was hospitalized this week for pneumonia, which is not ideal for a 90-year-old woman. She smoked for about 80 of those 90 years and this is the first major hospitalization or real illness that I’m aware of. I called her when I got home from work, but because I was on a cellphone and she has a hearing aid, she didn’t hear me so well. It was kind of like talking to Lil Jon, only 90 year-old Canadian Jewish lady style. And it took me about half the conversation to tell her that I was Sara the Granddaughter and not Sara my cousin’s wife.


Her voice sounded strong and healthy, always on the verge of getting something done or expressing a strong opinion. She’s not my biological grandmother. She adopted my father, aunt and uncle when they were ten and under because it was the 50s and my biological grandparents were getting divorced, and it was all very scandalous for 1950s Allentown. She’s always been sharp as a tack, thin as a rail, the kind of person you would describe as having moxie. And she’s a natural redhead to boot. So I’ve adopted her DNA as my own and it will live on in me when she’s gone. Even though I’m in denial about the strong possibility of her passing, I feel like she’ll outlive us all.

January 7, 2006 at 6:48 pm Leave a comment

Career Asshole


About once every couple of weeks, I still have dreams about him. They usually occur right before I wake up and he does something deeply disturbing and symbolic. We were both living in a dorm but I never really saw him. Outside his room, he posted a two page letter. It was a personal letter to a friend, so if you started reading it, you felt like a snoop, and yet here it was hanging in a hallway. So of course I read it, like Alice eating the cookie. It mentioned me briefly in a dismissive way without elaboration, in a fragment that said, “like for example, Sara Sherr, the career asshole.”

I walked into his room. The door was unlocked. He was in the bathroom with the door open. I called out his name, and asked him what a career asshole was. He answered with a door slam. He didn’t reappear again. The next thing I know, I’m trying to catch him before he leaves on a train to Boston but I just missed it. Then I was trying to get a train back to Philadelphia and I kept missing them. The soothing tones of the NPR report on my clock radio woke me up and calmed my nerves. Even if they’re talking about death and destruction, the announcers voices are so pleasant.

Last week, I dreamt that he called off an interview I had with Jonathan Richman, which I would never set up in real life, because it would just be two people saying “goo goo ga ga” at each other. I never saw him or Richman, the messenger in that dream was my little sister (the dietician with the cute twin babies). She knows nothing of this part of my life and yet she was the sage dispensing wisdom the way she explains carbs and calories in my waking hours. The dream was so boring. It consisted of me wondering what he said to Jonathan Richman to make him cancel the interview.

Usually my dreams are like vivid movies about people I have never seen before with things I never see everyday like volcanos and spaceships and mountains and shit.

When I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I wished that the machine was real. Did anyone else share that demented thought?

Sorry to return to this tiresome topic. I’m trying not to let my blogging slip so I’m gonna write down anything and everything as often as I can.

November 22, 2005 at 9:32 am 1 comment



One of my readers has requested that I return to talking about my boring life again. “You can’t abandon us,” he said. Well, even if us equals one reader, then Raised By Bees is here to please.

Okay, remember the time that Plain Parade got offered someone’s record collection for admittance into a show? Well now a nice young man on myspace is offering to give us rim jobs. We never expected anyone to kiss our ass, much less lick it. Not even bands.

Mind you, he sent this message to the Plain Parade account, not my account, where the pervy requests usually turn up:

I’m in Philly… I found your profile edgy and interesting… have a look at my profile and lemme know if you’re interested in a sexual hook-up (I give the best rim-jobs)… Peace.

The Buttman is a 32-year-old from our fair city, who thinks it’s funny to insert the word “cock” into Bush’s speeches. He didn’t seem to grasp that he was not writing to that kind of business (though we’d probably make more money), and, we don’t even have our photo on the main page. It’s a pic of the aforementioned April bartering letter. Perhaps it was the “swinger” and “bi” choices in our profile? In any event, it was the only time I’ve seen the words “rim job” and “peace” used in the same place.

In the meantime, all I got in my inbox was a friend request from a 37-year-old woman from Florida who writes poetry to her cats.

As a result of this post, I’m sure my spam will get more interesting.

September 8, 2005 at 9:36 pm 10 comments

Being Boring

I came across a cache of old photos
and invitations to teenage parties.
“Dress in white,” one said with quotations
from someone’s wife, a famous writer
in the nineteen-twenties.

When you’re young you find inspiration
in anyone who’s ever gone
and opened up a closing door.
She said we were never feeling bored.

‘Cause we were never being boring,
we had too much time to find for ourselves.
And we were never being boring,
we dressed up and fought, then thought “make amends.”
And we were never holding back, or worried that
time would come to an end.

When I went, I left from the station
with a haversack and some trepidation.
Someone said “If you’re not careful,
you’ll have nothing left and nothing to care for
in the nineteen-seventies.”

But I sat back, and looking forward,
my shoes were high, and I had scored.
I’d bolted through a closing door,
and I would never find myself feeling bored.

‘Cause we were never being boring,
we had too much time to find for ourselves.
And we were never being boring,
we dressed up and fought, then thought “make amends.”
And we were never holding back, or worried that
time would come to an end.
We were always hoping that, looking back
you could always rely on a friend.

Now I sit with different faces
in rented rooms and foreign places.
All the people I was kissing,
some are here and some are missing
in the nineteen-nineties.

I never dreamt that I would get to be
the creature that I always meant to be.
But I thought, in spite of dreams,
you’d be sitting somewhere here with me.

‘Cause we were never being boring,
we had too much time to find for ourselves.
And we were never being boring,
we dressed up and fought, then thought “make amends.”
And we were never holding back, or worried that
time would come to an end.
We were always hoping that, looking back
you could always rely on a friend.

‘Cause we were never being boring,
we had too much time to find for ourselves.
And we were never being boring,
we dressed up and fought, then thought “make amends.”
And we were never being boring,
we were never being bored,
‘cause we were never being boring,
we were never being bored.

August 1, 2005 at 2:30 pm 1 comment


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