Of Tuesday Tunes – The Butts Remix by Home Free

YASSSS!!!!!!!

My song of the week is The Butts Remix by Home Free.

Home Free is a wonderful, and adorable, country a capella group that’s not afraid to be a little bit silly.

I went to their concert a few weeks ago and just before the intermission Tim, the bass vocalist, said something along the lines of, “Earlier we sang All About That Bass, but just in case you don’t believe that Home Free celebrates curves – here’s a whole medley about butts.” Naturally the crowd went wild!

And it was so delightful, I was laughing the entire time. So when I got home I tried to find decent videos on YouTube, but it was impossible. Camera phone speakers cannot due the a capella group justice.

So when I saw that they made a music video of the medley I was downright giddy and watched it immediately.

It was everything I wanted it to be ūüôā

Favorite Lyric: When Rob raps to Sir Mix-a-Lot, it’s magical.

Of Childhood Songs

The Little Rascals

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I was sitting at work when a song entitled, The Little Green Frog, popped into my head. I sang it while shuffling papers and sitting at the computer. I hummed it while walking near the patients and doctors. The song was on a perpetual loop in my brain when I suddenly thought, “This song is barbaric.”

It’s no mystery that a lot of traditional children’s songs have a depressing or messed up back story, Ring Around the Rosy being the prime example.¬†And yet, they keep getting passed down generation to generation.

I learned The Little Green Frog back in Girl Scouts, it has motions and everything:

Mm, mm, went the little green frog one day,

Mm, mm, went the little green frog,

Mm, mm, went the little green frog one day,

And his eyes went mm, mm, too.

Honk, honk, went the big red truck one day,

Squish, squish, went the little green frog.

Now his eyes don’t go mm, mm, anymore,

Cause he got eaten up by a dog, arf, arf.

Our troop sang this song at meetings, day camps, car rides, and most importantly – on stage. Imagine a bunch of 6-year-old’s singing a song about the gruesome death of a frog for their parents and grandparents. Either the adults didn’t really pay attention to the lyrics, most likely because of our¬†blinding¬†cuteness. Or, they laughed and didn’t care.

Upon the realization of the morbidness of the frog song, I immediately paused to think, “What other awful message have I sung for years?” Quickly I thought of, The Canoe Song – this song also has hand gestures. Let’s be real, they ALL have hand gestures.

This song is deceptive, it gives the illusion of girl power, but¬†I think it’s a little rapey. I can’t help but throw in some commentary:

There was a boy and a girl in a little canoe with the moon shining all around,
Aw, romantic!

He paddled his paddle so that you couldn’t even hear a sound,
Why did he need to be so quiet? Did they steal the boat? Was it her parents boat? Were they somewhere they shouldn’t have been?

And they talked and the talked till the moon grew dim,
All night!

He said you better kiss me or get out and swim,
If she hasn’t kissed you by now, you’re friendzoned. You’ve literally been on a romantic boat trip from dusk to dawn. It’s not gonna happen buddy – sorry.

Well what you gonna do in a little canoe, 

With the moon shining all a,

Boat going all a,

Girl swimming all around.
Something serious must have gone down for her to be swimming in the water. A simple conversation wouldn’t suffice? Are they¬†all talked out? Did he get aggressive?

As a child, we would yell, “Kersplash! Oh yeah! Smart girl!” But looking at the lyrics, I’m convinced that the girl said no and the boy didn’t take no for an answer. So either A: he pushed her into the lake cause he’s a jerk of a manchild, or B: her choices were swim, or get raped, and she chose to swim. So yeah, I guess chanting smart girl is in order. However, he’s in a boat. She’s in the middle of what I assume is a lake. There’s no way she can outrun him for long.

This screams horror movie.

 

 

Of The Talk I Talk

World Cup

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Apparently I have an accent. Well, technically everybody has an accent, but evidently I do not sound like my native tongue. At least, periodically I don’t.

I cannot count the number of times I’ve been asked:

  • “Where are you from originally?”
  • “Excuse me, I just have to ask, what’s your accent?”
  • “You’re not from here are you?”
  • “Are you from the East Coast?”
  • “Are you from Canada?”
  • “Are you from (insert random state here)?”
  • Or my personal favorite (please read with a gangster vocal inflection to get the true effect), “Hey, where you from?!”

And every time my answer is a very simple:

  • “I’m from here.”

At which point, they give me a look of pure shock with a touch of skepticism. I’ve gotten quite skillful at handling strangers confusion by giving an elevator speech about how my entire family is from Minnesota and I go to Canada often – so I have fun hybrid accent.

All of which is true, however, most my family has lost their accent with the exception of their O’s since they moved to the Pacific Northwest. And I slip in and out of the Canadian accent depending on how tired/excited I am and how many O’s are in the words I am trying to speak. So basically, it’s my O’s that give me away. And while geographic location may influence my accent, it’s not what I attribute my apparent unique speech to.

Cause you see, my oldest brother also gets asked where he’s from all the time, but no one else in the family does. And the only thing that would connect us in a different way than the rest of the family, is that we both went on a mission trip with Teen Missions International (TMI – mission trip, abbreviated to TMI? There’s a childish joke in there somewhere) when we were each fifteen.

TMI sends out hundreds of young teenagers every summer to spread the word of Jesus, build buildings that probably aren’t structurally sound, and have something nice to put on their resume. These teenagers come from all over North America and are sent around the world. So for a solid three months I was surrounded by roughly six different accents. Naturally, the way I spoke began to shift, and the same can be said for my brother.

So that’s why I talk different – apparently.

I think I sound just as Washingtonian as everyone else around here, well, until I suddenly sound Canadian.

Of Getting Lost in BC

Going on an adventure

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My friends and I have a tendency to get lost in Canada. A lot.

Since we all live in the States, unless we have access to wi-fi, we must revert back to the pre-cellular device days and thus are required to look for familiar landmarks, ask for directions, or try to read a map with very tiny print. Inevitably, the simplest directions somehow get clouded in an array of one-way streets, signs that we swear can only be read if you’re driving in a certain direction, and the frustrating inability to phone a friend.

But we love it.

Or, at least I do.

Nothing, and I stress nothing, is more satisfying than finally reaching your destination after hours of wrong turns. In fact, that moment when you first step out of the car is guaranteed to be the highlight of your evening. From that point on, you are floating on  a champagne filled cloud in the sky, it would take some serious what-the-fuckery to bring your buzz down.

It’s gotten to a point, where I actually kinda/sorta know where I am. Not because I’m familiar with the streets, but because I’ve been lost there so many times before. Which means that while I am not certain of where we should go, I do know which way not to go. And that my friends, is baby-steps.

The truth is, what little shame I may have, is completely gone once I get lost. And then, when I get some much needed directions, I’ll still find a way to get confused and make a wrong turn. It’s almost a guarantee.

Here’s just a sample platter of actual things I’ve done when completely at a loss for where I was:

  • Made reckless turns because in the distance I thought I saw the correct road sign.
  • Struggled to get information from a clerk who had never heard of where I was trying to go, which was the border. In the end, they gave me a blank stare and I had to ask a guy in the parking lot.
  • Stopped in the middle of an intersection and asked the flagger for a detour when they closed down the street that I desperately needed.
  • Yelled at some bros partying on a balcony.
  • Chased down a mini-van and knocked on the passenger window – the poor lady nearly had a heart attack.
  • Blocked a semi-truck with my car, hopped out, stood on the edge of the truck, and proceeded to ask the one toothed man, “Excuse me, how do I get to America?”

 

Of Storytime With Sarah

Flight of the Conchords

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There’s this thing that happens to me, a lot. Where people decide to tell me their entire life story upon exchanging initial hello’s. This fact has made the socially awkward humans latch onto me with remarkable skill.

For the most part, it’s fairly easy to evade the people who decide that now is the best possible time to tell me all about how they don’t have air conditioning in their truck and their pants are wet because they just went through a car wash (yeah … a car wash). But hey, the truck was free so maybe the heat’s not the end of the world. That swell story was told to me by a lady standing behind me at Rite Aid.

But when I’m in the work environment, there is no escape from these people (mostly men). I have to stand there and listen until work gets too busy to talk, or I get called away by another employee.

And while I’m certain that these stories were told to me with absolute confidence that I would hold my tongue, the reality is that I don’t know¬†any¬†of their names, so it’s about time these stories were published online where they can never be destroyed:

  • There was the guy who was in the midst of whining about how late women always are. And then decided that I’m obviously the world’s biggest sports fan. Proceeded to lift up his calf, roll up his pants, and show me his tattoo of the Yankee’s logo – which matched his hat.
  • There was the drunk guy who really wanted my phone number. Even though I said no, he chucked his phone at me. When I picked it up, I saw his calendar and said, “Man, I can’t give my phone number to someone who hands me their calendar screen!” He of course clumsily tried to fix it. “Nah man,” I said, “it’s too late.” He was drug away by his friend’s as he cried out my name until I was out of eyesight.
  • There’s a bunch of mother’s who decide that their rules are superior to the rules of the theater, so we should let their underage teenagers into a rated R movie. It’s pretty simple people. If you’re at least 17 – bring your id, or bring someone who’s 21 and over to sit and watch the damn movie with you. It’s not my fault you forgot your id, but I do enjoy watching you freak out about it and leave in a huff.
  • There was the guy who told me all about how he’s a Christian now and doesn’t want to hear any swearing.
  • There’s the nerdy high school boys who thought that my hair look like Princess Leia’s. I of course corrected them, because I did not have two buns on the side of my head. So they clarified that in that one scene, where she’s taken by Darth Vader on her own ship, she didn’t have her hair in the classic two buns.¬†And¬†that mine resembled it significantly.
  • There’s the lady who told me all about how she used to be a mistress to a married guy.
  • There’s this guy that frequently comes to watch children movies with coupons. Part way through the transaction he always says, “If I had my choice I’d watch something with lots of action in it.” – Even though those passes¬†technically¬†reflect only a dollar amount and could be used for a¬†different¬†movie than it’s promoting.
  • There was the guy who insisted that, “the difference between men who like men and men who like women is that men who like men don’t understand that men and women are different.”
  • There’s the little old lady who came to see Magic Mike and said, “I’m only watching it because I really like the soundtrack.”

Of Balloon Madness

Balloon Fighting

My friends Lainie and Jackie decked out in balloons.

We could be going to the bars. Instead we stay home playing with balloon animals, hats, flowers, and swords. Why? Because we’re awesome! And because my friends just learned about my secret talent. I know how to make balloon creations.

So what do I do when my best friends are in Vegas and I’m not? I go into their apartment, set up an Easter egg hunt, and decorate with balloons. Clearly I need more friends.

I wasn’t aware they didn’t know. When I attended the Lord’s Boot Camp (a two-week training period for the evangelical and handyman-esque skills teens may need on the mission field) I had the choice of wire laying or balloon making – I chose balloon making – twice. Course, two days ago marks the first time I’ve gotten bendy with balloons since I was seventeen. I think I did a damn good job.

Me With Balloons

The first balloon hat I ever made – and a flower.

This evening, rather than venturing outside and mingling with friends, acquaintances, and strangers in the way that young adults are supposed to behave. We stayed home and made MORE balloon creations. Lainie made a swan. Jackie made a flower that looked like a deformed-exploding-penis. And I made random things and a much better parrot than Jackie did – though she tried to claim that she was going for a vulture after both creations were complete.

Eventually this happened:

Then this happened:

Just because we’re all in our twenties doesn’t mean that we can enjoy some good ole’ fashion balloon fighting fun.

Of Childhood Journal’s

Dear Diary

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The longer I reside in my childhood room, the more I realize what a vastly different person I was growing up. On the walls there’s photos of mission trips, a¬†porcelain¬†doll angel that¬†literally watches over¬†me while I sleep, a poster of a giraffe, and joy products. Oh the joy! Since my middle name is Joy every Christmas, I¬†receive¬†a slew of joy products. I have joy building blocks, moose antlers, ornaments, stamps, even a flag. Playing “Count the Joy” in my room is like saying, “I spy something red,” when you’re standing in a white room with only one rose laying on a white table – it’s super easy.

But my favorite discovery of my old room, is in the bottom drawer next to my bed. For in that drawer are at least ten partially filled out journals. I was never good at maintaining journals, but I always liked the idea of keeping a journal. Even before I could write myself, I would tell my mom what to write down for the day. As I read through page after page of my horrible hand writing, which hasn’t changed since I was sixteen, I could only think how the person who filled these pages would hate who she later became.

That girl was heading towards a life of purity: Christian husband, wanted to save her first kiss for her wedding day, longed to serve the Lord, struggled with even the slightest hint of temptation, was heavily repressed, sheltered, and didn’t actually start to experience anything for herself until college. If she found out ahead of time that she would slowly discover a world outside faith, swear, drink, realize she’s a lesbian, and lie to her family from the age of nineteen and up – she probably would have become the Christian¬†equivalent¬†of a nun. Looking back I see hints of where I was headed. Little moments, that at the time were either a huge scandal or a mere recording of what happened that day, ultimately led to where I am now.

I’m going to do something I normally would never do, share my journal. So here are a few of my favorite excerpts from past Sarah’s life:

Hello, my name’s Sarah and in case you were wondering, I’m awesome.

11-16-2000

I better introduce myself, my name is Sarah Joy Luna. I am eleven (11 yrs) old and in the 6th grade. I was born on March 8th 1989. Today was my conference, every year I’m always told “Sarah’s such a wonderful student.”

The Tale of the Girl Who Lost Her Panties!

1-17-2001

Today will probably be one of the most embarrassing days of my life. Today I was at Adventure Club. And well we were cleaning up and someone said here’s someone’s lost their¬†underwear. I go over to look and¬†realize¬†it’s mine! It must have been stuffed somewhere in my pants. I have dance before church so when I was changing in the van I choose to wear my leotard instead of underwear. The underwear fell out at church! In the classroom! I lucked out though someone said, “If we throw it away the little kid who lost it won’t know.”

I offered to throw it away, I picked it up, acted like it was sick to touch it. Ran up to the library. While pacing I was wondering what to do. Should I hide it in here? Someone might find it. Keep it in my pocket? They might see it. Try to get in the van? Probably locked.

Then my mom came. I told her what happened. We both couldn’t stop laughing. She gave me the car keys. I put the underwear in the van. And that was the end of that.

I’m a woman.

11-24-2002

I started my period today and I decorated Christina’s house with lights, next we’re gonna do my house. Bye.

When on my mission trip to Zambia, I was a creepy teenager.

8-5-2004

I watched Bill and Mwewa kill 2 pigs today. At first it was horrifying but then it was cool. The first pig wouldn’t die though, it squealed so loud for a couple minutes while Bill was mercilessly hacking at the¬†piggy’s¬†throat. I got a few pictures.

I might have been a bitch – but at least I was a nice bitch.

3-1-2005

On the way home me and Jessica took Jolene’s shoe, only one, and only gave it back when we went to eat. But then when we got back, we took her shoe again and I didn’t give it back, but hide it in the bushes, however I wanted to be nice so I made it obvious where it was in the bush.

First sign of gay, too bad I wouldn’t figure it out for another six years.

4-21-2005

Oh my goodness or gosh as I usually say, I cannot believe what I did during English ….(It’s an improve thing) Let me just say, we didn’t get to pick our partners. While waiting for my turn I was planning my first line which was, “do you think I’m sexy?” then I was planning what to do if the person said no. Well Kristin was in the middle and she said YES! So, I’m thinking, “oh great,” so I walk in a circle around her, very slowly and say, “good cause if you said no I would have to hurt you.”

Then I sat down fast and all sexy-like and looked at her. I could tell she was totally freaked. I said something that I can’t remember, followed by asking her what she was afraid of, she said she was scared of me, so I said, “why … I’m friendly” while semi-stroking her arm (the motion of it. But not actually touching her). Immediately after I said that the teacher called switch. I thought it was funny because during it Sheridan said, “she’s like the Christian girl.” And at the end Sara said, “I wanted to see where it was going.”

Funky romance? What gross imagery – I’m picturing chunky love, ew.

12-10-2005

Man do I suck at ice-skating! But hey, Jessy’s the one who fell not me. Something about ice-skating feels romantic, I don’t know what it is, but cold, ice and blades make me feel funky.

First kiss innocence

2-26-2006

I don’t think he’s worthy of my first kiss … You know how having sex out of marriage is called out of wed-lock. Well, I don’t know the term for just kissing and that kind of stuff, but I don’t want it out of relationship-lock.

Puppets and Jesus

7-10-2006

And when we started to practice the puppet songs, they were all acting so stupid and I just realized how dumb all this was. So I let myself get consumed with¬†sadness. During my 5 minute shower I realized that I wasn’t doing anything for the Lord but just sitting in classes.

What Would Jesus Do?

9-23-2008

Disastrous thoughts are worthy of murder on the soul. The reality is I can’t sleep. Because almost every night Satan likes to put tortuous thoughts in my mind. … WWJD? Well I know one thing, Jesus never did anything that made him question His character.

It’s almost sexy time.

11-16-2009

The no kissing, totally out the window, there’s a good chance sex is in my near¬†future¬†as well.

Birth of a liar.

1-22-10

I tried for a long time to be Christian. I envied the faith of my family and some of my peers at Houghton. And I hate that I can’t come clean to my parents and just be me.

This will always be true. 

2-16-2010

Note: I hate squeaky shoes on children.

Of Wanting a Pirate Chick, Literally

Little gives me greater pleasure than diving into the literal, especially in realms where a literal interpretation is not appreciated. Take for instance music. I love lyrics, especially hip-hop, not for reasons of their quality but rather how completely absurd they are. In real life if a person walked up to a girl and said her body is crazy and they will tear it up tonight after she goes down on them Рthey would get slapped across the face and severely pummeled in the lower regions. Not in hip-hop land.

I’ll give you my (current) favorite example.

Remember the song, U and Dat by E-40 that came out awhile ago? If the answer is no, I assume it’s because you saw how the rapper spelled You and That incorrectly and decided it was best not to waste your time. If the answer is yes, did you listen to the lyrics?

E-40’s desires are simple, he wants the girl. It’s a sweet concept in theory, dark nightclub, sexy and sweaty dancing, inevitable lovemaking with a stranger, followed by a convenient “loss” of phone number – the grand ole one night stand.

What’s most interesting is what he notices about the girl, I’ll paraphrase:¬†just want to get to you and that booty, to you and that monkey …. what you gonna do with this pussy?¬†I think the reason for his attraction is quite obvious. It’s not that she’s behaving in a trashy manner wearing little to no clothing, or even that he expects to hook up with her tonight – the girl is clearly a pirate.

She’s got booty, probably a large pirates chest overflowing with gold coins, a pet monkey, and a cat not-so-cleverly named Pussy as a sidekick that she turns to for guidance. Hell, how could you not want to get to know her? So many questions would come to mind when seeing her: how did she become a pirate in the first place, where do you find a pet monkey, and wouldn’t it be more efficient to deposit her booty in a bank rather than lug around a hug chest of treasure?

I know if I were E-40 I would do everything I could to say hello and pet the monkey, maybe even feed it a banana. Plus there’s the reality of treasure, just a handful of coins could wipe away significant debt and buy me an awesome ship. A pirate chick would no doubt capture and hold my attention for quite sometime. I too would want to get to that monkey.

Unfortunately in the music video they went the slutty route as opposed to the pirate interpretation. But I stand by what I said, the girl is a pirate. Yarrr matey.

Of Staring at Death

Pac Man Graveyard

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I sit with an IV in my arm looking at death. Behind my peppy friend, across the parking lot, and over the fence resides a graveyard. A huge graveyard that goes on for miles. The irony strikes me as funny, diseased people looking at their future (well, everyone’s inevitable future), but still it’s amusing.

Nurses joke, they say, “Oh we just think of it as a park,” they try so hard to pretend their view isn’t bizarre (for a hospital suite) that I applaud their efforts.

I reply, “Oh no, it’s a graveyard. Definitely not a park. There’s no getting around that. Just accept it and move on.”

Then I start giggling, which makes the nurses uncomfortable, apparently most people don’t find these tombstones amusing. I don’t see how they can’t, especially considering that rolling hills of dead people is what was chosen as their splendid view for the next three hours.

We find it funny, my father and I. A big ‘luxurious’ suite filled with snacks and entertainment with all the patient chairs pointing at death. Makes it easy to transport I suppose, you know, when someone kicks it. That’s a grim statement, I apologize. Still, I find it amusing, I can’t help myself. Overall the atmosphere of the infusion suite is pleasant, except for the one flighty nurse that I would never let poke me with a needle.

We play cards, laugh, tell stories, drink orange juice, and stare at death till it’s time to go home.

Of Dead Batteries

Girl Waiting By Car

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There’s been a recent development in my life where I go out to my car and yet again the battery is dead. Why? Because I forget to turn my lights off, a lot. Now I would argue that this is not entirely my fault – the beepy thing is broken. By beeping thing I mean the annoying high-pitched reminder that my lights are still on, a service I hadn’t realized that I relied so heavily upon till my string of dead batteries began.

The silly thing is that I don’t have my own cables, I always have to borrow from someone else.

Here’s my tally over the course of roughly four months:

  • Work: 5 times
  • School: 2 times
  • Parentals: 1 time

Nothing is more depressing than getting off an eight-hour shift at 12:30AM and coming out to a car that won’t start. First I’m struck with denial,¬†no not again, start, staaaaarrrrrt!¬†turning the ignition a few times before I rest my head on the steering wheel. Next I’ll call whoever I know that is either getting off with me or still inside the building (usually either Bryce or Jolene).

Friend: Hello?

Me: Hey, boo!

Friend: What’s up?

Me: So, I kinda left my lights on?

Friend: Again?

Me: Yeah. Could you come help me?

Friend: You gotta stop doing that!

Me: I know!

Friend: Aiight, be out soon.

Me: *Waiting for assistance, the pointless security guard shows up*

Security: What’s going on here?

Me: Oh my car battery is dead.

Security: Do you have help coming?

Me: Yup

Security: *Nods and stares at me*

Friend: *Exiting theater*

Me: There they are. *Pointing dramatically*

Security: Okay, have a good night. *Slowly drives away*

Me: You too.

Friend: Which side of the engine is your battery on?

Me: I don’t know, it’s inside the hood.

Then they’ll ¬†hook my car up with their cables since I honestly still don’t know how to do it myself, turns out the batteries on my left side (thank you Bryce).

I always have to hold the cables while it’s being set up, which terrifies me because apparently if the metal parts touch I could die! What? Why’s this so dangerous? I’m truly pathetic with cars beyond the skill of driving them.

But I’ve gone three weeks without my battery dying! I hope I didn’t just jinx myself.