Motherly instincts are a trait women are born either with or without. Mine comes and goes in tsunamis. I can make the best bottle of warm milk west of the Mississippi but will not come within 10 feet of a soiled diaper (if my baby shower consists of any diapers with variants of melted chocolate bars, you’re shunned for life). I’ll happily babysit your rambunctious, spoiled pre-teen, but your precious child who just has “a lot of energy” split his chin open reaching for the ice cream on the top shelf? This isn’t show and tell, kid. Sarah’s watching SVU.

Everyone can agree: there is a universal appreciation for an adorable child. Every part of their person is miniature and pudgy and fun to dress up. To say it’s any different from a pug or miniature toy horse would be a complete lie.

My friend and I were leaving a concert in Central Park one evening. First of all, finding your way out of that park is like the blind leading the blind in a cornfield maze. Add the late-night darkness factor and you’ll want to cross your fingers that you didn’t use the last of your pepper spray because you were testing its sneezability factor.

We’re roaming the upper east side, trying to find a place to eat while reminiscing how just a short while ago we bore witness to middle-aged women who dressed and danced in such a way that should not have been exposed to natural light after 1964.

On the otherwise empty street between Park and Lexington Avenues, a cab not more than 10 feet away pulls over to let a passenger out. I can’t help but watch because 1. The street was deserted and 2. This little girl was riding a cab by herself. I watch as she launched herself out of the backseat so as to land safely on the curb. Part of me really wanted to run up and hug her and tell her everything will be okay, I’ll help her find her way home.

“Ugh look how CUTE she is! That little girl is SO adorab—oh. Oh my god, she’s a midget.”

We momentarily locked eyes, though the spark just wasn’t there. Unsure of my next move, I opted for a pathetically apologetic smile and a wave that Miss America would have spat at. Meanwhile, my friend who’s convulsing on the side of the road was not in any way aiding the situation.

So….apology not accepted?

If caring is so wrong, then I don’t want to be right, dammit.


I make a conscious effort not to use the word ‘hate’ on a daily basis. At a young age, my grandma told me ‘hate’ is a strong word and to use it sparingly so as not to lessen the true meaning of the word. Females are notoriously guilty for normalizing harsh language and creating unnecessary clichés. Examples of brutally slaying the English language are below:

“I literally have nothing to wear tonight.”…Birthday suit, it is!

“I am going to kill myself if that iced coffee is not in my hand in like, three seconds.”…..My pre-preemptive condolences to your friends and family.

“Oh my god, I would give up my first born for her body.”…An even exchange, for sure.

**Please refer to Dane Cook, who further proves females posses this rare, delicate gene called exaggeration (you see what I did there?)

So grandma if you read this, which you won’t because you don’t own one of these confangled contraptions let alone know how to fully operate a microwave, please know that this statement is not an exaggeration or an attempt to lessen the meaning of the word:

I hate dating.

Some women think dating is fun, but is it totally unrealistic to ask for my Vitruvian Man? I’m no serial dater but here’s a  summary of my dating history at a glance:

  • Taken on a first date with a Groupon, “because it’s a new place!” and still ended up splitting the bill. – Frugality hits rock bottom.
  • Concert that only once at the door discovered it was a 21+ and thus, we were turned away. – The only time I’ve ever/will ever wear neon eye shadow (semi irrelevant).
  • Dinner followed by the Presidential debate at his apartment where his girlfriend showed up- Need I say more?

In the most recent chapter of the chronicles documenting my so-called dating life, a swoon-worthy Southern boy charmed the pants off me while I watched football with my girls at our Sunday bar. The man-boy called – an Earth shattering feat – a few days later to make plans. I was to meet up with him, his friend and his friends wife at a bar on Saturday for a couple of drinks.

Missing pieces of the puzzle:

1. He’ a UNC graduate

2. Saturday is college game day

3. Boys never grow up

Sober Sally here met up with a confidently inebriated group. Some laughing and awkward flirting ensued (needless to say I was sweating for zero reason in particular. It’s October for Christ’s sake). One bar and one wine bar later, were licking the last bottle of wine clean when my date takes an Adderall, chasing it with his last gulp of wine. I’m not Board certified, but that combo doesn’t exactly shout, “Hey everybody! Check out how fun I am!” No more than seven minutes later, I cap the night off by putting a delusional, sloppy man-boy mess into a cab home.

God, pretty please don’t make me question my love for Southern accent’s AND red wine.

comm(un) commute

A girl likes to feel petite, no matter what her size. Sometimes, you feel your petite-est in a mans arms. Other times when you’re holding a cupcake on steroids (a la Crumbs). I’m not going anywhere important with this stream of consciousness, I just felt it important to share my current state of being – I’m looking for the kind of comfort 300 calories can offer rather than muscle. Mostly because the calories won’t talk back.

Judge me when I refill my self-serve frozen yogurt cup at no charge – people know me – you’d do it too, I just have no shame.

No shame – it’s a way of life I’m becoming acquainted to in this Big ole’ Apple. Unplanned wardrobe malfunctions (always wear cute underwear, just not granny panties; no one likes a VPL), perspiring quandaries (reaffirming why I should never own grey), and relinquishing all self restraint to lip sync when my favorite song comes on and turn it up so loud the entire subway car can feel beats they’ll never quite appreciate.

You don’t want to admit it but you’ve developed a daily routine. There are 845 ways to get to the subway, but you wind up using the same route because it gets you from A to B without obstacles. Or maybe because you’ve developed a crush with the barista at your coffee pit stop. You scope out the numero uno square inch to wait for the subway because when the car pulls up, you’re just to the left of the door, allowing passengers to exit and you’re the first one on.

Allow your subway ride to be the variable in your life of constants. Sometimes I feel like a lioness in a jungle full of fresh meat, luring young thirty-somethings in with my best Babmi stare. Other times I wonder if the suited-up men getting on at the Penn Station and Grand Central stops are enjoying the arial view of my cleavage because they’re “squished in”. Mhmm…..Sir, I know this train is packed, but this is not the pole of love – please find another square inch to grope. Oh, and ma’am? Don’t give me those dagger eyes. You think I’m vacating my seat because you’re “high priority”. I’ve got boobs, too. Not moving.

Public Transportation System

photo credit: funny-pictures-blog.com