Posts Tagged ‘men’


1. guy’s girl
That great girl who can just chill and be ‘one of the guys’. She’s into sports, beer, action flicks and doesn’t give a damn what others think.
However, unlike the tomboy, she has her gang of girl mates who she shops with and does girly stuff.
When attractive, this girl is mysterious and elusive. Acts aloof and gives off the ‘cool girl’ aura, like she’s very aware of both guys’ and girls’ worlds.


These would surely be flown on a ceiling fan.



“You’re dad must be awesome.”


“You’re a dad’s girl aren’t you?”

And my personal favorite (from Doug the other day) : “Hungover in Nashville? But you drink more than most guys.”

Ahhh yes, the saccharine sweet sounds of being a guy’s girl.  The girl that gets put in head locks and splits bills and honestly knows what Bucky *fuckin* Dent means without slyly navigating to Google.com on her Blackberry Pearl.  She knows about the German Purity law of 1516 and why it makes Hefeweizen taste so damn good.  She does tailgates and strip clubs, and no not to be a faux Katy Perry lesbian but because her pals knows that nothing they possibly say or do there would make her bat one lash of her DiorShow Mascara-d eye.  And plus it’s just too damn far away to take her home beforehand.

Hi my name is Sara Kelly and I’ an alcohol-,er, guy’s girl.

I know, I know.  What am I complaining about? Boys as far as the eye can see.  Trips to go hang out with *my boys*  Funny text messages from *my boys*  Hugs, and fist bumps and cramming in between 5 of *my boys* on the couch to watch soccer/hockey/football/baseball/insert anything drinking or competitively related here.

You wanna know why I’m complaining?  Here’s a list:

Nicknames: What does a girl call two girls both named Kristen?  Kristen N. and Kristen S. or “Blonde Kristin” and “Brunette” Kristin.  What happens when there are two girls named Sara(h) and you need to differentiate?  One is Sara the other is (and these are things I have been called within the past several weeks) : Cockhead, Lil Ho, Princess Lil Ho, Brakebeater, Playa, Punk, Loser, and my favorite, Nutsack. It’s even better being introduced that way as in, “Hey Sarah, this is Sara, but you can just call her Lil Ho.”

Bodily Functions: Gentleman, would you fart or burp on a first date? Pee with the door open? Would you then laugh?  Would you talk about back hair/nut hair/pimples “that hurt” to a girl who caught your eye at a party?  No way.  Do I get to hear/see/smell experience all of this?  You bet.  And no one thinks twice.

Drinking:  Yes I can drink.  And no, I don’t drink cosmos or appletinis and yes I do drink vodka and whisky and beer and bourbon.  But that doesn’t mean that my liver is the same size as yours or that the extra 5 inches you have on me is just height and that I can make it up in personality and go shot for shot with you for 12 hours straight.  Oh and PS- what happens when 5 guys order beers and you order a vodka tonic at dinner? You get called a faggot by 5 guys…I can’t make this stuff up.

This past weekend in Nashville I was denied entry into the Broadway Brewhouse because I was visibly intoxicated.  *My boys* answser? “Get your act together!”  Sirs, I will get my act together when you stop yelling “Slam that beer!”  It saves us all time when we’re running to get in a cab and you have to get back out to pick me up covered in bloody cuts because my heel was caught in a sewer grate.  Speaking of heels…

Pace: My shoes are 5″ off the ground.  They have a pointed toe box and yeh they kinda hurt, but they match my dress and I’m going to wear them.  I cannot run down asphalt/mudhills/backards/or in front of traffic in them.  And no, I will not wear “flat shoes” with my dress as I was told to do this weekend.  As in, “You’re wearing those?  We’re not picking you up when you break you back!  You’re done for cockhead!”  Speaking of pace…

Food: I can’t eat fried pickles and pizza and dirty burritos and gravy 7 days per week.  I also don’t want to see you do it so fast that your head is spinning a top your neck like a gremlin movie as you open your gullet and swallow a club sandwich the way a Burmese Python would inhale a small asian child that Angelina Jolie hoped to adopt.  Speaking of violent behavior…

Rough Housing:  This past weekend, and pretty much for the past 10 years of my life I have been bitten, slapped, punched, pushed down, fallen on, tackled and ninja kicked. Have you ever been fallen on my a whisky soaked 400lb Southern boy?  Probably not.  Sometimes it was a classic infantile “I like you so I’m going to get to touch you by hitting you” ploy, but the other 80 percent of it was a don’t touch my beer, I’m going to bite your forearm WWF move.  And you know what?  Guy’s girl or not, it still really hurts.  Even further, when you go to work in a pencil skirt with two black knees people either think you are an amateur boxer or a weekend hot mess.

Language: My heritage makes it easy enough to for me to swear or talk in un-ladylike tongues.  When you spend all of your time with guys that multiplies by 10.  An illustrious group of boys that I run around with, known as the Beaters,slowly but surely developed their own talk.  If something requires effort?  “Sounds like work!”  “May I have a cigarette?” becomes ” Gimme that tough stick!” (note: Beaters do not ask for things, but rather take things).  This is fine when I’m amongst them, but if I start saying “Gimme that tough beer” at work functions it will be the downfall of me.  One of the Beaters sisters noted that they “speak in code.”  Scary thing?  I’m fluent in it.

Messing with My Stuff:  Yeh I’m a guy’s girl, but I still have access to things that boys are interested in, and because I’m that guy’s girl, they may take it, steal it, throw it or ruin it without asking.  Think my bras being used as wrestling helmets and my underwear being flown around on ceiling fans.  You get the picture.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t say that deep down, each one of *My Boys* does in fact love and respect me, but when you’re having a bad day, getting punched while being called Super Ho at 9am makes you sometimes wish there was a girl to say Let’s Go Shopping and watch 4 hours of The Hills today.  It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, you can count on someone telling me to “Stop bitching and grow some balls.”

Which would not be good for anyone.

Especially me.




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It was only a matter of time before I posted something about the love of my life: My little, 10 month old puggle, Eva La Rue Hargest. This small bundle of love was purchased for me by my then-boyfriend as a Valentine’s Day present, and, she is arguably the best gift I’ve ever received.  I won’t lie and say that everything associated with having a puppy is great and fun, she’s certainly destroyed her fair share of items throughout my apartment, but she’s been the best example of unconditional love that I’ve CHOSEN to allow into my life. (Clearly family is the GREATEST example of unconditional love, however let’s be honest, you don’t get to pick them!)

As time went on, she started resembling a dog, rather than a large headed alien, which was exciting!  I imagine it’s the same type of feeling a mother has when her baby starts walking and talking and is no longer a muted houseplant.   However what wasn’t exciting was that the relationship with the puppy gift-giver was taking a quick nose dive. I would call my friends, mother, seeeeesteR*, and co-workers searching for a shoulder to cry on, and they all graciously agreed to be that shoulder for me. I would call them at all hours of the day and night, crying my eyes out and listening to their past experiences to try to make sense of the whole mess. To them, I am eternally grateful. BUT, I found comfort in the most unsuspecting of creatures, my tiny ball of fur, which I have affectionately nicknamed “Stinkus” ❤ .

That dog would see me crying and immediately jump on my lap and sleep. If I was in bed at 7:30 on a Saturday, so was she. If I was up at 1:30 in the morning with Skelladay or Lish, she was sitting next to me, gnawing on her favorite pig ear.

I never understood when Lish would tell me that her puppy Oliver was a huge comfort to her when she was taking on her own personal downward spiral into man-hell. It’s true. Animals can sense things that require no form of verbal communication. Without the guidance and love given to me by humans in my life coupled with a warm canine sleeping under the covers with me, I’m not sure where I’d be. Actually, I take that back…I know EXACTLY where I’d be…miserable and in a constant state of puffy-eyes from crying.

Carrie Bradshaw said it best: “No matter who broke your heart, or how long it takes to heal, you’ll never get through it without your friends.”

This brings us to the present day. Happy as a little clam and with the ability to look back on my failed relationships with love rather than hate, which I honestly feel is the hardest thing to achieve. I’ve ALLOWED myself to put things into perspective and realize who is important in my life: family, friends, and Eva…equally. Now that I was able to see exactly who was there for me during my lowest moment, I decided  that from this point forward, if any of my loved ones become compromised because of a relationship, that unlucky man will be immediately shown the door.

Lucky for them, my family doesn’t live in Pittsburgh, and Lish and Skelladay live on opposite sides of the country, so the only one they need to impress is my little Evaboo J

Disclaimer, Gentlemen beware: If you so much as look at my dog the wrong way, you WILL be sorry. If you make any snide remarks about how she just peed in the house, I will kindly remind you that at one point in your college life, YOU have peed in your house. And God forbid you lay a hand on her, you will receive a new asshole courtesy of Hargusta herself.




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We’ve all been there. You’re dating your significant other and WHAM! they inform you they want to take “time”/”a break”/”some space.” Generally, this blindsides you and you’re left with an overall feeling of complete shittiness. Why does your boyfriend/girlfriend choose these cute, harmless sounding terms when, in fact, they should just say what they mean: THEY DON’T FREAKIN WANT YOU ANYMORE. This situation plays out the exact same way for everyone: You agree to this “break,” you both start thinking of ways to rectify the situation  and you get back together two weeks later. Everything is sunshine and rainbows…at first. Then your boyfriend jumps right back into being a heinous prick and you’re right on his tail, making the same rancid bitch statements that put you where you started.

Instead of calling this a “break,” I suggest you each start using the phrase Mama Hargusta and I have been using for years: RESURRECTING THE DEAD. It has become clear to me in my short, 25 years of life that humans are suckers for punishment. Rather than thinking about all the reasons the relationship didn’t work, we focus on the rare instances of sheer happiness and are determined to recreate this gleeful time. DOESN’T WORK HOMEY.

Within the past few months, many of my evenings have been lent to a dear friend (Who shall remain nameless) that has been relentlessly trying to resurrect her EXTREMELY dead relationship. Each time she would call me and say they “broke up again.” I knew in the back of my head that they would get back together eventually, only to find themselves in the exact same predicament a few weeks later. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not at all passing judgment, especially since I’ve done this in every.single.one. of my relationships. Hindsight is 20/20 and the best advice to take is your own, although NONE of us ever do.  If people listened to their instincts there’d be no need for people like Dr. Phil and Kate Gosselin wouldn’t have gotten that heinous haircut.

Why put yourself through the misery? Why fill yourself with a false sense of hope that everything will work out in your favor and you and your man will ride horseback into the sunset? This doesn’t happen to anyone and you and I both know it. I’m unclear as to why people think that when two people break up, something horrific has happened that left them with no choice but to Ctrl+Alt+Delete the other from his/her life. In my most recent break up, nothing traumatizing happened. No name calling. No cheating. It just didn’t work. Unfortunately, sometimes love ISN’T enough and that’s something we ALL need to accept.

Whenever I was upset about a recent ex, Mama Hargusta would tell me that “there is someone out there specifically looking for YOU and he’ll find you.” As much as I’d like to say my mother has no idea what she’s talking about, she does! It’s best to figure out all this horseshit before you’re married with two kids, ladies!

If you find yourself in a situation where your boyfriend/girlfriend is telling you they “need some time,” be like Jay-Z and dust your shoulders off, run for the hills, and take comfort in knowing you dodged a HUGE bullet and saved yourself from days/weeks/months of unhappiness.  If that doesn’t work, just blame it on the economy.  That seems to never fail.

Remember girls, let sleeping (dead) dogs lie. Pun intended.



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01346To casually mention that, in fact, “2009 sucked” is pretty much the “No-Shit” statement of the century- kinda like saying Jon Gosselin is a douchebag or the show Community is a waste of Chevy Chase’s time. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the only good things that have happened to me this year were getting my little Eva and Obama being inaugurated.  Granted, a puggle and a black president are significant, but I can’t really claim the responsibility for their success…well, maybe Eva’s (she’s such a good dog!)

Other than that, 2009 has been a complete wash. Celebrities are dropping like flies and everyone I know is breaking up.

It’s no shock to anyone that my most recent break-up was moderately devastating, to say the least. I spent entirely too many nights alone with my dog watching Hitch and trying to figure out what I could’ve done differently to salvage this extremely dysfunctional relationship. Sure, I called my friends and family crying, and each person provided a different means of comfort. Skelladay would listen to me and chime in with advice when I asked, The Caus would offer to take me out for burritos and my brothers offered to get me drunk at tailgates.

Despite counsel, delicious chicken burritos and the promise of liquor ice luges at sporting events, one thing remained the same throughout all my heartfelt cry-fests with my loved ones…everyone asked the same thing: “What did you even see in him?”

It actually struck me as somewhat bothersome. WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU PEOPLE THE ENTIRE YEAR AND A HALF WE DATED? Your comments were peppered with “Wow! What a catch!” or “You really found yourself a keeper” when, in fact, you were all thinking “What a douchebag prick…I give them 2 years, tops…and that includes several well-crafted ‘timeouts’ .”   It’s nice to have the support, but next time I walk the plank, tell me there are sharks in the water, mmmkay?

It’s amazing the thoughts that run through your head after you’ve given yourself the opportunity to step back and evaluate the situation for what it really is: a learning experience.  Nothing more, nothing less.  People that say everything happens for a reason can screenprint it on an American Apparel T-shirt and tell it to Delilah.

You begin to notice that all their cute and charming habits are nothing more than obnoxious and irritating.  The word endearing is quickly search and replaced with the word scathing.  You actually find yourself joining in with your friends during their manbashing sessions and start to throw in your own terrible experiences.  When you start taking punches at the one who sleeps in your bed?  Time to hang up the gloves and put on VH1. 

I believe Sex and the City’s Charlotte York said it best: “I’ve been dating since I was 15, I’m exhausted where is he?!”  

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a free burrito coupon I need to use before it expires.




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