It’s The End Of This Blog As I Know It (and I feel fine)

Well, folks. It’s likely become pretty obvious to you that my blog has become a, er . . . non-priority. I have a new business that has replaced my creative writing time and, well, things have just changed in general for me. I find myself wanting to tuck pieces of myself away and save whatever time I do have for other things.

Years ago when I was living in Santa Fe, one of my friends and I were out gallivanting around town and I was yammering on about this and that, and my friend turned to me and said, “Sarah, sometimes it’s ok to keep some things just for you.” I didn’t really understand what the hell he was talking about, so I said, “I really don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about.” He very gently went on to explain that he believed I tended to commit the crime of the overshare and that it would be healthy for me to try and hold back more and keep some of my thoughts, experiences, and insights to myself to treasure.

As I have grown old and decrepit, I realize that while at the time I thought he was a douchebag, he had a point. And so, I am ending my blog life once my prepaid URL runs out. (I have no idea when this will be, because I don’t pay attention to such things, but I do know that it will happen at some point in the future. I don’t want to look it up right now. I’m tired.)

I thank you for being such supportive readers for the last 3 years. I turned to writing at a time when my life was enjoyable, yet consumed by my children. I love my children, but I have to admit, having them almost caused me to set myself on fire. During that time, it was a struggle for me to find a moment to search my thoughts, let alone put them down on virtual paper, but with each post I felt encouraged to continue doing so. You encouraged me to do so. Writing brought me out of my probably-needed-antipsychotics funk and back to myself in a way that I desperately needed.

But now I am going to take my old friend’s advice and just live my life undocumented. And SIPNEL, I like closure. It’s healthy, and my therapist used to talk a lot about its importance, so I strive for it still. So consider this little announcement me achieving closure.

Peace out.

To revisit some of my more popular posts, please visit the following links:

Where In The World?

I know I’ve been MIA. Radio Silent. Covert Ops. On the DL.


And I’m still busy. So this will be brief.

I’m opening a business. A massage clinic to be exact. I’ve never been prouder of any professional accomplishment in my life, and it isn’t even open yet. I eat almost every daytime meal while driving, and am so busy that I have to put things in my calendar like, “pick up the children”, but I’m close to reaching this pretty exciting goal. And like most achievements, I’ve been helped along the way. So this is my Oscar speech.

Thanks to Laura Danker for meeting with me early on, and guiding me towards the right business structure. Thanks to Adam Schwartz for urging me to Keep. It. Simple. To Rob Ferrier for referring me to a lawyer, and to Chrissy for referring me to another lawyer. To the guy from Century Link for waiving all those charges, and to Ann at the City for pushing my paperwork through. Thanks to the guy at the bank that told me I needed an EIN. Thanks to Becca for being a wonderful sounding board during a confusing time in my life. Thanks to Dennis Pepe, Sandy Anderson, and Christopher Yellen for sharing a bit of their own business experience with me. Thanks to Greg B. for the heads up regarding what to expect from the inspection (and for being surprisingly accessible), and to my personal “investigator” with the city, who is going to also become a client. Thanks to the 27 people that I spoke to at the Arizona Corporations Commission, all who helped me with my LLC drama. To my landlords for being so freaking cool and easy going, and for not making fun of my measuring tape. Thanks to my close friends for checking in with me on a regular basis and letting me blab. Thanks to my husband for agonizing over the lease, day after day, night after night, and for attempting to obtain his law degree in like, one week and on top of it all making everything pretty and for dealing with all my freak outs and emotions. Thanks to Lynda Skinner for, well, for being Lynda Skinner and asking me, “what can I do to help you, what do you need?” and to Joseph Lauricella, who always and forever has by back and calls me on my crap, just a like a brother should. Thank you to the girl at TJ Max that saved me $30. Seriously. That was cool. Thanks a million trillion to Jody, Marji and Joseph for writing me the most beautiful letters of recommendation that I’ve ever read, even though they are the busiest people that I know, and for doing it TWICE in a very short time frame. Thanks to Edie for making my props and BEING my prop, and to Deb Kortyna for hooking me up with her Insurance guy/husband. Thanks to my leasing agent for teaching me….well…a lot of things that I will tuck away for another day. Thanks for Beverly Giroud for telling me years ago that I have the ability to succeed on my own and for letting me use her space when I desperately needed too, and to Jennifer Moulton for the microwave and friendship. Thanks to Dave G. for the most beautiful and meaningful piece of furniture for the clinic, and to his beautiful wife for the Obi’s. Thanks to Cori for offering us her support and expertise, and for being understanding when we chose a different path. Thanks to Allissa Haines for sharing her easy going business model with me, and for unknowingly giving me some advice that made me go it solo. Thanks to all of my clients that have been bounced around between treatment spaces this past year, and for tolerating it all with patience and genuine well wishes. Thanks to Jill Dolan for ALLLLLL the advice that John and I so desperately needed, both legal and personal. Thank you to John W. for telling me I could and should do this when a lot of people were telling me I shouldn’t. Thanks to Clau for the filing cabinets. Thanks to all the people that are coming to my put it together party, and to the three therapists that are taking this leap with me right out of the gate. And thanks to my Mom and Step Dad for believing in me so much that they have helped me get this off the ground with a loan that I can’t wait to pay back.

And that’s all before the doors even open.


December 2012 231






It’s that time of year, folks. It’s the time of year when the Cafiero clan (after spending 11 months talking about a Christmas song, and the fact that we should really record it early) goes totally insane and races to finish their damn Christmas song. And then it occurred to me that I have a blog. A blog in which I can inflict our Christmas song on…er….about 78 people. Then if occurred to me that we have a 3 song EP basically, so I am going to share them here. We hope you enjoy them!

Silent Night, Y’all.

What Child Is This? No. Seriously. Who’s kid is this?

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas! Do IT!

Mad Skillz.

You know what my husband is really good at? (Don’t be a perv.) I mean, like, he really excels at this. (Seriously, stop being a perv.) He’s really good at falling asleep. He’s like a high-functioning narcoleptic. Within mere seconds of turning out his light, the man is snoring. Now, me? I have to take a pill, wait an hour (during which time I read until my eyelids become heavy), then turn off the light and lay there. And lay there. And lay there. And I think about all of the things that I should have done, need to do, could have done better, things I said, things I shouldn’t have said, things I should have said better—and then I worry about not being able to fall asleep. And eventually, sleep comes.

Some people can just, like, do things. I have a friend from high school who literally decided to become a sculptor and became one. And he’s no chump sculptor—he’s extremely good. Guitar? No problem. He just went out, bought a guitar and taught himself. I went out and bought a guitar (purple, electric, in honor of Prince), and while I can play Horse With No Name like a motherfucker, I gave it up, because it hurt my finger pads.

I don’t like things that hurt.

My mother is extremely skilled at not trusting the post office. This is one of those things that, over the years, she has perfected, and really honed her skills at. At first, she would mail something and just trust that it would arrive. And then . . . I’m not sure, but I have to assume that one day that thing that was supposed to arrive never did. And now she has PTSD. Over the years, it has morphed from casual calls (“Honey, I sent you something today. Next time we talk, will you let me know if you got it?”) to an extreme tactical operation (“I am sending you a package. I will let you know when it is on its way. The minute it arrives, please release the flock of messenger pigeons that will confirm its arrival, text me, call me, and also send a vial of your blood so that I know it’s really you. Make sure you send it FedEx.”). She’s amazing at a lot of other things, too. Like suddenly she’s a watercolor artist—and she’s becoming too good for us, she’s so talented! But this post office thing? She’s wicked good at that.

Then there’s Rowan. He can spell better than a Harvard graduate. He’s all over it. No word is too hard. He’s also really good at protecting the “girls’ area” in the playground at his school from the boys during recess. (Never mind that he himself is a boy, and so by all rights should also be excluded from the girls’ area.) I can see why he relishes that role. He gets to be near a crowd of girls and allow them their space while at the same time being a part of it. Genius. Oh, and he gets to act like a dragon while he’s doing it, so it’s a win-win.

Luca is really good at talking about poop.

Then, alas, there is me. I’ve spent the last year searching for that thing that I can be really good at. It’s been a year of learning and trying a completely new role professionally, and for most of it, it’s been, er . . . really uncomfortable (Oh! And super fun!). Recently, when a friend asked how I was, I replied, ominously, “different.”  And it’s the truest response that I could have given at the time. For the last five months, I have been working full time at a place I love, with people I care about, doing work that has been challenging, but . . . not me. And while I have been hyper-aware of it not being me, I have been judging myself and trying to make it work, trying to adapt. I’ve been waiting to get used to a 50-hour-a-week office job, used to computer work and to doing things that I simply don’t know how to do. And while I am trying to make that work, I’ve been wondering, what is wrong with me that this is so hard? Why can’t I adapt? Why can’t I become this other person? Why can’t I manage stress better? When all along, I should have been asking myself, what is it about me that makes me unable to accept who I am?

Sure, I’m sensitive. I move slowly and need time to process things. I don’t like stress. And yes, I’m not a traditional person that is comfortable with a more traditional profession. I want to connect, and take time with people. I want to engage and offer people a different way of being in the world. I’m comfortable with that. I’m good at that. It’s important to me that the time I spend away from my family is of equal value to the time I spend with my family. And then, with the force of the proverbial smack on the forehead, I realized (yeah, yeah, I’m slow) that I’ve had it all along. That the career I thought I should leave was the career that was a perfect fit for me.


So, now, I surrender. I know who I am. I know what I love and value. I know what I’m good at. I know that, no matter what, at the end of the day, I want to feel satisfied, and I want to feel peaceful. It doesn’t matter what other people want me to be, or what I assume other people value and expect of me. None of that matters. None of that should lead me. And truly, genuinely, I know that I can do anything. I just choose to return to my life as a massage therapist, a mother, a writer, a friend, and a colleague.

I just hope you’ll have me.

Halloween Costume Ideas.

You can thank me later.

  1. Controlling white guy with Asian girl friend whose hand he grips tightly at all times.
  2. My muffin top.
  3. Regret.
  4. Ferret owner/collector
  5. A hammer toe.
  6. Natural Childbirth
  7. Bob Dylan circa 2012
  8. The look on my face when the boys won’t stop talking.
  9. 17-18 year old girl. Costume requires: skirt that ends at the tip of vagina. Top that just barely covers nipples. Also, wearer must squat slightly while arching back at all times, and also pucker lips.
  10. Seth Green
  11. Untreated Yeast infection
  12. Josh Hartnett.
  13. Fans of Tiffany.
  14. Baby with eczema.
  15. Big scary guy on tiny bike.
  16. Phlegm.
  17. Low talker.
  18. Creepy middle aged white guy that hasn’t been exposed to light in years.
  19. That dove that cries in that Prince song.
  20. A whittler.
  21. Professional clogger.
  22. The Funky Bunch.
  23. Ruddy complected alcoholic.

Guest Post: Embarrassing Story #5

And here we are, ladies and gentlemen. It’s our final post (I think…I did get a late entry that may come soon, but not until after I write my embarrassing story down for you!) This comes from “Kath”…and what could be better than boobs and the cops colliding? Ah, yes. When someone WRITES about it! Enjoy!


This is a duplicate of an email conversation I had with my old PhD supervisor last year, following an embarrassing encounter I had with a cop.

Re: A Boob Story

And by “boob,” I mean “breast.”

I was off to the library to return some stuff this morning, at 4am nonetheless, when the police pulled me over for a “random” breath test and license check. I was driving the only car on the road so it really wasn’t all that random. (Also, apparently it is suspicious to be going to the library at 4am, because I was questioned thoroughly about it.) I was busy thanking my lucky stars that I’d had time to slip my seatbelt on properly ($300 fine) when the cop noticed I had a recently expired registration sticker. I was told that it was “technically an offence” but that “no one really cares that much.” (I plan to use that last phrase when I start my career as a litigator.)

I thought I was being let off with a warning because I had a cute dog with me. When I got to McDonald’s drive thru and looked downward to get my purse I realised that a hole in my well-loved pjs had shifted, along with the seatbelt, to leave very little to the imagination.

They can’t really see much when they shine the torch into the car, can they?


Greg’s reply:

Do you reckon you could possibly re-enact this for TV? I suspect that driving even in the wee smalls with more than one puppy on show might technically be an offence too, but what the hell. On the other hand, you’re driving your dog in your badly adjusted neo- punk grunge nightwear at 4am — for all the world like you’re Paris Hilton just coming home, or maybe Amy Winehouse — “to the library” [has book in car, thinks quickly but not too well] — he must have thought he was on a winner. And then she’s stone cold sober — who’d have thought. Did they check for other substances, or isn’t the arm of the law that long?

If you’re going to behave like that you have to come back to Townsville; it would be a front page story here. Thanks for sharing.



Why would I need to re-enact it? I caught the whole thing on my mobile phone. I’ll let you know when it is scheduled to air on ‘Funniest Home Videos.’



You did it on purpose! Go you good thing! Which number Police Academy should I pre- order?


Nah, not on purpose. A la Paris Hilton, recording myself on my mobile phone is just habit.

And that’s it, all. Thank you so much for sharing these stories with me and my readers. Coming soon: Sugar Snap Me is featured in a High School Pep Rally. Can’t you just picture it? You can’t? Well, don’t worry….I have a picture for you.

Guest Post: Embarrassing Story #4

First of all, I would like to issue a big heartfelt thank you to all of you who submitted an embarrassing story to me. This is the second to last in the series, and this particular post is from my dear friend Erica, who has share with us before. (If you are new to my blog, please visit these three guest posts, and you can thank me later: #1), #2, #3) I’ve had a busy month transitioning to my new job, and dealing with the kids beginning school. It hasn’t been easy, and one of the things that I LOVE about my life is that I can write this blog, but I knew that it would need to be put on hold while I get my footing in this unsteady sea of change. So, thank you for offering me a respite in the form of debilitating shame. You are too kind, and I love you. Now, on to Headgear, the self esteem killer:

Embarrassing memories are not hard for me to come by. I think I can safely speak for most of us when I say that childhood is rife with embarrassment. We are embarrassed about ourselves in general—how we look, tripping in front of other kids, crying in class, not to mention our parents, our totally un-cool church shoes, and let’s face it, the haircut you so badly wanted but which made you look like a boy so that when you held a door open for a nice old lady at a store she said, “Oh, thank you, young man” and you cried bitterly for a half an hour in JC Penny’s. OK, so those are mostly mine, but am I right?

I feel like I spent my entire childhood embarrassed about something or other. At all times. Like there was never a time when I was fully self-confident. I played the cello for goodness sake. Ever try looking cool while carrying a huge instrument case through the hallways that was bigger than you and you had to kind-of shuffle and lug and NO it’s not subtle. Like a flute case. Or piccolo. Or nothing. Because cool kids didn’t play instruments, right? And then there’s this. I had headgear in 3rd grade. And I had to wear it TO SCHOOL. So let’s not talk about embarrassment. I will WIN. Every time. I just have to say HEADGEAR.

Look, I’ll say it again: HEAD. GEAR. Just the name makes me a little nauseous.

We had a luau in 3rd grade and all the classes participated. We did projects in class, like making those little table-top volcanoes and making them explode with vinegar and baking soda, and we all tie-dyed either shirts (boys) or dresses (girls) in art class to wear to the Big Event. So maybe I wasn’t paying totally the most attention ever in art class (I was probably trying to hide my HEADGEAR) and I totally dyed my dress upside-down. So, while ALL the girls had a dress that went top-to-bottom red then blue then green, mine went green then blue then red. I was mortified. Plus the fact that the tie-dye totally clashed with my HEADGEAR.

Once I didn’t have to wear that insane torture device to school anymore (I’m talking about the HEADGEAR, in case you forgot), I was so self-conscious I would do anything to blend. But…I’m not a blending type of gal. I didn’t know how to do it. I was too impulsive. I was too emotional. I was too….I don’t know, ME. So I impulsively shaved my legs in 5th grade before I really needed to, because I self-consciously thought my legs were too hairy and of course I had NO idea how to do it, and I scraped the front of my calf off completely. I was so embarrassed about it, I didn’t say anything to my mom, or my sister, but bled horribly through the ten band-aids I tried to contain the wound with and went to school in my pastel floral pants, which I completely bled right through and was made fun of mercilessly by a boy who will remain unnamed. I will never forget the utter disdain in his voice when he said to me, “What did you do CUT YOURSELF SHAVING????”. I of course denied it vehemently. But to this day, I am So. Careful. I still hear the tone of his voice and my face burns. Ugh.

I hate that when my proud parents asked me to “play a little something” on my cello for visitors I would just DIE of embarrassment and refuse. They were so proud. I was good, too. But I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t even like them to hear me practicing as quietly as I could in my room with the door closed tightly. I couldn’t bear that anyone would hear me. It’s so sad thinking about embarrassment and WHY. Sometimes embarrassment sticks with you. It’s life. It’s what makes us who we are, doesn’t it? If only we had the wisdom of experience. Have courage! Be brave! LIVE! It’s way more fun.

But seriously, the headgear you guys? It’s exactly as bad as you think. Exactly.

Coming up next in the finale of embarrassing story submissions: Aptly titled, “A Boob Story”.

Guest Post: Embarassing Story #3

I love this story. It makes me feel much, much better about Rowan spending all year in preschool being a dinosaur. Take it away Kira:

In third grade I was painfully dorky and I would always sit and read by myself before the bell rang. I also stayed inside during one of the recesses to  read in the library or write stories about these two kids named Derrick and Marsha who time-traveled. Who DOES that? Obviously the other kids made fun of me for being such a gigantic nerd, so I came up with a brilliant solution: I…made cat noises at them. Like, hissed and stuff. And I didn’t break character, not even if they told me to seriously stop because I was freaking them out. Yep. That’s what 8-year-old me came up with. It did wonders for my popularity.

Coming Up Next: The Horrors of Headgear. For more thoughts regarding cats, please click here.

Guest Post: Embarrassing Story #2

So this story is one to be savored. And I don’t mean that literally. Thank you anonymous person whose identity only I know and will relish knowing for the rest of my life…thank you.

I don’t embarrass easily. In order to make this story work, I need to do this thing in two parts.

Before we begin, I should say that my significant other is embarrassed by this story and therefore I wish to remain anonymous. For his or her sake.

Part I


We once moved from one place to another. We stayed with some friends on our way out of town, and the day happened to be a holiday where Americans typically drink. So we drank. And as it turned out, the people that I was with were much less interested in drinking the HUGE bottle of wine we had than I was. So I drank it all.

Then I went to bed. In the middle of the night I got up to go to the bathroom. It was weird because I was in the bathroom before I had any idea why I was going there.

It soon became apparent that I was there in order to vomit profusely. Having never experienced food poisoning or the flu, I was unfamiliar with some of the side effects of violent chunk-blowing. As it turns out, a bowel release is a somewhat common occurrence, and one that I was in no way prepared for.

Yep, my pants were still on.

To make a long story short, there was some extensive clean up and we didn’t leave until 5 PM the next day.

Part II


Some time later, we visited some friends in a different city. We went out to a bar where they knew a bartender. Also, our friends were very good at drinking and very encouraging with regards to the drinking of others.

We sat at the bar and drank way too much. I also had such a variety of drinks that I still get nauseous when I think about it. I drank wine, beer, something with milk in it, shots, mixed drinks, etc. Disgusting.

The extravaganza was finished off by me doing three double shots of Jaegermeister in a row. (How am I still alive?)

I immediately went to the bathroom because I wanted to prepare for the inevitable. I went in and forced out as much poop as I could, because I knew vomiting was in my not-too-distant future.

As I left the bathroom area, I had to do an immediate U-turn around a partition to head back toward the bar and my people. This bathroom was in the now-closed restaurant section. I rounded the partition and the resulting spin was enough to send me reeling backward. I tried to catch myself, but all I did was send barstools – that were previously on top of tables – to the floor with me.

Since the alcohol affected my body before it affected my mind, I was fully aware of what had just happened, and all too aware that trying to get up by myself would be futile. So I just lay there and watched the horror on the faces of my other and my friends, as they knew they were about to take responsibility for me.

*PROUD MOMENT ALERT* I did not vomit on the ride home, which was especially important since it wasn’t my vehicle.

I made it into our hotel room somehow. I went to the bathroom to let the vomit out.

And somehow, some way, I still had feces in my bowels. Well, at least before the puking.

I may be the only non-elderly adult in history to poop his or her pants twice. And it’s not fair. I took precaution.

P.S. I do not get drunk anymore. But I have vomited since that day. Rest assured that I did so while sitting on the toilet. If I forget in the future, at least I’ll have another story to submit to this blog.

Coming Soon: An embarrassing story that hits close to home and features…um….meowing.

Guest Post: Embarrasing Story #1.

Ladies and gentlemen! I am thrilled to share with you the first embarrassing story to land in my inbox. Thrilled because, well, somebody did what I asked them to do…AND because it takes a load off of me. And let’s face it. It’s ALL about me. Take it away, Jennifer!

Let me preface this by saying, Thank SIPNEL I was not on a date!

I was out to dinner with 2 friends when the waiter came to take our order. I went first and after I’d placed my order the waiter reached out his hand to take my menu. I, however, interpreted this as “I’d like to hold your hand.” I have absolutely no explanation whatsoever as to why I thought this. So, feeling a little awkward, I reached up and held his hand while placing my drink order.
Both my friends burst out laughing, and the waiter, clearly perplexed, said “O.K. Can I have your menu please.” At this point I realized…what? that I was an idiot? that I had forgotten I’d ever been in a restaurant before? that my brain had completely failed me? that this was the most embarrassed I’d ever been?

The waiter could not approach our table without laughing for the rest of the dinner. And I still get embarrassed when I tell this story. But it’s so damn funny that I have to tell it, at my own expense.

Coming up next: a saga involving poop.

%d bloggers like this: