Australia or bust.

So, I'm taking a leave of responsibility.

If you didn't hear, or you haven't stalked me in a while, I'm going to Australia until May with one of my many roommates Kathy Frances Miller. And it's going to be a bitchin' time.

I plan on using my blog to keep you updated on all of the things you need to be jealous of that I will be doing/seeing/eating/swimming with. I don't feel like creating another blog just for this event. Besides, it's called "Sadie Latley" for a reason. And this trip, is lately.

I'm sorry for the absence as of late, but I've been busy graduating, moving, having a 1 year anniversary with my boo Gerry and gaining weight.

It's been a hoot.

But now! On to the next chapter, and on to a beach where the skin cancer rate is 1 in 2. Yay.

I have a lot of updates in my noggin, so be prepared for many of them as I will have an intense amount of down time while I'm down under. Oh, and pictures. So many pictures.

If you want a souvenir, ask Katie. She has more money than I do.

Compare and Contrast: Crack Cocaine and Law & Order: SVU.

If Gerard Butler was stark naked, standing in my living room while Law & Order: SVU was on... I would probably ask him to come back in 6 hours. Why 6 hours? Because like Pringles, once you pop you can't stop. And there is never an episode of SVU that isn't part of a day-long marathon.

And why wouldn't I want to eventually see Gerard Butler naked?

As of late, my addiction to watching countless hours of SVU has gotten to be a little ridiculous. It started over the Christmas break when I was staying with my gracious sister and her musical husband. I chose not to work that Christmas break in order to respect my slovenly desires, so I occupied my time by watching SVU marathons, eating Chipotle and showering occasionally. 

After a while, I started infecting my friends with my addiction. First, it was my sister's John-Mayer husband. It was official that I had hooked him when I was awoken from my nightly winter hibernation to the loud exclamation of "OHHHH SHIT!" I got up to see if anyone had been raped and coincidentally - someone had. Jeremy was watching SVU and got really excited at one of the many rape-related curve balls that is perpetually being thrown around on the show. After the marathon was over, he logged on to his PS3 and started Netflixing seasons of SVU.

Then, it was T-Money. On one probably beautiful afternoon, she came over one day to be with me and eat Chipotle. Episode after episode aired and before we knew it, it was 9pm and we had wasted an entire day learning about alibis checking out, rape kits, blunt-force trauma, the apparent sexual tension between Benson and Stabler and how Detective Stabler can't keep his fists out of people's faces.

And lately, I've gotten Court and Lynds addicted. I come home from class, plop on the couch, and immediately flip to my digital crack cocaine. We are now proud season pass owners of SVU. Which means when I get home from work tonight I'll probably have 25 more episodes recorded because there's a marathon going on RIGHT NOW.

The Outback Chronicles: Complain, party of everyone.

A table for Complain, party of everyone, is now ready to be seated.

Despite the fact that this post might be slightly contradictory, I have to touch on the ever-present fact that I can't complete one shift at work without someone's panties getting in a twist about something completely irreverent and retarded. Not to say Outback Steakhouse is of grave importance, but for the love of all things Holy - shut up. Take off your tiara, and shut up.

The serving staff at the OB is beginning to resemble my 7th grade athletics locker room while everyone was getting ready for school, for a number of reasons:

1. Every conversation sounds like a herd of catty girls, seeking out their victim.
2. Every conversation is dripping with complaints and whines that it makes my ears bleed.
3. Every conversation makes me want to slaughter baby elephants.
4. Every conversation has the intelligence level of moss.
5. It smells like body odor, mass amounts of cheap perfume to masque said body odor, and onions.

Disclaimer: I can't say that my mouth has been completely void of bitches and moans, but I feel like mine are justified and erroneous, as they are the kind of complaints that while you're complaining other people interrupt you to cry about something they find to be more important. I complain about how horribly I'm sweating, how I'd rather wear a jacket made of a man's toenails than wait on a table full of cheap highschoolers, and how I should stop eating large spoonfuls of the garlic mashed potatoes... but don't. 

But as I mentioned with the hostess stand chronicle, it seems that people make the time to complain about shit no one wants to hear. They start complaining the moment they step foot into the faux-Aussie dining establishment. This is what I hear: "Blah blah, my section sucks, my apron's dirty, I have to close?! Blah blah, I got soooo wastey faced last night I feel like shit why did Gabe schedule me? Ugh, blah blah, I'm fat, I don't want to work, my tables are assholes, why am I not getting tipped? Blah, Omg [insert name of innocent bystander at work who happened to be in the line-of-gossip] is such a flaming dick bag, blah blah BLAH." 

Drama is so unbecoming, and I'm being encompassed by it nightly. I'm just shy of spreading nasty, sex-related rumors about everyone who bitches at work. It has the potential to backfire. I'll let you know how it goes. 

Confessions of an ex-heifer.

It has come to my attention that I closely resemble an M&M. On the outside is a hard, colorful outer shell. And on the inside - chocolate.

From ages birth until I was 18 I would venture to say I could have easily gotten a scholarship to Jenny Craig; as I was the perfect candidate. Rotund and full of imagination, I was your favorite fat kid. And oblivious at that. I was the token fatty with all of my friends. They were twigs, and I didn't seem to let it stop me from attempting to borrow their clothes. Not to mention, my sister was a star gymnast and cheerleader who went through boyfriends like I go through brain cells when I watch Jersey Shore. Needless to say, self-image issues began early.


Since I weighed 135lbs in 3rd grade, I had a lot of physical clout over a lot of people. Specifically, boys on the soccer field at recess. I planned my wardrobe accordingly, but sometimes I had to wear something warmer than my Sheryl Crow tee, jorts and my Nike sneaks. I remember specifically the pairs of jeans I would leave unbuttoned for school, because they were puncturing my stomach. So much so, that had I been pregnant, it would have been easy for me to have a self-handled abortion. Sweatshirts became a necessity for coverage.

When I was 18, my sister and I went to Starbucks and began chit chatting about our youth. She told me that one evening during family dinner, she noticed I was going in for thirds. It happens to be that my mother's spaghetti is that bad ass. Anyway, after dinner she burst into tears. She told me she was crying because she thought I would never lose the weight; that I would become obese. My mother reassured her that it was just baby fat, and that it would pass. To which my sister replied: "She's 14!"

My fupa didn't go away immediately. It took a little while. The summer before 10th grade I started working out a little harder for soccer and volleyball, so I slimmed down and voila! Got a boyfriend. In his defense, he's not a shallow ass bag, my new sexy teenage bod was all he knew. We just met. Anyway, during volleyball preseason I was moved to Varsity as a sophomore to give the bench some depth. And I wasn't about to be the salmon in this river, so I did what the other girls did as game-day rituals. Chick-fil-a before every game, peanut butter straight out of the tub before games when we had tournaments (you know, quick energy), and something after the game for muscle rebuilding. Keep in mind, I rode the bench for half of the season since the entire team was comprised of seniors. I put on a few pounds, and was dumped around Christmas time. We got back together, but I'm still convinced he started having second thoughts about the outer me, what with my helmet haircut and my perpetual Buddha belly.

You know, I'm proud of my bulbous youth. I was a statistic,  and now I'm just a sloth. No longer being an athlete really takes a toll on your motivation to do anything but sit around. After my shoulder surgery it was hard to bounce back into my once-active lifestyle. Now I'm paying someone to make me work out. You'd think I would know how to work out after 18 years of doing so.

But I need to offset the amount of chocolate covered almonds I consume. So, money well spent.