I Was Supposed to Stay Home

Instead, I chased tequila across county lines and learned that “road closed” is apparently open to interpretation

Good evening, Readers.

Welcome to another episode of: Sarah Promised She Was Going to Stay Home, Make Responsible Choices, and Relax. Then Immediately Remembered She Has Never Once Been That Woman.

I do this to myself all the time.

At least once a month, I find myself with a rare weekend at home. No boys. No road trip. No overpriced hotel lobby where Bestie is silently judging the lighting and Craig is somehow already planning a midnight Doordash order. Just me, the Rainbow Sanctuary 2.0, and the delusional belief that I am about to become a peaceful, well-balanced adult woman.

It’s adorable, really.

Every single time, I tell myself, this weekend will be different.

Maybe I’ll unpack the stack of boxes still sitting in my spare bedroom from when I moved into the Rainbow Sanctuary 2.0 last October. And yes, for the newbies, I live in a rainbow apartment. We will unpack that emotional and interior design situation another day, but not right now because we simply do not have that kind of time.

Anyway, I think to myself: maybe I’ll finally organize the jewelry armor I begged my boyfriend to buy me specifically so I could organize my jewelry, and then, in true Sarah fashion, ignored for two straight months. Maybe I’ll clean. Maybe I’ll rest. Maybe I’ll light a candle, drink water, become centered, and stop treating my life like a serialized drama with bonus scenes.

Readers, I always have good intentions.

And then I get an idea.

Or someone asks if I want to hang out.

Or I sit alone in the Rainbow Sanctuary 2.0 for more than four consecutive hours and my brain starts acting like it has been abandoned in the wilderness with no iced coffee, no adult supervision, and no plot development.

So naturally, my relaxing weekend at home somehow turned into me ending up in Parker, Arizona, at 1 a.m., in a location I am fairly certain we were not supposed to be in.

So grab some popcorn, open a BuzzBall, and settle in, Readers.

Because apparently my version of “staying home and making good choices” now includes crossing county lines after dark and accidentally creating another chapter for the historical record.

Please note: this is usually where I would drop a paywall and leave you all hanging like a cliffhanger I fully intend to exploit later.

But today? I’m being nice. For the next two weeks, my unhinged, probably-should-be-kept-in-my-notes-app content is roaming free on the internet with zero supervision. Enjoy the chaos while it’s complimentary.

Because after that? Oh, we’re monetizing. Yes, Readers, I will be charging $8 a month for full access to whatever this is that I keep doing with my life.

And let’s not pretend you’re not going to pay. Especially you, Brenda. You’re already too invested. You’ve made eye contact with the chaos. There’s no going back now. Also, let’s be honest, Bestie alone is worth the subscription. The man is a full character arc, a personality disorder, and a luxury hotel rolled into one human being. If you think I’m giving you all of that for free indefinitely, you have misunderstood both me and capitalism.

I know. I’m terrible.

Anyway. Back to the story.

So in order to fully understand how I ended up standing in Parker at 1 a.m., questioning both my life choices and local trespassing laws, we need to go back to the origin story.

And by “origin story,” I mean the moment I apparently annoyed my boyfriend.

I know. Take a second. Let that settle.

Because typically, he is the problem. That is the established dynamic. But every once in a while, just for character development, I guess I can also be mildly irritating. Allegedly.

From what I’ve been told, I had been doing this thing where I complained, repeatedly, about never being home, never having time to clean the Sanctuary, and feeling overwhelmed by the chaos of my own life while also having absolutely no intention of changing a single behavior that was causing those problems. Because to fix that, I would have to stop hanging out with the boys all the time. And Readers. Be serious. That was never going to happen.

So my lovely, financially stable, slightly unhinged boyfriend did what any man in love would do when faced with a girlfriend who refuses to solve her own problems: He hired me house cleaners.

Yes.

I live in a tiny home. A tiny home. We are talking a solid two-hour clean, max. Three if I get distracted by TikTok and an emotional spiral halfway through. And instead of simply doing that, I now have staff.

I hate this for me.

But here’s what you need to understand about Craig and Bestie. They do not live in the same universe as the rest of us. They live in a world where things just get handled.

On a schedule.

Like clockwork.

The cleaners come. The yard people come. The house resets itself like a luxury hotel. At this point, I’m fairly certain if something mildly inconvenient happens, they just outsource it to a professional and move on with their day.

I wish I were exaggerating. I am not.

Craig has been trying to get me to hire cleaners since the Rainbow Sanctuary 1.0 era, but I refused. Absolutely not. I could clean my own space. I was a capable adult woman. 1.0 was even smaller than 2.0, and if I couldn’t manage that, what was I even doing with my life?

So I held the line.

For a year.

A full year of stubborn independence and questionable decision-making. And then, I folded. I agreed to let him “help.”

Readers, I fear I may never go back. And I truly, deeply hate that for me. Let the record show: I do not want to become them. I would like to maintain at least a shred of dignity and the ability to say I clean my own home without outsourcing it like a minor inconvenience. But also having someone else do it is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Anyway, the cleaners were scheduled to come at 5 o’clock on Friday. Then they texted me and asked if they could come early because they finished their last job ahead of schedule. So suddenly, they were coming at 3:30.

Perfect! I had a plan, Readers. A real plan. A mature plan. A plan that suggested I had structure, priorities, and perhaps even a future.

I was going to let them in, drive to the Walmart in Havasu (yes, IN HAVASU! Please note this for future reference), wander around aimlessly while they cleaned, come home, unpack a few boxes, throw something in the oven…

Okay, fine. I was going to DoorDash. Don’t judge me, Readers. We’ve been through enough together.

…and then relax. Maybe some Apple TV. Maybe a candle. Maybe pretend I am the kind of woman who unwinds instead of escalates.

That was the plan.

And then Dayna texted me.

Now, Dayna is my sister-in-law and also, very importantly, a known instigator of my nonsense. She will act innocent. She will pretend she had no idea what she was setting in motion. Do not be fooled. This woman has seen my track record. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She asked if I could check with Cass about whether the Walmart in Parker had her tequila.

And just like that, the plan I had started slipping.

Now, before we go any further, I need to explain who Cass is, because he becomes relevant.

Cass is a “friend.”

We are not unpacking that label any further at this time.

He’s a friend Craig introduced me to. They met in college, which tells you everything you need to know about the level of chaos and questionable decision-making already baked into this situation.

Cass’s parents used to live in Parker, and when they passed, he moved into their mobile home by the lake and just stayed. Which, honestly, feels very on brand for him. I call him the mountain man of the water. He’s got that whole rugged, slightly mysterious, lives-by-the-lake energy except lately he’s been cleaning up and somehow has a growing Facebook fan club.

Yes. A fan club.

So if “lakefront mountain man who cleans up nicely” is your type, congratulations. Enjoy the Cass content I provide on rare occasions. By the way, he is single. You’re welcome!

Personally, I will be sticking with my gay men.
Yes, I’m talking about Craig. Newbies, you’ll catch up. Do not overthink it. Brenda did, and she’s still trying to map it out like a conspiracy board.

Anyway, Cass lives in Parker, which is about 40 minutes from me. So when I’m in town, we hang out. And at this point, whether he realizes it or not, he is slowly becoming a recurring character in this ongoing, completely unnecessary saga of my life.

So go ahead and log that information away, Readers. It will matter later.

Anyway, instead of doing the normal, logical, sane thing like calling Cass and asking, “Hey, can you check Walmart for tequila?,” I come up with what I can only describe as a brilliant, life-altering, absolutely unnecessary idea. I’ll just drive to Parker while the cleaners clean my house. And Cass and I can go on an alcohol hunt together.

Because, you see, it wasn’t just Dayna’s tequila we were after. No, no. This story has layers. You see BuzzBallz had just dropped four new flavors. And for the newbies, let me be very clear about something: when BuzzBallz releases a new flavor, I am finding it, I am trying it, and I am making a video about it like it’s breaking national news. So naturally, I thought, let’s be efficient. Let’s be productive. Let’s absolutely spiral with intention. We will find Dayna’s tequila AND we will hit every questionable liquor store in Parker like two investigators with zero credentials and too much enthusiasm.

That was the plan. And Readers, this is exactly how every story in my life begins. With a plan that sounds reasonable if you don’t think about it too hard.

Now, let me set the scene for you: I have lived in Havasu since I was 9 years old. And in all those years, I have never once been to the Parker Strip. I’ve been to Parker, the city. The practical Parker. The “grab gas, hit the grocery store, get on the road to Phoenix” Parker. I’ve passed through it countless times on my way to see the boys. But the Parker Strip? Never.

And let me just say this: Parker is not Havasu. Trying to explain it feels like describing a fever dream with a lake view. It’s like lakefront mobile home parks mixed with random luxury houses sprinkled with a county park all stitched together by vibes and questionable decisions.

It’s unique to say the least

.Anyway, Cass lives down there in a mobile home park right off the lake. Now, his place? From the outside: slightly concerning. A little haunted-adjacent. The kind of place where you pause for a second before knocking. But the inside? Actually nice. And it’s on the lake. So I understand why he stays.

Do I fully understand? No. But I’m choosing to respect his lifestyle choices for the sake of the narrative.

So I drive out there, we hang out for a bit, and by this point it’s pushing 5 o’clock. And Readers, you already know. I was hungry. We had two options: He could cook or we could go out. And I am me. So obviously, I chose option two.

So we go to Pirate’s Den Restaurant. Now let’s talk about this. Did we have a reservation? No. Were we staying at the resort? Also no. Did that stop us? Absolutely not. Because somehow, some way, Cass got us a table. Immediately. No wait. No questions. Just vibes and access.

Which leads me to believe that this man is either:

A) deeply connected
B) wildly charming
C) living a double life I am not yet aware of
Or D) all of the above

Because in Parker, apparently, Cass is a celebrity. The Casanova of the lake.

And speaking of Cass, for the historical record: his name is Cass. Do I believe that? No. Not even a little. I ask him all the time, “What is Cass short for? And every single time, he looks me dead in the eye and says, “Nothing. That’s my name.” Suspicious. Highly suspicious. So I call him Cassidy. Frequently. With confidence and commitment. He did try to correct me when we first met. Now? He just lets it happen.

Anyway, we ate, we walked along the lake (and before anyone gets ideas: no. Please relax, Readers), and then we began what can only be described as a very serious, very important mission: the alcohol hunt.

First stop, Walmart. Because obviously. We stood in the tequila aisle for what felt like an entire episode of a slow-paced documentary, staring at shelves, rereading labels, questioning if we had somehow forgotten how to read. We were this close to giving up, turning to walk away like defeated soldiers and then suddenly, there it was. Dayna’s tequila. Just sitting there like it hadn’t emotionally put us through anything. But the new BuzzBallz flavors? Absolutely not. Not a single one in sight.

So we moved on to Safeway. Hopeful. Delusional. Optimistic for no reason. Did we find them there? Of course not. Then we hit the questionable liquor store by the Terrible’s on the way to California. You know the one, the kind of place where you walk in and immediately feel like you should apologize to someone. Did they have them? No. They did not.

At this point, Readers, this is Parker. We had exhausted the options. There was no secret hidden fourth location waiting to reward our efforts. So we did what any reasonable adults would do: we gave up, accepted defeat, and went back to Cass’s to drink the BuzzBallz we did find.

Which, for the record, was peach. Not a new flavor, but easily one of the best. And let me be very clear on this because I care about you, Readers. It has to be the orange can. There is another peach one, and that one is disgusting. Color matters here. This is not a drill.

Anyway, I had every intention of going home that night. Back to the Rainbow Sanctuary 2.0. I did. I swear I did. Okay maybe not every intention. There was definitely a small part of me that had already decided I might stay. Fine, a large part. A very large part. Calm down, Brenda. I can feel the judgment through the screen.

But it was getting late, we had already started drinking, and suddenly the idea of driving an hour back to Havasu felt wildly irresponsible. So I made the responsible choice and stayed. And by “stayed,” I mean I continued drinking BuzzBallz like that was somehow part of the safety plan.

Now it’s around midnight, we’re attempting to sleep, and I cannot. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve never stayed there before or because his massive Doberman, Boss, is staring at me like I am a temporary guest at best and a midnight snack at worst. This dog was not blinking. Just watching me like he had already made a decision about me, and I was not included in that decision.

So I’m lying there, wide awake, questioning everything, when Cass looks over and casually asks if I want to go somewhere. As if that is a normal thing to say at midnight. As if I am someone who would say no to that. And then he adds that I could use it for content for my new Substack, which felt less like a suggestion and more like enabling behavior.

Also yes, Readers, he knows about you. He knows you’re nosey. He’s accepted his role in this chaos.

So what exactly was I supposed to say? No? Absolutely not. Be serious.

So we got in his truck and started driving.

Now I told him very clearly, very clearly, and yes, even after a few BuzzBallz my reading comprehension remained intact, the sign said ROAD CLOSED.

Closed.

Not “maybe.” Not “locals only.” Not “Cass, follow your heart.”

Closed.

So naturally, he keeps driving.

I’m sitting there like: sir. Can you not read? Do we need to schedule an eye exam? Should I turn the dome light on so you can sound it out?

And he goes, “This is where all the locals go.”

The locals, Cass?

The locals??

Readers, we were the only idiots out there. Not a single car. Not a single person. Not even a suspicious fisherman pretending this was normal behavior. Just us driving past very clearly posted signs like we were volunteering to be the opening scene of a cautionary tale.

And where does he take me?

He took me down to the water, into what I can only describe as a forbidden area of Parker Dam where people are either not supposed to be that late at night or possibly not supposed to be ever. There was a fishing dock, yes, so I suppose there was some attempt at legitimacy, but I saw signs. Multiple signs. Official-looking signs. The kind of signs put there by people who do not want Sarah and some man named Cass wandering around at 1 a.m. after a BuzzBallz tasting.

He kept assuring me it was fine.

Which, naturally, made me trust him less.

Because do you know who also says “it’s fine” right before my life turns into an episode of Poor Decisions With Good Lighting?

Craig.

Craig says that constantly.

“It’s fine.”

And then, somehow, I wake up the next morning questioning my entire life, my judgment, my sleep schedule, and whether I need new friends or fewer enablers.

So yes, I told Cass he was giving off Craig energy.

And I meant that as both an insult and a warning.

But we stayed anyway.

Of course we did.

For maybe an hour, we just sat on the pier and talked. About what? None of your nosey business, Readers. I know you want the transcript. I know Brenda is already leaning forward like this is a deposition. But some details are going to remain between me, Cass, the forbidden water, and whatever government agency probably did not want us there.

Eventually, we left because it was late, I had to use the bathroom, and at some point sleep needed to happen. He had to be up for work in less than four hours, and I had to drive back to Havasu the next morning to meet Dayna and a friend for coffee like I had not just spent the middle of the night trespassing spiritually, emotionally, and possibly legally.

So that, Readers, is how my quiet, relaxing Friday night turned into me sitting in a forbidden area near Parker Dam at 1 a.m. with a guy named Cass.

This is just one of several stories I’ll be telling you.

Because apparently this is my life now.

Actually, who am I kidding? This has been my life since I was 15. I wish I were making it up, but while I may be a decent writer, inventing content has never really been my strength.

Mostly because my life keeps throwing material at me like it has a production schedule and no concern for my dignity.

But that, Readers, is a story for another day.

Happy Tuesday night.