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My family ditched me for Thanksgiving, and left me with the responsibility of finding Ben a suitable place to spend the holiday. My mom took his threat to eat at Village Inn seriously, which is rather silly because it’s much easier to order Chinese food, and Ben is all about easy. (Please note: This is not a sly way of saying he dates sluts, because I have no problem telling him his girlfriends are not good enough for him.)

After much consideration I decided we would be spending Thanksgiving with Mrs. AK, her kids, the Japanese basement dwellers and our Canadian turkey baster. AK will be out of the country for the holiday, which sucks because there goes our designated driver, which makes it a weekend affair. If I’m going to have a Thanksgiving off from the Mormon family I’m going to spend it drinking massive amounts of wine–or course, saving some room for turkey and pie.

Today, Mrs. AK and I were assigning duties when she asked, “What task should I assign Ben? Entertainment?” “No,” I said, “I told him he would be carving the turkey and peeling veggies. He’s really good at skinning things. Which if you think about it is really worrisome.” Mrs. AK said, “Yes, but better than Arlo, who is apparently good at boning the turkey.”

I cannot wait for our dirty Thanksgiving!

I love my apartment, but have recently come to the conclusion I’m totally over it. It’s been a good little spot for me, but it’s time to move on. And move up. Only there’s a problem: I want to live the good life. Nothing fancy, but it would be nice to wash both dishes and clothing at home. My current apartment has neither a dishwasher or laundry. Paying more rent shouldn’t be a problem, but I’m in school and only working a part(ish) time job.

Thus the conundrum.

I’ve been considering taking on a roommate. I’ve not had a roomie in years (I’m not counting Daisy, as she never bothers to do any type of house work beyond her attempt to lick imaginary crumbs off the carpet.) I’ve even found a friend who is also looking for a new home. The only drawback is she’s young–fantastic, but young. She looks older than she is, and acts older than she is. Then there’s me… I look (I hope!!) younger than I am, and certainly act MUCH younger. If my calculations are correct (which they probably aren’t, I’m getting a C in math) then I figure we average out to be 26. She’s like a younger sister. In fact I had high hopes of her marrying into the family but she and Ben are “just friends.”

Will this work? Do I put my hesitations to bed and jump in? Can she deal with living the spinster life at such a young age? Will we get along? Can she handle my inherited orneriness? Am I worrying too much? Probably. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter.

A friend gave me a Sonicare for my birthday. I know what you’re thinking, “That’s an extravagant gift from a friend.” But it’s okay because we almost got married once.

I’ve been wanting one for a while, but have a hard time justifying that much money for a toothbrush. That sort of cash should be spent exclusively on hot jeans or shoes.

I was so excited I immediately ran into the bathroom to try out my new toy. However, I made the mistake of putting the toothpaste on and turning the brush on before putting it into my mouth. Not my smartest move! Rather than hugging my friend and thanking him for the gift I managed to get toothpaste in his eye and all over my bathroom. Awesome.

Dear Internet,

As I looked around the multiple birthday celebrations this weekend I couldn’t help but notice a theme. Well, beyond the “drunken good times” theme I always abide by. I’m talking about the friends I’ve found through you. You’ve brought so many spectacular people into my life I might not have found otherwise.

Thank you for that, and I’ll consider it my birthday gift this year, since you didn’t provide me with free shipping from Sephora.

Love, Sarah

AK and Mrs. AK threw a brilliant Halloween party this year. Forgetting that their friends who own Bad Ass Coffee would be there, I dressed up as a Starbucks barista, complete with a venti cup of red wine! And so the competition began. Steve was a great sport and posed for some pictures. Sadly, the best photos of the night won’t be posted.

Why?

Because the hot man in an apron spanking me with a spatula didn’t want them posted. I can’t blame him though, as he was without clothes under the apron. Oy!

My birthday celebration got started a little early this year. Some of the girls and I met at the Pub for lunch today. Midge brought along birthday presents conveniently disguised as strawberry cupcakes. She knew I wouldn’t drive to Ogden for boobs, so she brought the boobs to me. Proving, once again, she’s my best girl!

My Google Chat personal message today reads, “Can dry humping Vanilla Ice cause burns?” Yes, I’m that excited about his upcoming show. Seeing the message my friend Jeff Bell was very worried about the health of my lady parts.

Jeff: V.ice? Were you dry humping Vanilla Ice? Cause that’s kinds icky.
me: yup!!

Jeff: Those kind of daredevil antics could make your vagina fall off!

It’s a darn shame he can’t see what I’m wearing today:

My love for Vanilla Ice has no limits. Word.

Dear Tim,

Last week marked the third anniversary of your death. And frankly, I’m still pissed off at you for choosing to leave. Sometimes I understand but mostly I’m just mad. Someday I hope that anger fades to forgiveness, but for now I still want to yell at you… only you’re not here to listen.

I still remember the first time I saw you, it was 1998 and you were interviewing for a chemist job. Your hair was way too long, your suit didn’t fit and you rode a bullet bike. I was positive we’d never be friends. And in a way we weren’t… we were family. I admired you more than I was ever willing to admit. I never told you how much you meant to me. I’m not so great with emotions: anger.. yes, tender shit, no. And now you’re gone and I wish I’d been able to tell you how much I cared about you. You and Alex are the older brothers I never had. Both of you loving me in your own weird ways.

Today, while driving home, I passed your street and was overwhelmed with emotion. I came home and cried, and then I threw up. I could almost hear you laughing at me for “having a girl stomach.” Remember how you always teased me for getting sick so easily, and then when I was really sick you were there for me every day. You called me every other day to check up on me. I never told you this, but I saw you driving past my house a couple times a week just to check in and make sure everything looked okay. Tim, you were always there for me. I hope someday I can forgive myself for not being there when you needed a friend.

I don’t know if there’s life after death, but wherever you are I hope you’re happy, and I hope there is beer. I’m going to drink a Corona for you. And I don’t even like Corona.

Love,
Sarah

No, not that pill.

I wish my life were a romantic comedy. Not for the romance, and certainly not for the comedy, but for the convenience.

Have you seen “Good Luck Chuck?” Don’t. The only redeeming quality is a visual of the well pantied Jessica Alba. Damn she’s hot–total girl crush here. In the movie she breaks her tooth and just her luck Dane Cook, her love interest, is a dentist.

I need this! I broke my tooth over the weekend and can’t get into a dentist until tomorrow morning. Why are there no sexy dentists lining up at my door? Where’s Dane Cook and his bad acne scars when you need him?

I have every single kind of engineer you could need in my family, but not one one damn dentist. Worthless. Luckily I do have a friend with chronic back pain and a never ending supply of painkillers. Dear friend, thank you for saving me from a very painful existence.