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There’s a new bitch in town, and she goes by the name Pants. I only hope she doesn’t catch the Jesus–I hear it itches in the nether regions.

My lovely friend is moving to the land of Zion this week. She hails from San Francisco where wine flows cheaply and the men, while gay, are very, very pretty. I suspect the shock value of her new home will drive her to daily drinking. YAY!

She comes from religious stock, but like myself quit that shit years ago. Who said quitting was a bad thing?

I’ll let the good old women of Relief Society know you’ve arrived, dear girl. Let the baked goods begin. They magically appear on my doorstep twice a month. I think the treats will go well with our Bloody Mary Sundays– the only true religion for kids like us!

I feel fifty fucking five today! I just got off the phone with a friend who called before heading to Colorado for the weekend to do some hiking. Instead of telling him to drink up and have fun what did I say? “Ok, be safe!” What is wrong with me? Sure, I love my friends and care about their well-being, but seriously there must be a way to care without sounding like my mother.

One of my dearest friends, Carmen, is ditching this pretty, great state and heading to the land of sun and bikinis. To read this week’s column written as one last guilt trip click here. While at his house I couldn’t help but notice the giant dent he’s made in his packing:

I have a feeling he’s going to need just a few more things for survival than roller blades, baseball mitt and hat. But at least he’s got the basics.

Blogging is so much like high school. I remember Pants telling me this, and I shrugged it off thinking it couldn’t be all that bad. It is. When blogging you put yourself out there for anyone to read, that’s the point, right? Sometimes you read a blog not because you are “stalking” the person, but because you enjoy the writing. Rather than bother myself with it, I’m going to revamp the old RSS feed. This is where you come in. I need a daily does of blogs to read. I’m a blog junkie! I’d love some new recommendations on entertaining, well-written blogs. Email or comment me if you have any. My RSS feed and I will be eternally grateful!

Moving on.

Wine was spilled last night, and again it was not my fault. Learning my lesson, I kept my cup in hand the entire time. Even then it still got kicked over. You’d think it would be impossible but a fellow concert kicked the cup out of my hand as he passed, causing it to spill all over Aimee. There was no attempted apology. Which may have been my fault–I think I offended him. I tend to expand my vocabulary to include every expletive I know when someone kicks my hand. It hurt therefore I’m 100% justified–that’s how it works, yo!

Aimee was soaked in red wine. Which totally made it okay to plot revenge. She had a plan, that is until sweet Sue intervened. “God is watching you, Aimee.” Aimee looked to me for an answer. “It’s Baby Jesus I’d be concerned with, and he must be asleep by now. Go for it.” I knew it was mean, but I was bitter. I wanted to get through an outside concert without having my drink displayed all over my friend’s clothing and blanket. Just one! Is that really too much to hope for?

In the end there was no revenge plan executed. Once the word karma got thrown into the conversation it was all over. The gods of karma better pay off today, or I’m going to be pissed!

Aimee and her daughter, Lo, met Ben and I at the Farmer’s Market this morning. Ben and Lo are like siblings these days. One day they hate each other and the next they are inseparable. Today was an on day. I think it had something to do with Ben teaching her how to blow bubbles with her gum last week.

My favorite part was the cupcake stand. Aimee’s favorite part was leaving and not having a parking ticket. Lo’s favorite part were the snow cones and Ben’s favorite part was comparing SLC Mayoral Candidates to Dick Cheney.

I think he’s considering a move downtown so he can vote in the race, based solely on looks. This is the brother who refuses to acknowledge the fact I pick favorite sports teams based on uniform colors. Hmm…

In my screwed up world a new gal pal is usually more exciting then a new boyfriend. No, I’m not a lesbian. Sad that I have to write that, but I know I’m going to get at least two emails asking just that. I repeat, NO LESBIAN HERE–unless you count my girl crush on Gwen Stefani.

Anyway.

I have few lifelong girlfriends. The ones I have mean the world to me, but as the years go by we have less and less in common. This doesn’t mean for a second I love them less, it just means I need to find partners-in-crime for my daily activities.

Enter the new gal pals. Each time I meet one I’m thrilled at the prospect of a new friend, and instantly force a connection with them. And each time it quickly fades, just like with new boyfriends. We find we have less in common or I find I don’t trust them at all.

So in the end I feel like I’m dating men and women, and that’s just exhausting. Am I?

Nothing says Happy Birthday like midget porn. For real.

Sue, one of my pseudo sisters, had a birthday party last night. (I have the best of both worlds: real brothers who have to do chores for me, and pretend sisters who are talented beyond belief. )

After a few drinks on the deck we moved into the living room to watch a “movie.” Something I suggest you don’t watch sober. Ever.

I am always one of the first to leave these parties. I’m old. But I always have an excellent reason for leaving. Last night’s excuse was my stripper bruises hurt:

Mrs. AK, being the fabulous bitch she is, brought me a souvenir home from her trip to Oregon. She must have sensed how badly I needed a book bag with a secret pocket for sneaking margarita juice into Gallivan on Thursday’s for my special snowcones.

Anyway, I had the bag at school Monday night and this girl looks at me and says, “oh my gosh, that bag totally fits you!” Seems like a sly way of proclaiming her hate, doesn’t it?

Not a damn thing if you ask me! If you ask my friend Justin, however, he’ll tell you how “quirky” it is that I keep my coffee pot in the fridge. (And by quirky he means weird as hell.)

I like iced coffee, why wouldn’t I put it in the fridge?

After I explained he still laughed at me. See if I ever invite him over for lunch again.