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Remember that one time when I didn’t eat meat for, like, a zillion years and my cattle rancher family hated me?

Um, yeah.

And remember that time I was a vegan for a year and the economy went to shit because I wasn’t buying fancy cheese and Red Iguana’s cheese enchiladas?

Um, yeah.

Well, I’ve done it again. I stupidly decided to take it a step further and try a juice die. For the last week, I’m been juicing all this shit:

Sure the cabbage, apple and carrot juice is delicious, but it tastes nothing like red wine and peanut and butter sandwiches. If I don’t have perfect skin, lose 10 pounds and look five years younger, I’m gonna be forced to cut more than fruits and vegetables.

Getting old(er) sucks the big one. I hate waking up in the morning and seeing both zits and wrinkles. IT’S NOT FAIR! It’s like my own personal punishment from Jesus for having lovely, clear skin in my youth.

Recent stress has me looking and feeling way older than I want to. After weeks of screaming at my reflection in the mirror I decided to take matters into my own hands. My face needed a vacation in the worst way.

I researched the shit out of skin creams and realized just how expensive that option was. For the money I’d be better off spending a day in the spa.

So I did.

I went to Mountain Medical Spa in Murray and tried microdermabrasion for the first time. I’m totally hooked! My face feels baby butt smooth, which is fantastic for me, but not so fantastic for the stranger in the elevator. As it turns out, complete strangers do not want to rub my face to see how silky smooth it is.

I was worried it may be a painful procedure, but it wasn’t. It was like an intense massage complete with relaxing music in the background. The clinic is technically a medical center, but it felt more like a spa full of gal pals. The only way I could have enjoyed my experience more is if they had offered me a hooker and a vodka tonic.

I’m going back next week to try out some of the other offered treatments, so I’ll keep you updated on the hooker offering.

And now for the question portion of this post:

What about you… have you had any procedures? If so which ones? Were you happy with them?

Today marks the fifth day of my soda free existence.

For years my dentist has begged me to give up soda.  Each time I have a new cavity I consider it, but two seconds later I yearn for the burn.  I love the way diet soda burns until it hits the belly.  After just one sip, I tingle and for a moment I find myself happy–happiness that my dentist wants to take away from him.  He is obviously an evil man that deserves to be kicked in the Baby Jesus.

I didn’t consciously decide to give up soda, it just sort of happened.  The fridge at my office is normally packed with enough Diet Dr Pepper to hydrate a third world country.  At the beginning of the week, when I wandered over for my fix, there were no diet sodas.  I whined and bitched and then went without.  Two days later it hit me that I hadn’t had soda in two days.  TWO DAYS PEOPLE!  Since I drink massive quantities of coffee I didn’t have any caffeine withdrawal headaches, so I went with it.  I haven’t gone this long without soda since I was a kid.  And maybe not even then, I do, after all come from a Mormon background.  Where caffeine is served cold and in diet form.

I’m scheduling an appointment with my dentist just so I can inform him of my progress.  Well that and possibly score some bubble gum flavored dental floss.  Yes, as a matter of fact I DO think I’m twelve-years-old.  He will be so proud!  But I’ll still want to kick him in the Baby Jesus.

I’m feeling a little happier and I credit you people. Seriously. Reading your comments made me feel so much better, even if you bitches didn’t offer to trade place with me. And guess what? I read your suggestions and went to see a doctor.

It was there I learned that there’s a clinical condition for my sucky life. It’s called a heat rash. The doctor told me he has never seen one as horrible as mine in an adult. Awesome.

Wanna see my rash?  Of course you don’t.  Gross.  Well too fucking bad!

As the doctor wrote a prescription out for steroid cream he stressed how little cream I needed to rub into my awesome hotness. So you’ll understand when my surprise when the pharmacist handed me this one pound bad boy:

Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go get naked, cover myself in stinky cream and drown my heat/life induced sorrows in a giant bottle of wine. I’ve never felt sexier.

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

A Spoonful of Cute Boy Helps the Medicine Go Down

It’s difficult to date when you’re couch ridden due to a horrendous cross between SARS and Bird Flu.

Being sick is always miserable. Although, if I had caught the sickness from a wild night of hot sex, the reflection period would have at least somewhat lessened the misery. Sadly, I don’t have that luxury–there was no hot night involved.

After a day of being sick I called my doctor and when he wasn’t able to see me that day, I headed to the InstaCare in hopes of finding some sort of medical relief. When I walked in I realized I was in for quite a wait. Half the city had taken up residence in the waiting room. I found a spot, grabbed a book out of my bag, and settled in for the long wait. Twenty minutes in, a very hot, male newcomer took the empty blue cushioned seat across from me.

The InstaCare waiting room isn’t exactly the best environment for flirting. For me anyway, sex appeal isn’t at its prime when accompanied with mucus filled symphony of throat hacking. I made eye contact, smiled and said, “Welcome to Hell.” He laughed and we both went back to our respective reading materials. He got cuter as the wait went on. Before I had a chance to make another attempt at conversation his name was called and he went back to see a doctor. I vowed to talk to him if we had the chance again.

Before long, my name was called and I made my way back to a somewhat sterile room. I was handed a robe and told to take my top off so the doctor could listen to my lungs. I peeled off my shirt and sweater, donned the robe, and waited.

After the doctor made his two-minute appearance, I was getting dressed when I heard the cute boy’s voice at the nurses’ station. I threw on my shirt and sweater, grabbed my bag and hurried out. He was still at the nurse’s station waiting for his paperwork. Score! I started walking towards him when I head someone calling my name behind me. I turned in time to see the nurse waving my rattiest bright pink bra. “Sarah, you forgot something.” The cute boy looked up in time just to see the spectacle. He giggled as I turned bright red. I grabbed my bra, shoved it into my purse, and rushed out. Forget talking to the boy, what was the point? I was entirely too embarrassed.

Apparently cute boys are a dime a dozen at the local InstaCare. The last time I visited also resulted in a cute boy sighting. With the Petri dish valley of ours, another trip to the InstaCare is most definitely in my future.

I guess the cute boy factors into the silver lining somehow, making getting sick not quite as bad. Next time I will remember to wear a sexy, lacey, black bra to the InstaCare. Perhaps next time my results will differ.

Mrs. AK, and I force Arlo to have BFF nights with us once a week. These nights consist of Arlo attempting to whip a little something up in the kitchen. When Arlo bakes with us around there is always an incident. Remember the MSG cookies? While the baking is happening Mrs. AK and I drink red wine and heckle him. It’s a bonding experience we all enjoy.

Sometimes I worry that Arlo feels left out because he doesn’t drink wine. To alleviate this I always take a swig off his Diet Coke, leaving enough wine backwash to give anyone a good buzz.

Yesterday at the drugstore while loading up on Vitamin C I found a way he can share in on the red wine fun without partaking of my germ loaded saliva. Also proving I am a caring friend who wants him to reap the benefits antioxidants provide. In one simple purchase I’ve proven myself as an loving friend who cares about the longevity of a friend’s life.

You’d think Daisy would be thrilled I’m feeling better so she doesn’t have to share the couch, but here she is on my side of the couch waiting to lay by me. All together now… “ahhhhh.” Really, I think she just likes watching Gilmore Girls, but then who doesn’t?

The last time I felt this horrible was when I had kidney stones three years ago and spent Christmas in the ICU. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t all that bad. Midge brought movies and cuddled in bed with me. The pain was somewhat tolerable with a Morphine drip. However, once I started seeing the face of Jesus in the wallpaper I made them take it out. Talk about ruining a good time.

My body has never handled germs of any kind very well. I’m a chronic puker. When I was in high school a doctor accused me of being bulimic when, after a case of Mono, I couldn’t stop throwing up for weeks. My mother in her prime mama bear days got angry with the doctor and reminded him I’ve had a weak stomach since I was a very tiny baby. As a nurse, she was always very involved when I was sick. Perhaps that’s why, at 32, the minute I feel sick I want my mom taking care of me. And if I asked she’d drop everything and drive two hours to get here, just to rub my back or get me a drink of Gatorade. Since it’s my dad’s birthday tomorrow I’m not asking her to drive up. After all, he only has a birthday every four years.

What I thought was a cold is a full-fledged case of the bird flu—self-diagnosed of course. Sure, I get flu symptoms with a minor headache, but this is beyond ridiculous. I can’t even keep a sip of water down. Not to mention, every part of my body hurts, even my eyebrows. Which is all very inconvenient given that I had a math midterm tonight and a Lost party to attend.

I promised my mom if I wasn’t feeling better tomorrow I’d go in and have then hydrate me with an IV, but until then I’m going to lay on the couch, continue to whine, watch trash TV and remind myself over and over what the silver lining of being sick is…

SKINNY JEANS!

Obviously, I’m going to look really good after this “diet” helps me fit back into them.

I’m sick, and it’s all Ben’s fault. I’ve not had a cold or flu all winter. With the small exception of food poisoning inflicted by Arlo, I’ve been completely healthy.

Like a good sister I picked Ben up from the airport Sunday and gave him a ride home. He coughed the entire time and spewed his disgusting boy germs all over my car.

I started feeling gross yesterday, and then woke up this morning with a fever and coughing so hard I puked. Awesome. It was obvious I was Instacare bound. Ben called to see which one I was going to so we could meet there. The jerk is still sick. I told him where to go, but he never showed. Is he OK? Who cares. Part of me was hoping he had overdosed on NyQuil. Not because I don’t love him, but because he totally deserves it.

After waiting an hour in the lobby, my name was finally called–music to my insanely clogged ears. Another wait in the room and finally a doctor arrives. And by doctor I mean Doogie Fucking Howser, MD. Young doctors before have seen me but this was ridiculous—he looked like he was in high school.

“Bad news, Sarah. Looks like you don’t have strep throat.”

“Um, why would that be bad news? I didn’t really want it.”

“Strep we could have treated. This particular funk you’ve got can’t be treated. I can, however, give you a prescription of codeine pills to ease the pain a bit.”

“Pills? Can’t I just get some cough syrup? I think with my throat this swollen I won’t be able to swallow pills.”

“Unfortunately there’s a shortage on codeine syrup, so pills will have to do. Try crushing them in ice cream.”

“Ohhhh, is that what your mom does, too?”

He glared at me. I’m guessing he gets wisecracks about his age all the time. Quite honestly, I was just excited at the prospect of ice cream. I swore off ice cream a few months ago and was very much looking forward to having a reason to buy some.

“Go home, load up and get as much sleep as possible. You should feel better in a few days.”

Maybe having a young doctor isn’t all that bad. Loading up sounds just like what I need. And who am I to defy a doctor’s orders? Exactly.