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This handsome man spills coffee grounds all over my kitchen counter and leaves empty coffee cups everywhere. And yet, I couldn’t be happier. Why didn’t you people tell me love was so grand?!

Saturday morning I was rushing to leave the house to pick Kelli up for brunch. In my haste I knocked a mug off the counter and it shattered.

MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE MUG!

The mug my mother gave me when I graduated high school and moved away. I’ve used it almost every single day since.

I picked up the pieces and gently placed them back on the counter where they sat for two days. Partly because I’m lazy, and partly because I’m sentimental as shit when it comes to anything my mom give me… with the exclusion of guilt trips.

Tonight I realized there was no way to fix the mug, so I sucked it up and threw it away. I felt sick afterward. SICK over a silly, little coffee cup.

The point? I’m not freaking dead inside after all. But I am really damn thirsty.

“Sarah, I think there’s a dead cat in the front yard.”

“Gross, Mom, why did you call to tell me this?”

“Because I just saw it.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to hear about it! Besides, I’m two hours away from you. I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

“I think maybe the dog did it, but I’m not positive.”

“Is there hard evidence it was the dog?”

“No, so it could have been the neighbor’s dog.”

“Mom, this is starting to sound like a country Clue board game and is sort of freaking me out.”

I still don’t understand the need for a dead cat phone call, but I’m grateful for every phone conversation I have with my mom.

I absolutely adore her.

So much that I would drive the two hours to her house just to clean up an animal carcass from her lawn. Actually I’d take it a step further: I love my mom enough that I’d call one of my brothers and have them take care of it. True love means loving my mom enough to not emotionally scar her only daughter.

My dad and I have a very strained relationship. Our personalities are far too similar causing us to fight more often than not. We are stubborn and sharp tongued, which is a deadly and hurtful combination.

After having some car troubles, yesterday, I sucked it up and called him for help. We discussed all the problems my car could be having and then he asked about school. I did something I don’t EVER do with him… I opened up. I expressed my academic fears and frustrations. He listened and offered some sound advice. There were no lectures. None. He could have easily told me to be smarter, or study harder, but he didn’t. This behavior is very uncharacteristic on both of our parts.

We ended our conversation and then something magical happened, he told me he loved me. I know he loves me, but I haven’t heard him vocalize that love since I was a young child. We hung up, and as I set the phone down I started to cry. For once my tears were tears of happiness.

This is the most progress my dad and I have made in decades. And suddenly I don’t care if I pass the troublesome class or not—the important thing is that my education brought my dad and I together, if only for a moment. That alone is worth every single cent of my tuition.

Daisy apparently didn’t get the memo that I went back to school and am working part-time. She thinks expensive medicals tests are a hobby. They so, so aren’t.

The vet clinic didn’t get the memo that a vodka tonic is the epitome of a refreshing drink. As for me? Well I didn’t get the memo that when the receptionist asks you if you would like a refreshing drink she means a warm Sprite, not a bottle of vodka and straw. Another refreshing drink is champagne, which should always be served immediately after informing a worried dog owner that her beloved pug is cancer-free. Daisy does, however, have a a sludge-filled gallbladder, major food allergies and irritable bowel syndrome.

The vet called her a little shit for giving us such a scare. I called the vet a big shit when he told me to keep an ass journal for Daisy. Apparently he’d like to read about the consistency of Daisy’s feces while enjoying a nightcap with his wife. I’d much rather get him a subscription to an interesting magazine, but whatever floats his boat, and keeps my dog alive.

While I’m thrilled there’s nothing serious wrong with her, I’m realistic enough to know we’re in for the long haul here. Daisy’s disgusting farts aren’t going anywhere. And neither is my love for her, although my savings account is. My fart filled apartment has never felt more like home. I’m happy to have the little shit back, but if anyone has any information on the market for one-eyed pug porn let me know. Daisy needs a job. And preferebly one with health benefits.

Dear Heart,

It’s Valentine’s Day. This should be the day of celebrating a loving relationship, yet we aren’t. I blame you.

No really, I do.

You’ve been so absent lately. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if you’re still working correctly. There’s no other explanation for your complete failure to love someone of the opposite sex properly. You’re so good at loving family, friends and even that stinky pug, so I know you are capable of love.

What’s your deal? Are you still upset with me for staying in that relationship even after you’d been broken? I’ve apologized so many times. I’ve even fed you ice cream, AND chocolates. There’s nothing more I can do. You need to let it go and forgive me.

Sure, I understand you’re probably a little scared of getting hurt again, but we are strong. If we work as a team we can kick the shit out of this love thing. We are tough bitches, my friend.

So what are you so afraid of?

Dude, stop being a pussy and live a little! If you break, you break. Broken hearts mend. And I have an entire box of Hello Kitty Band-Aids, just in case.

Now go out there and make momma proud. Or else.

Love,
Me

Last night, Rlo and I had dinner with Mrs. AK and her kids. After dinner Little AK asked me to read her a story and tuck her in. This has been a longstanding tradition between the two of us, until recently, when she’s decided Rlo can join us.

No matter which book I choose, Little AK wants the male character to be called Rlo-pants. He blushes and I oblige. The three of us crawl into her tiny PINK! bed to hear the story. As I turned over the last page, Little AK immediately dismissed Rlo from her bedroom, so that I could tuck her in properly.

As I was picking up her stuffed animals and placing them on her bed, she looked up at me and said, “Goodnight, Sarah, I love you more than Rlo.”

“Well, sweetie, I love you more than chocolate, and you know how I love chocolate.”

“But, Sarah, I love you more than Google.”

Realizing I couldn’t follow that up, I gave her a quick kiss, turned off the light and ran downstairs to gloat.

Yesterday was the First World Autism Awareness Day, but you know this because you are aware, right?

On May 3rd I am taking part in the Utah Autism Speaks Walk. I encourage anyone who can to donate to this cause. It would mean a lot to me and a lot to the family I’m walking for. We are team Big MAK–if you want to help us, donate directly to my page here. Thanks to everyone who has already donated, and thanks in advance to those that do. You’re going to, right? I have the best readers around! If you’re interested in the organization, read their site: Autism Speaks Website .

Why I walk?

I’m walking for this brave little boy, and his incredible family. I’ve watched him growing up over the past eight years, and it breaks my heart to see him growing bigger, but not develop the way other, more fortunate, children do.

He says very few words, but the day he said my name was a day I’ll never forget. The very few times he does say “Sarrrrrah” I cry for him, for his family and for the other children affected with this disease. He can’t tell me he loves me, but each time he hugs me I know he does. I whisper, “I love you” into his ear each time I leave their house, and I pray that he understands me. One in every 150 US children is diagnosed with Autism. This is unacceptable, and frankly terrifies me; someday I want a child and I want that child to have better odds. So I walk.

As I made my bed last night, I came to terms with the fact this is likely the last time I’ll sleep on these sheets. These sheets that I brought home from my grandma’s house after she died. These sheets that bring me comfort, no matter how crappy I feel. These sheets, with their crazy flower pattern, remind me that my grandma was spunky, even when she was sleeping.

Over the years, since her death, these sheets have gotten me through a lot of hard times. Seeing the sheets remind me that I come from a line of strong women, they could do anything, and so can I. When the corner ripped as I made my bed last night, I didn’t feel quite so strong anymore, and I got a little teary-eyed.

I can’t throw the sheets out just yet. Instead I’ll lovingly pack them away knowing that if I ever need them they’ll be there for me—just like she would’ve been if she were still alive.

Yesterday was Frank Sinatra’s birthday. Ben sent me a text message reminding me, but I didn’t need a reminder. I’ve been in love with Sinatra my entire life. In fact, he’s the first crush I ever had.

My Grandma Leavitt played a lot of big band music when I was little, which explains my love of it. It reminds me of her, and now that she’s gone I really, really like having that reminder. The first time she played a Sinatra song I announced to her I was going to be in love with him forever. From that point on whenever I spent time at her house I wanted to listen to him. I used to put on a dress and sit and listen to his records. When my grandmother asked me why I needed a dress on, I said, “I need to be pretty in case he comes to marry me.” And even though he didn’t come to marry me, I still listen to his music obsessively all these years later.

My mother bought me the below Frank Sinatra doll a few years ago for Christmas. I love it! In fact if there were a fire in my apartment and I only had time to save a few things I’d save the doll, and my baby blanket. Depending on how much Daisy farted that day I may save her, but chances are the fire would be a direct result from her ass.