Contact

When I saw these sweats on a fashion blog I read, I just knew I had to have them. Finally something to make me feel like there’s a purpose behind the lull in my sex life!

Yeah, I’m not dating the younger guy anymore, but since we’re friends and he reads this blog that’s all I’m going to say. While I won’t write about it, I’m more than happy to explain through interruptive dance for those interested.

Back to the abstinence sweats…

I tried to get Rlo to drive me and Maddie to Kmart on Friday, but he was disgusted with me for even asking. Yet that didn’t stop him from calling the store two seconds later to see if they were still open. He claims the store phone number wasn’t on his speed dial, but really how else could he have called so quickly? His disgust with Kmart may have been a little more convincing had he not told me he was saving himself for Martha Stewart earlier that evening.

Yesterday while lunching with Rlo and Milinda at Red Rock a man walked by our table and snapped his fingers at Rlo. I was stunned. I thought I was the only one allowed to snap at Rlo. It turns out they knew each other from a previous life–one where Rlo worked at a gym, or worked out at a gym. I’m a bit foggy on the details because my wine was so very tasty, but I do remember the word gym being uttered repeatedly. I think I picked up on it purely out of guilt– they were discussing exercise as I stole fries from Rlo’s plate.

When Rlo introduced us the guy mentioned I looked very familiar to him. I hate this. I think peoples sometimes recognize me from the column but can’t place how they know me. I gave him my standard reply, “I get around. A lot.” He looked taken aback and gave me a half laugh. Whatevs. I think it’s funny, FUNNY BECAUSE IT’S TRUE! In fact, I’m quite sure that’s what my mom writes about me in her Christmas newsletter: Sarah gets around and she’s STILL in college. We love her anyway.

To read this week’s column go here.  To see a few of the pictures from the party go here.

To read my column this week click here. When you finish please pray to whatever god you believe in, that I may be blessed with extraordinary kickball skills by six o’clock tonight. Otherwise, pray I don’t punch anyone who makes fun of me in the face.

“Sarah, do you want to go to the pub for dinner?”

“Duh, Rlo. But we have to order something semi-Mexican there since it’s Cinco de Mayo. Do you think they serve Mexican wine?”

“Doubtful. You know, you could just drink so much you vomit and pass out. It’s just like going to Mexico.”

I think secretly Rlo wants to get me drunk and take advantage of me. In doing so he’ll prove he is not as gay as I make him sound, and I’ll be forced to write about his manliness on the Internet.

I’m boycotting Costco.  And by boycott I mean I’ll go again soon but will pout the entire time. They used to carry coconut-covered cashews and now they don’t.  Clearly they don’t understand this girl needs her crack back.

I took matters into my own hands; I found this recipe online and headed to the store.  On my list was cream of tarter.  One problem.  I didn’t actually know what cream of tarter was.  I suspected a spice due to the recipe quantity so I headed directly to the spice isle.

After what felt like hours of looking I decided to ask for help.  I picked the older gentleman wearing elbow patches on his jacket and professor glasses.  Dude looked smart enough to know what this mystery spice looked like.  When I explained I don’t typically bake and wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for the man looked down at my hand and said, “Oh honey, that’s why you don’t have a big rock on your finger.”  As he handed me the cream of tarter of the shelf I may or may not have said, “Thanks old man prick.”

I’m soooo thankful this exchange took place.  Now I can memorize every spice and snatch up a husband in no time.  Fucker.

When I got home I started toasting the coconut according to the recipe and upon reading the recipe further found I needed a candy thermometer—which, of course, I don’t own.

I messaged Rlo, told him I was baking and needed help.  He read the recipe and instead of offering to come rescue me from possible life-threatening burns he offered the following, “Sarah, technically you’re not baking.  This is candy.”  To which I replied, “Technically you can SHOVE IT!”

Me: I have a new recipe for you to try on BFF night: One can frozen pink lemonade concentrate, vodka, one pitted peach and ice. Blend and drink.

Rlo: Sounds easy, just like everyone after drinking it.

Me: Ohhh Rlo, that is why I love you! Well that and you put up with my constant abuse, wear pink underwear and love my dog so very much.

Rlo: I must be some sort of angel.

Me: Or a masochist.

I’m going to do something a little different this week with the photo of the day. Instead of posting random snapshots from my iPhone, I’ll be posting photos of a pretty spectacular little boy and me. This is the little boy I’ll be walking for on Saturday at the Utah Autism Speaks Walk.

Thanks to The Kid‘s hard work, my previous dating column archives are all in one spot. Nerds are seriously the best thing ever! Well that and Tivo, which is technically the work of nerd so… oh, and Rlo. He’s the third best thing ever–even if he does drink the last of a shared Diet Coke in the movie. Actually, now that I think about it Rlo isn’t third, he’s fourth, Diet Coke is third.

Damn it. I changed my mind. Comcast Cable is the fourth best thing ever. Rlo is number five. So the order is: 1) Nerds 2) Tivo/DVR 3) Diet Coke 4) Comcast Cable 5) Rlo.

Why did Comcast make the list? As much as I love a good dose of sperm, TV seemed like hardly the place to get it.

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.

I’m obsessed with Rlo’s balls. As I type this I’m suddenly wondering if his family members have stumbled upon this blog. Hmm…

At my last job I had a co-worker who occasionally rode his bike to work. Now, I understand bikers wear spandex, but when you arrive at the office you should change immediately. No one deserves to see co-workers in plum smugglers. NO ONE!

I don’t know if he forgot he was in spandex, or if he just got busy before changing. Whatever the case, I hated it. The first few times he tried to discuss work with me, while wearing spandex, I would politely ask him to put pants on. After a month of this I lost patience and told him I can’t work so close to his balls. I need distance! It got to the point I refused to acknowledge his presence until he changed out of his spandex. After a few months he finally broke the spandex habit. Every single one of his future co-workers owes me a bit thanks. Because of me, they will never have to be within close proximity of his balls.

What does this have to do with Rlo’s balls? He, too, is a biker. He, too, wears the dreaded spandex. Whenever Rlo and I make plans I always have to ask how many layers there will be between his balls and me. Before committing to plans, I require a promise of at least two layers. Is that really so much to ask?