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Last week Lou Reed turned 68, which means it’s only a matter of time before he’s dead.

I’m not being morbid, I’m just planning ahead. I need to steal his sperm before he dies.

I was in junior high school the first time I heard a Lou Reed song. By the first chorus I knew I wanted to make lots and lots of chubby babies with him.

It was his voice.

It’s always the voice. Some woman are attracted to a nice ass or washboard abs. Those qualities are nice, but a sexy voice gets me every single time.

Now that he’s getting older it’s time to make those babies. I’m no spring chicken myself.

I haven’t finalized my plan yet. I know, I know… I’ve had a zillion years to work on it, but I’m a procrastinator, even when it comes to man juice.

Oh. My. God. I just typed man juice and giggled. Maybe I AM a spring chicken after all.

So far my plan involves a flight to New York City and some master stalking skills. When I find him I think I’ll just be frank with him and say, “Hi, Lou, my name is Sarah and I’m here to steal your sperm.”

Just in case he’s not down with it, I’ll have a concoction of Rohypnol and Viagra ready. The plan isn’t perfect yet, but it will be. It has to be. I need those babies, because God forbid my offspring inherit my voice.

I’ve had a few contractors in and out of my house over the past few days bidding on replacing the bathtub. One particular contractor walked out of the bathroom and handed me three empty coffee mugs with a disgusted look on his face.

I was livid. How dare he come in my house and judge me? That’s what I have family for.

I’m unsure if it was the coffee that bothered him, or the fact I was drinking it in the bathroom.

“Oh, thanks. I forgot to put that away this morning.”

“Um, there are three.”

I love when people impress me with their counting skills. I felt like I should justify my morning routine, but held back. I also suppressed my urge to smash one of the mugs and use the shards to cut his throat.

Seriously though, it’s not that gross that I drink coffee in the bathroom. Sure, sometimes the mugs leave weird looking cup rings on the back of my toilet, and tub, but it’s not like I sit on the toilet every morning while eating a bowl of cereal.

Actually…

How much time would eating breakfast while peeing save? Five minutes? Ten minutes? I could hit the snooze button one more time.

Or I could stop eating breakfast altogether.

With the money saved on food, I could hire a maid to clean up the mugs, or spend the money on supplies to mainline the coffee. Either option would make me happy, and likely keep the next contractor alive.

Yesterday, on my way home from a client meeting, I stopped by Target to pick up a few grocery items. As usual I took the long way through the clothing.

I’m always on the hunt for cheap, white tee-shirts to replace the coffee stained ones that fill my closet. I snagged a couple and headed to the dressing room. Having the world’s smallest chest makes shopping rather difficult. Usually a size small fits perfectly, but apparently Target decided to turn into a complete jackhole and started making the chest circumference bigger, and the arms much, much smaller.

I managed to get stuck inside a fucking tee-shirt.

I was trying to wrestle the shirt from my body when I heard the woman in the next dressing room ask, “Are you OK?” She sounded annoyed so I assumed she was talking to the child with her, and continued operation remove shirt from ham arm.

A minute later she knocked on my stall and asked again, “Are you OK in there? Do you need medical attention? I’m a nurse, or I can call someone for you.”

What the WHAT?

“One second,” I replied as I hurriedly gave the shirt one final tug. I heard the combination of fabric ripping and a grunting sound. Oh my God. No wonder she was concerned. I sounded like an 80-year-old constipated man, or a teenager giving birth to a secret baby.

I cracked the dressing door room open so she could see that I was OK, and not giving birth to an unwanted child that I would later abandon on the junk food isle. She looked relieved, apologized and left.

Thank God, because I didn’t really have time for pleasantries. I needed to hurry home and start the process of finding a plastic surgeon to move my arm fat into my boobs. It’s not really plastic surgery, it’s an all-natural body shift.

This week I’ve tried to write several blog posts, both for this site and Aiming Low. That obviously hasn’t happened. I have the hardest time staying focused. I try to write something entertaining, I really do, but instead I sit down and my thoughts are all over the place.

This was my exact thought process when I sat down to write a post last night:

I should write a blog post
Wait, without using a pen or pencil is that still writing
I should type a blog
Oh, I need to clean and display my pink typewriter
I need a new desk
I really need to vacuum my office
I need to empty the garbage
I should start recycling my glass
I need to buy wine
Are my dishes clean
Dishwasher detergent
Target trip
Clothes
I need my jeans hemmed
I need new jeans
Are skinny jeans here to stay
I should lose some weight
Going to the gym more makes my ass hurt
My ass looks great in Citizens of Humanity
I hope that jackass doesn’t call
I wonder if I could play ‘jackass’ on Words With Friends
I should call my mom back
I need to find stationary for kids by Sunday
I need an updated dictionary
IKEA!
Bookshelves
I should buy art to hang on my walls
I don’t like the wall color
Tan
Beer
The pub
pugs
Daisy

And then I spent twenty minutes watching pug videos on You Tube. Sooo, forgive me for not having anything of value to post?

Please?

Then send Ritalin.

There’s nothing I hate more than tax time. Well except for going to the post office. I fucking hate the post office.

Oh, and I hate grocery shopping.

And the doctor’s office waiting room.

So, yeah, I HATE STUFF.

Anyway. Taxes suck. Luckily an old co-worker of mine is an accountant. Every year I have to track her down. I suspect she changes her phone number and email just to keep me from bugging her about finances. Or I just suck at organization and lose the info. Good think I have trusty AK to keep track of people for me. He’s way better than any iPhone assistant app.

“Hey, what’s Angie’s email address? I need to see if she can do my taxes. Not DO as in have sex. I do not want Angie having sex with my taxes.”

He laughs… jerk.

“Can you imagine how awkward that would be? Ohh, Angie, sorry that my taxes gave you the paper-cuts. And what if you can’t treat vaginal paper-cuts?”

“Sarah, I’m trying not to imagine this.”

“No need. I’m sketching a picture of it now. I’ll take a photo and send it over.”

And to think he didn’t even appreciate the drawing. People need visuals. Duh.

There’s been some major excitement in my mailbox over the past few days. No really, my MAILBOX. This is not a euphemism.

Saturday I received my college diploma (Can I get a hell yeah?).

Monday was also pretty eventful. I received a whopping 13 credit card offers. I’m practically rich.

Yesterday’s trip to the mailbox was heart stopping exciting. I opened my front door, stepped into the dark and was startled when two strange men were standing there. Once my heart began beating again I tried to figure out why these men were here.

They were too old to be Mormon missionaries. Ah-hah, they must be my graduation parade!

The University is fired. Two old dudes in pleated khaki pants weren’t what I had in mind. I wanted a float, a jazz band and someone throwing candy at kids. Not to kids, at kids. What? Kids always ruin parades.

Stranger dudes weren’t a two-man parade, nope. They were welcoming me to the neighborhood. You know the neighborhood I moved into MONTHS AGO. I asked which neighboring houses they lived in, but found they lived blocks away. There was something suspicious about this late welcome.

This welcome screamed Mormon, so I nonchalantly asked…

“Are you with the neighborhood watch? Or did the church send you? Are you my home teachers? Where are my baked goods? Who turned me in? Was it my mom? It’s always the mothers. Though it could have been my grandma. Or maybe one of my brothers as a prank. Is this a prank? OH MY GOD, are you really here to sell me a vacuum?”

I was met with a moment of confused silence. My line of bombarding questions usually has that effect on people.

Once composure was regained—theirs not mine…OBVIOUSLY—they confessed to being from the “ward” and were just informed of my neighborhood arrival. I appreciate them making me sound like royalty, but in my world royalty should be awarded with baked goods. They already provided heart damage by scaring me, so they may as well obstruct my arteries with deliciously fatty food.

Is that really too much to ask?

I THINK NOT.

My family is usually very tolerant of my crazy. I think it has something to do with earning double points in order to access heaven.

Please note that getting into heaven may be a tad more complex than a reward card system. I’m not current on all things Jesus, but I imagine there’s a bit more to Christianity than double point day.

Anyway.

My brother, Ben, is probably the most tolerant of my crazy, because he shares a similar quality. This is the kid who removed the front, passenger seat of his car so people wouldn’t get in his space. Um, yeah. We’re totally related.

Ben knows a lot about cars. He’s been fixing my countless car issues for years. And until now he’s been happy to help. My car, much like me, is getting older. It desperately needs replacing, which I plan to do in the spring. Until then, however, I worry about all the small noises coming from the engine area. Each time I hear a weird noise I call and leave Ben a voicemail. This frequently occurs right after I listen to Car Talk on NPR. The program is my crack, and my brother’s biggest pet peeve.

Last weekend they featured a girl who lost a pregnant Madagascar Hissing Cockroach in her family’s car. It’s true! You can listen to the clip here.

After hearing this, I was convinced my car had a pregnant Mormon cricket hiding under a seat. I called and left my brother a very detailed message. He didn’t return that call, or the next call about my broken steering wheel. He also didn’t return the call from the previous week about… actually, I don’t even remember, but whatever it was IT WAS BROKEN.

This is all very upsetting and I’m considering having his reward card revoked as punishment. If that doesn’t work I’m going to refuse to replace my car.

That’ll teach him.

What a powerful statement, right? I WISH.

My underwear are cotton boy-shorts from Target and hold zero sex appeal. So while the statement may not be powerful or sexy, it’s still ALMOST true.

Friday night I stayed home and did my laundry. That’s what happens without the power of pretty panties; no one wants to date me. Instead I watched “Dollhouse” while wearing said underwear and my Vanilla Ice concert shirt.

During a commercial break I walked upstairs to grab something and noticed this:

Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that a house fire? I completely panicked.

I ran downstairs, grabbed Daisy and headed outside. Once we got out there I realized, um, it’s winter, cold as balls and I don’t have any pants on. I also noticed that nothing smelled like smoke. The air smelled warm and cuddly, kinda like the load of white shirts, socks and underwear in the dryer.

Oh.

Yeah.

That’s right… the dryer is vented outside. My house wasn’t burning down after all. Thank god, because I really wanted to watch the end of “Dollhouse.’

A few times a year I give up refined sugar and alcohol. It’s like a do-it-yourself trip to The Betty, only there’s no pool or celebrities to talk shit on.

Pretty much it’s the longest two weeks of my life. I’m thirsty, my memory sucks and I’m craving chocolate something mad.

Last night I was commiserating with my friend Brittany about my inability to remember anyone’s name.

Me: It’s so hard for me to keep track of people unless there’s a burrito or potato chips stapled to their shirt.

Brittany: Or they smell like wine.

Me: Or if they have a TV hooked to their chests playing porn. Those are the people I always remember.

I think I found a new career path: I should be a tutor for kids. It might be tricky to get parents on-board with the whole porn thing, but I’m convinced once they realize that children will remember the most tragic part of their childhood they will have no trouble committing.

I’m gonna be filthy rich. Get it? Filthy… porn.

Ahhh, forget it. I don’t need you to understand my puns. Once my business is a success I’ll buy new readers who do.

Spam mail rules. Seriously, where else are you going to learn about the basic human rights of hookers?

This email showed up in my email yesterday:

I’ve been so ignorant all these years not considering the fact hookers are people. I guess it has been a while since I’ve seen “Pretty Woman.”

As much as I love this email, it’s sorta confusing that I’m supposed to care about the plight of hookers, and then immediately buy Viagra.

How is that even saving a hooker?

Maybe they should try something like: Hookers won’t have sex with you, but they will ask you to sign a petition and then sell you bacon-flavored Viagra.

Bacon-flavored Viagra!

That’s where the big money is. I don’t have a penis and I’d still buy into that one.