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It’s not a secret how much I like taking my pants off, though I do have SOME limits. There are a few places that I refuse to take my pants off like public restrooms, my grandmother’s house, or on a date with a total douchebag.

Yesterday, flying home from Chicago, I was forced to take my pants off in a dirty airport bathroom.

Before my flight home boarded I made a quick trip to the bathroom because I’m allergic to gross and nothing is grosser than airplane bathrooms. Right before I exited the stall I noticed my underwear on backwards. That’s the danger of boy short style undies and being in a rush to make a flight. I thought I’d be able to easily take off my pants and fix my undies, but just as I was about to drop my jeans I noticed liquid on the floor. Not wanting to risk the “is this pee or water” game I stepped onto the toilet seat to take care of business. Trying to maneuver a slippery plastic “let’s prevent toilet herpes” covered toilet seat with my pants half off in flip flops was not a good idea. Seeing that my foot was dangerously close to the germy toilet water I hopped off the toilet seat as fast as possible. In the process my left flip flop flew off my foot and under the next stall which, of course, wasn’t empty.

I froze.

There was no way I was going to walk out without a shoe. Um, germs much? No way. I’d rather die in a stall than walk barefooted on that floor. I had no idea what to do. I didn’t have my phone with me so I couldn’t send an emergency SOS text message to Summer, who was waiting for me in the terminal. Just as I was about to have a complete meltdown a perfectly manicured hand reached under my stall and handed me my shoe. Without saying a word. Not one. No laughing, nothing.

I’m convinced it was the hand of God. And people, it’s my job to tell you that God is a woman. With hooker red nails.

Show me a woman who doesn’t have insecurities about her body and I’ll show you a fucking liar. We all have things we hate: our noses, thighs, cheekbones, hair, et cetera.

I’ve always been extremely self-conscious about my chest, or lack thereof. I can still hear the taunting from boys in junior high school.

“Sarah’s a carpenter’s dream…she’s flat as a board and she’s never been screwed.”

I hated those little prick bastards. I cried myself to sleep many a nights in those days.

I never got over it. And my chest never got any bigger. I still have the chest size of a pre-teen. I hate it. Nothing ever fits right.

It’s so hard to shop when you have a regular sized body with the chest size of a 10-year-old. Yesterday I finally took in a pile of sundresses that need to be tailored into my favorite tailor Mr. Charlie. He’s the most adorable elderly Chinese man.

As I tried the dresses on for him I could see the frustration on his face. “Why you have such little teeny boobies?”

I muttered, “Because God hates me, that’s why.”

“Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head at me. “Nothing fits you right.”

I handled the situation like the adult I am, and not the child my chest size might suggest. I held my tongue and didn’t run off in tears. Instead I looked at him and said, “We’ve all got body issues, but at least I have pretty hair.”

“Oh, yes. Such pretty hair, “ he replied.

We finished up and I left the shop with my head held high, because it draws attention to my kick ass hair and not my teeny boobies.

Mormon Jesus is ruining my life.

First he’s like, “Hey Sarah, wine is devil juice and my people aren’t allowed to drink it.” I ignored him because that’s what I do. AND THEN he’s like, “Sarah did know coffee is a warm drink and therefore against the Word of Wisdom?” I wasn’t having anyone tell me I can’t drink coffee so I said, “Jesus, dude, I drink my coffee cold. I’m not breaking your crazy rules. Suck it.”

Telling Jesus to suck it is never a good idea. Ever. He ruined the one and only chance I had at finding true love.

Jeff Tweedy, my soul mate and the lead singer of Wilco, is playing in Las Vegas on June 19. I was ecstatic when I found out. Wilco is one of my favorite bands and I’ve never seen them play. I planned a girls’ trip to Sin City so I could finally meet and marry Jeff Tweedy.

Guess who went and ruined that plan? Yup, Mormon Jesus. He’s like, “Sarah, Sin City is where sinning happens. Forget it. You’re NOT GOING!” I ignored him and continued planning my weekend trip.

I sometimes forget that Jesus is all in charge of the universe or whatever. He decided to spoil my plans by sending my brother home from his two-year LDS mission in Japan on June 19.

Just because I told him to suck it, I’ll never see Wilco play.

Mormon Jesus is so mean.

Kelli called me last night as I was in the bathroom washing my face before bed. Usually I would have just called her back, but because we always end up playing phone tag I answered the call and immediately put her on speaker.

“I promise I’m not using a vibrator. I know it sounds like one but it’s this new Clean and Clear’s Blackhead Eraser that I bought at Target tonight.”

“Sarah, our friendship just died. You cannot answer the phone and talk about a vibrator instead of saying hello.”

“Oh yes I can, it’s going to bring us closer together.”

We continued our conversation as I washed my face. She told me all about playing Bunko with some friends. I pointed out it was only a matter of time until she moved back to Utah and joined out mother’s game group. She told me to shut-up.

I finished up with my mini-facial and was admiring my smooth skin in the mirror.

“Damn that feels good.”

“Well of course it does. That’s the point of a vibrator, Sarah.”

Last night was the big launch party for the new issue of Wasatch Woman magazine. I wrote two features for this issue, so I was very excited to attend.

I got home from the day with plenty of time to get ready, but had a bit of a headache so I popped some Advil and decided to lie down on the couch for a few minutes until the headache was gone.

I woke up two hours later.

SHIT.

Knowing I was already 30 minutes late I didn’t have time to get ready. I quickly threw on the first clothes I saw, grabbed my purse and I was off.

While at a red light I looked in the mirror and realized my hair was a disaster. I ran my fingers through it, but it ended up looking even worse. Great. I’m the girl who goes to a party at an upscale salon with fuzzy hair.

At the next red light I tried to fix my bra. The straps needed to be tightened so I pulled down one side of my shirt for easy access. I do it in the bathroom all the time, so I didn’t think twice–until I heard the car next to me honking and looked up to see two teenage boys waving at me. Luckily the light turned green before I had a change to slit my own wrists.

I finally arrive at the party and the first thing I see is my editor, Pam, wearing the exact same shirt. The one time I wear a bright color instead of black and I end up with a doppelganger. Oh and Pam is pregnant, which means I looked like I was wearing a maternity shirt, too.

I’m naming my pretend baby Petunia. I’m also going to have a baby shower and request large bottles of vodka because I’m totally going to need them when I see the pictures from the party.

Before you get your panties in a bunch I should mention while this photo WAS taken this morning, the actual wine was consumed last night. I like to celebrate Friday like anyone, but usually I wait until happy hour for that.

In my ongoing quest for a safe, natural looking tan I tried an airbrush tan.

This may or may not have just been an excuse to get naked in front of someone. Sometimes when you’re single it’s good to have that body check. If I’m forced to get naked in front of an actual human it’s harder to let myself go (read: eat fuckloads of chocolate).

Getting the town was quick and easy–my favorite!  As I was getting dressed the technician reminded me not to wear any restrictive clothing. I took heed of her warning and tossed my bra and panties into my purse. On my way out she recommended stopping at the store for Aveeno lotion to extend the tan.

I stopped by the drugstore on my way home for the lotion. I needed the tan to last. I spent $30 on it; I wanted to get my money’s worth. I walked up to the cash register and was pleased to see my favorite cashier. The elderly gentleman is always so friendly with me and I just love him. As I fumbled in my purse for my wallet my panties fell out and landed directly in front of him.

NOOOOOOO!!!!

His face turned bright red and he just stared at them not knowing if he should pick them up and hand them to me, or not. I dived across the counter, scooped up the panties, tossed them in my purse and made an attempt at an apology as I threw my money down and ran.

Dammit! Now I have to find a new drugstore, or more modest looking panties.

The end of the semester is a mere two weeks away. I’m a nervous wreck!

I’m terrified to take my research final; I’m trying to finish my final projects, register for the next two semesters AND arrange an internship. Oh, and did I mention I have a job I need to work into the mix? I’ve been stressed out and not sleeping well.

When I have trouble sleeping weird things happen. This morning for example, I woke up this morning I noticed a couple of strange things. First of all I had glitter on my legs. Body glitter only means one thing, yo. STRIPPERS! Upon further inspection I looked into the mirror and noticed I was wearing lipstick. I rarely wear lipstick so waking up with red robust lips is completely out-of-character.

I’m obviously a stripper. There’s really no other explanation.

Well, actually there is.. my new self-tanning lotion has glitter in it. I’m annoyed that the label doesn’t have a hooker warning.  Also my lipstick debacle isn’t really lipstick at all. I accidentally bought the tinted lip balm instead of the regular and placed it on my nightstand.

The scary part is that it took me two days to figure this out. TWO DAYS IS A LONG TIME TO BE AN IMAGINARY STRIPPER! I just hope the money I made isn’t imaginary money and is hanging out in my bank account right now. Fingers crossed.

Standing in the bathroom, last night, waiting for the clogged sink to drain I let out a string of expletives that would make any sailor cower. And then I put lotion on my elbows. The benefit of having a clogged sink is really, really soft elbows.

As I was applying lotion I noticed something strange–my elbows were purple. Not bruised purple, but dead heroin addict hooker purple. Upon closer inspection I noticed that same shade of death covered my entire upper body.

What… the… fuck?

DAMMIT! I should have filled out the living will paperwork my mother sent me. I’m facing death and I don’t have a living will, or even a regular will. Not to mention I don’t have any money to leave anyone. Now is NOT the time to die! I’ve got to make a bunch of money to leave my niece and nephew. I’ve already planned out the stipulations on their non-existent trust fund. It’s simple really… if they vote anything but Democrat the money skips their greedy little pockets and is donated to the Democratic Party.

I was this close to calling and demanding my brother let me talk to the kids—I was not about to die without saying goodbye—when I stepped on the sweater I had just taken off. The new, BLACK sweater I had just taken off.

Ohh….

So that’s why you’re supposed to wash dark clothing before wearing it. Humph. Probably good to know.

I’ve never been the girl who pours over fashion magazines. I’m not exactly stylish, unless you consider wearing strictly pink and black clothing a style. Sure I like to look cute, but the work involved with looking my personal best stresses me out.

I’m also horrible with details. Proof?

I got home yesterday and noticed my socks were mismatched:

And that my shirt was missing two rhinestones:

It’s moments like this when I miss having roommates. Another woman would mock me until I changed, plus having access to clothing someone else picked out helps with the style factor. I imagine that’s what having a personal shopper feels like.

Or a gay husband.

I’m open to either at this point.