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Its no secret math is the bane of my existence.  It’s safe to say 80% of my Twitter comments are math related complaints.  The other 20% are about dog farts.

As far as I’m concerned the only good thing to ever come out of math is the “Math Class is Tough!” Teen Talk Barbie from 1992 that was highly controversial, and in my book highly awesome.  I’m still mad at myself for not buying one.

My hate of math is not just limited to school; I am an equal opportunity hater and therefore detest all numbers, not just complex equations. So it was no surprise while at Daisy’s vet appointment on Sunday I found out she is actually a year younger than I thought.  See, even simple math escapes me.

Not believing the vet technician she showed me the chart and explained that Daisy’s birth date of 1997 subtracted from 2008 was indeed 11, not 12. I left in complete embarrassment, but of course immediately called and made a doctor appointment for myself this week in hopes of the same.

Thus far, 33 years old is completely overrated, and I’m ready to go back to 32 again.

I have finally discovered the key to productive weekends! The secret is in the list.

I’ve always been a list person.  At any given moment you can find at least half a dozen lists in the bottom of my purse (alongside an expired, flavored condom.. which I’m still not entirely sure how it got there).

At the beginning of every weekend I write out my giant ‘to do’ list. Typically I look at the list and find it so intimidating that I choose to take a nap instead. This weekend, however, I decided to add some items to the list that I knew I’d get done. Every once in a while I need to feel that sense of accomplishment when I cross something off the list.

I think everyone would benefit from achievable lists, which is why I’m never writing “clean room” again.  I have got to stop setting myself up for failure.

Yesterday when my alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. I woke to the worst headache. I swallowed a handful of Advil and went back to sleep for a couple more hours of sleep. Skipping class wouldn’t kill me, but the headache might.

When I woke up two hours later I felt much better, but guilty for skipping class. I punished myself by shaving my legs in the shower. And none of this shaving to the knees bullshit either– I shaved from ankle to ass. I can’t remember the last time I did that. Which a) explains my lack of a love life, and b) left me wondering when did personal hygiene become a form punishment?

Today on the way to work I saw a man on the sidewalk with a shotgun.  A shotgun has no place in downtown Salt Lake City, so obviously he was about to go on a killing spree. I did what anyone would do, I freaked out.  I was stuck in traffic and couldn’t go anywhere so I started calling everyone I love to tell them goodbye.

Just as traffic started moving again I saw the man walk into Gallenson’s Gun Shop.  I felt like a over-dramatic idiot.  So many apologies to all those who receive rambling voice mails today, and to those of you who didn’t… you’re welcome.

Today at lunch I came home, ate a turkey sandwich and finished a book Tori Spelling wrote.  That’s not my confession.  My confession is that I cried at the end.  TEARS OVER A FUCKING TORI SPELLING BOOK!  I need a life ASAP.

I dare you to one-up my tears.  Go ahead, do it.  I need a laugh.  Well what are you waiting for?

Today marks the 100th day that I’ve been soda free.  To some may not be a big deal, but to me it’s huge.

I’m no newbie to quitting; in fact I’m quite experienced in the art of quitting.  I quit ballet, art lessons and piano.  Not to mention a shit load of boyfriends.  But this is one of the few times I quit something I love.  I love Diet Coke and Diet Dr Pepper.  Yeah, yeah… “why don’t you marry one of them?”  I totally would have, both even; this is Utah after all.  But humping an ice-cold can isn’t my idea of the perfect sexual relationship. That’s the last place I want frostbite.

I was able to quit with the help of my trusty Dr Pepper Lip Smacker.  Any time I’m craving a soda I pull out my lip gloss where the soothing smell of DP gets me through the rough spots.  Which got me thinking that I should totally invent heroin, meth and cocaine lip gloss and open a rehab center.  The center would have a giant outdoor pool where you could catch some rays while sexy models coated your lips with my unique blend of lip gloss.  It would put The Betty Ford Center to shame.

I’m going to make millions, but don’t worry I’ll still write my blog just poolside.

I was outside, yesterday afternoon, letting Daisy out when I noticed something black hanging in the tree outside of my house.  I moved in for a closer work and found something I didn’t expect to see… my panties.

I have no idea how this could have happened. I’d like to think crazy drunken debauchery is to blame for the wild pantie tossing, but I have a feeling laundry day is to blame.  There is a coin operated washer and dryer in the basement of the house I live in.  I have to go outside and around back to use them, which can easily explain the panties being dropped outside.  The tree part, however, I’m still having trouble explaining.

I carefully picked the panties out of the tree and took them back upstairs.  I won’t be harvesting them into jam or pies.  The lace is as hard to pick out of your teeth as strawberry seeds.

When I stopped dating Non-Troll Doll I decided there was no reason for me to change my grocery store.  We’re still friendly with one another; so seeing each other while shopping is no big deal.

Last night was the first time I’ve run across NTD.  I was in the cereal isle when I noticed him.  So of course I said, “Hey douchebag, move your fucking cart; you’re in my way.”

And of course the man turned around and it wasn’t NTD.

And of course he was hot.

And of course I looked like a total asshole.

I apologized telling him I thought he was someone I used to date.  He laughed and said, “Well no wonder you two are no longer dating.  Most guys don’t like to be called douchebags.”

He did not ask for my number, how odd.

Cleaning my apartment this morning there was a pesky bottle of wine taking up space.  It needs to be thrown out, but there’s a glass and a half left.

Do you:

A)    Pour the wine down the drain.

B)    Look to see if anyone is watching, drink the wine while telling yourself you’re not really an alcoholic you’re just not willing to waste money, or wine.

C)    Happily pour yourself a glass of wine to accompany your breakfast while toasting yourself for being so awesome.

Obviously I chose C, which would you choose?

Last night I met the lovely Charlotte for a quick cup of coffee after school.  We talked about creepy things like spiders and mice.  When I arrived home I was still a bit jumpy.  Otherwise, I’d like to think the following events might not have happened.

When I got home I found Daisy standing in the hallway, hair raised and growling.  I thought perhaps she had heard her chipmunk outside and didn’t think twice about it.

When I ran upstairs I heard faint voices coming from somewhere, but I couldn’t figure out where.  The windows were all closed and the neighbors weren’t home.  I checked the TV and radio, but nothing was on.

Daisy was still freaked out and growling even louder.  At this point I started getting nervous.  I hadn’t remembered to lock my apartment when I left to meet Charlotte, but if someone were there wouldn’t I have noticed?  My apartment isn’t very big.

I hushed Daisy’s growling in hopes to figure out where the voices were coming from.  It was silent, so I talked myself into believing I had imagined the whole thing.  I went back upstairs and heard it again.  Fuck.  I had my phone with me so I tried to call my brother, which is something I always do rather than calling the police.

He didn’t answer.  By this point the voices were louder and I was completely freaked out.  I wanted to climb in bed, pull the covers over my head and ignore it, but I couldn’t.  If I’m going to be murdered I wanted to see who it was so I could somehow leave a message for the police, in order to help solve the crime.  I’m very helpful in the event of my death.

I grabbed the closest weapon I could find: a black stiletto shoe.  I quietly crept down the stairs ready to attack.  Daisy was standing at the closed bathroom door growling very loudly.  My killer must be inside.  With my heart beating out of my chest I swung the door open to discover my killer:

My very adorable mirror must have fallen off the counter when I shut the door too hard. As you can imagine, I was quite relieved I hadn’t called the police, because that would have been humiliating.