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The agency I work for has a central speaker system. The first person to get access in the morning plays DJ all day. Usually that person is me. Having control of the office music is the driving force for getting out of bed every day. My life is very rewarding like that.

Yesterday morning I had Ben Folds playing. Typically when I leave the office I turn off my music of choice. However, when a meeting I’d forgotten about popped up on my calendar I was in a rush and forgot. When I returned I heard something that sounded less like Ben Folds, and more like my voice. I ran to my computer in horror. No it wasn’t a sex tape, though it sounded astonishingly like one.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! I am seriously sooooo hot right now!”

The file playing was my Botox session, which I recorded so I wouldn’t forget any minor details. Yes, as a matter of fact, humiliation is my middle name. So far, no one has said anything, but really why would they? They are too busy silently judging me, as they should be.

When purchasing beer to take to a Summer BBQ you are attending, do not pick the brand by the cutest packaging, because ultimately you will be mocked. REPEATEDLY. Stick to the manliest, cheapest brand you can find. Trust me, Internet.

“Fuck you, I’m a wine drinker,” only gets you so far. And so far I mean mocked even more.

Today, while rushing back to the office from lunch, I managed to barely escape hitting someone with my car. And to make matters worse, that someone was a co-worker.

Thankfully with my big sunglasses on and hair in a ponytail I don’t think he recognized me. He did, however, shake hit fist in anger and flip me the bird. Seriously? Do people still do that? I can’t remember the last time I flipped someone off. Though, it does sound rather tempting now that I think about it. In the last few moments of writing this post I’ve already thought of ten people I’d love to wave a little bird action in their general direction. In fact, maybe that’s what I’ll do this weekend.

Who wants to drive me around while I hang out the window flipping random strangers off? Come on. That sounds like an excellent Sunday afternoon plan. Well worth skipping church over. I’m sure Baby Jesus would understand.

I absolutely love Wilco, yet I’ve never heard them play. Sad, right? Not to fret my lovelies, they are coming to SLC this summer!

So when a guy I recently met mentioned buying tickets and having us go together I wasn’t exactly sure how to feel. Obviously it would be fun to go with him, but the concert isn’t until mid-August. The concert will, without a doubt, sell out fast. So do I want to risk saying yes and then if we aren’t still hanging out be stuck without a ticket? Hell to the no. I kid you not about my love of Jeff Tweedy. But then I also don’t want to risk offending him, since he seems like a pretty cool guy. Ahhhhh, what to do??

At dinner last night he mentioned his age. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but I thought he was older than he really is. He’s 28, which is a whopping four years younger than me. FOUR WHOLE YEARS! This guy is a kid; he’s in his 20s!! I’m sure he’d mentioned his age, but as you can see by all my editing mistakes on this blog… I suck with small details. With this newfound knowledge my decision is made: I’m buying my own ticket. I can’t risk him outgrowing me before the concert.

And if that’s not enough to make me a bitchy person, I bring you my latest foot in mouth moment…

Yesterday while getting on the elevator, my CUTE! polka dot shoes nearly made me trip. The two men in the elevator looked at me curiously and I said, “Sorry, it seems like I’m having a gimp day.” Neither man said a word to me, and went back to their conversation.

Two floors later the elevator stopped and they stepped out, one walking with a VERY distinct limp. The other man turned and gave me the look of death. Great. Just great. I’ve moved from offending Republicans to the handicapped.

The minute I get home I shed my pants. I’m not alone in this; you guys do too, right? If not, now is the time to lie.

Last night, after an especially shitty day, I went home, ditched the pants and poured myself a glass of wine. So you’ll understand how annoyed I was when someone knocked on my door. For a brief second I considered answering the door pants free. It wasn’t like I was naked, just in boy short undies. I looked down, saw my chunky thighs and opted for the Old Navy pajama pants on my floor.

I open the door and much to my dismay found a pimple-faced teenage girl, who had knocked on the wrong door. Without thinking I said, “Do you realize I put pants on for you?” She was speechless. And can you blame her? What do you say to some crazy, half-drunk woman bitching about pants? Nothing. You blush, remain silent and fear for your life.

I wish the story ended there, but it doesn’t.

Before retiring for the night I let Daisy out one last time. As I was standing there waiting for her to pee I did the unthinkable: I reached down the back of my pants and started scratching my ass. Thinking I was alone I muttered under my breath, “Yeahhh, that’s the spot.” I heard someone behind me and with my hand still down my pants, I turned to find the same teenage girl.

Mortified, I grabbed Daisy and retreated upstairs. I immediately grabbed all the different kinds of lotion I could find, and slathered my entire body with a concoction of all five in hopes to prevent any further embarrassing public displays of scratching.

Not only do I humiliate myself in real life, I also do it online. A lot. This morning I was talking to a client via instant messenger and simultaneously messaging someone else.

Of course I sent the wrong message to the wrong person.

And of course the message was about sperm.

And of course my client is from Texas, and was raised in a conservative Southern Baptist environment where sperm is not part of an everyday conversation.

Today’s incident, however horrible, pales in comparison to the time I accidentally sent an instant message to the CEO of the company I worked for saying, “Let’s shag ass!” I intended the message to go to a friend, who for the record, I did not want to shag I was just informing him I was ready to leave for lunch.

The next day when a company meeting emphasizing what is appropriate workplace conduct was called I was secretly humiliated knowing it was intended for me and me alone.

Obviously I learned nothing from the seminar, as the following week the CEO overheard me saying to a male co-worker, “Oh my god, she’s so hot I would totally turn lesbian and hump her straight for you.”

My friend, the Bishop, has lunch with me every single Thursday. He calls our lunches Therapy Thursdays. At first I thought it was funny, but now I’m starting to realize just how true it is. We go. We eat. He points out my shitty behavior. It’s fun. FOR HIM!

It’s always been just the two of us, however, yesterday he invited our friend Maddie along. I suspect he was slightly nervous and/or embarrassed to being alone with me after I informed the Internet that he saw the contents of my naughty drawer.

I expected a bit of awkward behavior from him, he is after all very bishop-like, but I was completely mistaken. After ordering our food and sitting down at the table he presented me with a gift:

He is obviously absolved of all bedroom peeking sins.

Maddie and I went to dinner a few weeks ago with a friend of ours. He’s married, older than we are, and Mormon–which would explain why I refer to him as my Bishop. He hates it, which only encourages me further.

After dinner we headed back to my place for some Girl Scout cookies. I’d like to point out I am not in the habit of taking married men home with me. He invited himself, I promise.

I was busy trying to talk my neurotic one-eyed dog out of jumping off the balcony because I invited a stranger into our home, that I didn’t notice the Bishop walk upstairs into my bedroom. I never, ever walk into someone’s bedroom without asking because I know what people keep in bedrooms! I’m a single girl living alone so I’m not exactly in the habit of putting away my… ahem, “unmentionables” or the batteries that go along with them.

When I finally realized he was upstairs my face went white, my jaw dropped. Maddie knew exactly what my reaction meant. Her eyes doubled in size as she whispered, “Sarah, where is your you know what?” “Laying in the middle of my unmade bed,” I whispered back. We both remained silent hoping he would walk back down the stairs and without making his way to my bed. Suddenly a booming voice from above hollered, “Hey what’s the story behind this poem above your bed?”

It was everything I could do to not scream: get the fuck out of my bedroom! Instead I took a deep breath and rose above my humiliation and answered, “It’s a Dorothy Parker poem.”

The good Bishop has not mentioned it to me, but if I get struck by lightening anytime soon I’ll know he mentioned it to god.

I have a friend who doesn’t have cable or Internet access at home. Can you imagine? I couldn’t, so I wanted to see if I could handle it. I couldn’t. At all.

Tuesday Night
7:30 Home from class.
7:32 Staring at my TV wondering what the red light on my Tivo is recording.
7:35 Still staring.
7:40 Going crazy wondering what DAMN SHOW I AM MISSING! Maybe grocery shopping will help.
8:20 Grocery shopping done. Cold cereal and cottage cheese put away. Now what?
8:24 A vodka tonic, that’s what!
8:26 Riding the elliptical.
8:36 Not riding the elliptical. Without TV to take my mind of exercising, I’m fully aware that I’m exercising. Uggg, boring.
8:45 OK, yoga. I like doing yoga.
9:00 SHIIIIITTT! I don’t like doing yoga on my own—can’t remember poses correctly. Need program from Tivo for proper workout.
9:02 I’ll catch up on some reading. I still need to finish the Obama book and there are three past New Yorkers I’ve not read yet, plus school reading. I suck.
9:03 Hmmm… What to read first. Listing pros and cons of starting with different readings.
9:08 Can’t decide. Maybe a vodka tonic will help.
9:10 Yup! Decided on magazine reading.
9:13 Phone call from hooker George. Talking super slow to take up more time. He’s Texan, he won’t notice.
9:27 Wondering if Twitter via phone counts. I really want to twitter how hard this is.
9:28 Really, it’s my phone not my computer, it shouldn’t count. Hmmm..
9:29 Should get back to reading, but my focus is gone. Way, way gone.
9:31 Putting moisturizer on my face for the fourth time tonight. If I break out I’m gonna blame my friend for putting this crazy idea into my head. He sucks.
9:32 Staring at face in the mirror watching to see if any zits surface. Consequently wondering if zits could appear that fast. Probably not.
9:34 Whew, nothing.
9:35 Damn my bathroom could use a good cleaning.
9:36 Remembering fondly the time I manipulated Ben into cleaning it for me. Hmm… Wonder when he’s back in town. I could possibly talk him into it. Wait, I have no idea when he’s back and I can’t check my email to find out.
9:37 Does phone email count? Compromising with Internet addicted self: outgoing mail is OK, past mail notsomuch.
9:40 Clock watching. How early can I go to bed without seeming pathetic.
9:45 Fuck this! I’m taking an Ambien and going to bed.

Last week a friend told me something very peculiar about his female roommate: she shaves her legs one day at a time. Yes, you read that correctly. To save time she shaves one leg, and then the next leg the following day. I was perplexed.

And admittedly, very curious.

So I tried it. I could see the appeal; I’m always late for work anyway, so less time in the shower sounded like a good idea at the time. But it so, so wasn’t.

I got to work and immediately lost my mind. I’m OCD about the weirdest things. And as it turns out, leg hair is one of those things. I need both legs to feel exactly the same, whether it’s stubby or smooth.

I canceled my lunch plans and headed straight home. I jumped in the tub, shaved one leg, and then the other. You know, for good measure–the last thing I wanted was to get back to work and be able to feel a four hour hair growth difference.

I vow to never attempt hippie grooming habits again, no matter how efficient they may be!