Contact

Last weekend I went to Austin. This text conversation with a friend pretty much sums up the entire trip.

“Getting Drunk in an airport bar is far more exciting in Texas. Everything really is bigger here. This includes the arm hair on the man sitting next to me. Seriously, I just had to ask him to remove his arm hair from my wine. It’s like they don’t even have Groupons for electrolysis here.”

“Sarah, what the hell are you doing in Texas?”

“I wanted a new pair of cowboy boots.”

“Did you find some?”

“Yes, see…

I also found tacos and a ring made from a bullet, so the trip was fantastic.”

“Awesome! And good luck on that whole arm hair situation.”

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.

I slept in, packed and am taking Daisy to my brother. WHO IS NOT ALLOWED TO LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO HER. Do you hear me Benjamin? Nothing.

Let’s just get this out of the way, shall we? Do you see my suitcase? Yeah, I packed my baby blanket because, apparently, I’m still six-years-old. Luckily the blanket is pink and therefore matches my second security blanket: my pink flask.

If anyone needs me I’ll be cuddled up in the corner drinking. Heavily. For the rest of you there will be a guest post tomorrow to keep you company and it will have nothing to do with BlogHer. I promise.

While I was in D.C. over spring break I spent an afternoon at the Newseum. Total news boner! However, I was a little peeved they didn’t really discuss blogging as a news medium, but then I saw this:

Twitter!! All it takes is one technology boner and everything is instantly forgiven. Well that and seeing this:

Is Jesus being a stoner news? I didn’t read a lot of Bible stories so I’m not positive, but that long unwashed hippie hair sort of gives it away.

Do you ever come home from vacation and think, oh yeah, this is my life? Shit.

What is wrong with me? I just got home from a vacation, I shouldn’t be this grumpy. But my apartment looks even smaller than I remember, and thanks to my downstairs neighbor everything reeks of greasy Chinese food.

Or maybe the funk is due to the fact I woke up to snow:

Usually I come home and find Daisy running in circles because she’s so happy to see me. Without her, though, my apartment just seems depressing. I’m hoping picking her up from the kennel after work today will snap me out of post vacation funk. If not there’s always alcoholism and drug abuse.

I already have shin splints from walking all over Capitol Hill looking for coffee.

It’s a fucking workout just to get my morning buzz. I forgot that minute detail about city life. The exercise is totally OK though, because in order to get a ride to the airport from my friend, Jeff, I had to agree to run a 5k with him.

I obviously hate him, and won’t be calling him for a ride home. I’ll splurge and take a cab, otherwise I may get stuck competing in the Ironman Triathlon.

In other news, I think I saw some cherry blossoms on my walk:

This will make my mother VERY happy since she thought that was the reason for my spring trip. Yeah I love pink, but I’m here for the free wine.

Speaking of which, I’m going to drink some and take a nap. I’m on vacation, that’s what you are SUPPOSED TO DO!

Today is the first day of spring break. THANK GOD! I’m leaving for D.C. Monday morning. I can’t wait! I started planning the trip out last night.

So far I’ve packed:

two pairs of pajamas

fiber pills

Which works perfectly since the only things on my agenda thus far are:

sleep

nap

sleep

I know I should visit at least a couple war memorials, but that’s just so depressing. I don’t want to be depressed on spring break. I want to be sleeping. Or drunk. But not too drunk, I don’t want to be the old lady who dances atop bar tables. Unless I’m being paid for it.

I definitely want to check out Eastern Market and hopefully find some thrift stores to scour. Are any of you from the D.C. area and can offer advice on where to go? Thrift stores and otherwise? Mama needs some new/old Pyrex bowls. Rose is very lonely.

As you know I was OBSESSED with seeing the International Spy Museum while I was on my vacation, so it’s no surprise my column this week is about just that.  Here it is: “That’s What She Said”.

I’m going to post about my trip soon, I promise. But right now I’m very busy catching up on emails, snuggling my dog, and trying to forget the horror that was flying Southwest. There was baby barf involved. Baby barf, people, ON MY LEG!

Until I get some time to post pictures and stories of my adventures, I will leave you with yet another to hate RLO: as soon as I arrived home he emailed me a picture of a letter he received in the mail addressed to “RLO & Michelle.” When the cat is away, the mouse will play.

AND FAKE A MARRIAGE!

It’s cute that he thinks a marriage would stop me from taking over his life again now that I’m home. Silly, silly boy.