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I feel ill today—on the verge of puking every other second. Yet, I still made it to classes and to work. I’m very proud of my current Supergirl status, though I’d much rather be curled up in bed with someone taking care of me. Only there isn’t a someone in my life right now. Daisy with her lack of opposable thumbs is completely useless.

I can’t decide if I ate something bad, or if I’m still sick over yesterday’s lunch conversation with my mom:

Mom: “Do you want my tomatoes?”
Sarah: “No thank you. They are good for the prostate, but my non-existent one is fine at the moment.”
M: “Oh, they are? I’ll have to tell your dad. When I rolled over in bed….”
S: “MOM!! Please stop. I do not want to hear this. No way, no how. Just stop!”
M: “What? Anyway…”
S: “Mom, I’m not kidding. I’ll leave.”
M: “As I was saying…”

(At this point I was curled up in fetus position underneath the table. Okay that part isn’t true, but I did briefly consider it.)

M: “When I rolled over in bed I noticed a book on your dad’s side of the table. It was a prostate health book. See, it wasn’t that bad. You’re so weird about things.”
S: “Remind me why I meet you for lunch?”
M: “Because I pay.”

I know it’s selfish, but I just don’t want to hear this stuff. It was bad enough having my mom and cousin, both nurses, discussing labor and delivery. I can only assume they were trying to discourage the birth of my hypothetical illegitimate child.

To read my In Utah This Week column click here. You know you want to!

“Mom I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately– if for some reason I end up knocked up and all alone will you be there for me?”

“Of course honey, unless I’m dead.”

“Funny you should mention that, you almost died Monday. When my alarm clock went off that morning I remember hearing on the news about a nasty car wreck in Millard county and a woman died. I realized I hadn’t heard from you on Sunday and thought maybe you were dead.”

“You did? You didn’t call.”

“I thought about it, but I went back to sleep instead.  When I got up later I figured someone would have called me if you were dead. BUT I did tell my friends the story later that afternoon if that counts for anything.”

“Sweetie, your Dad is in Alaska, who would have called you? You really should have called me to check.”

“MOM! You aren’t dead! Does it really matter now? I just want to know if you’re going to be supportive when I’m knocked up and all alone. You can’t be dead, who is going to raise my child?”

“Ummm, are you trying to tell me something, Sarah?”

“No Mother, I’m the furthest thing from knocked up. I’m currently in a dry spell.”

“Sarah as much as I’d love to discuss your sex life, I need to get back to work now. We can discuss this when I see you tomorrow afternoon at lunch.”

“You really want to discuss my hypothetical illegitimate child?!”

“Not a chance. See you tomorrow. Sarah, please don’t forget to show up.”

Dear Chady-Bear,

It’s nice to hear you’re not dead. I haven’t heard that directly from you of course, but from our dear mother. WHAT THE HELL?! You can take the time to send her a letter, but not me? I’ve given you a five day grace period from when mom received her letter, and still… nothing. Bad Chad! Are you playing favorites because you came out of her? Because if so, might I remind you, who did you spend more time with until the age of five? Yeah, me. Maybe you blocked those years from your memory, and for the sake of your inner holy ghost, perhaps that’s best.

Do you remember when you thought you invented the “F” word? (For the safety of your eternal salvation I’ll not type the actual word. Now that’s love!) I was driving you to daycare on my way to school, which I did EVERY SINGLE DAY! You couldn’t get your seatbelt to buckle correctly and you yelled f*** at the top of your cute little lungs. I asked you were in the world you’d heard such a bad word. “Sissy, I made it up. It’s my word, not bad.” I’d never been so proud, so I let you have that one. That was the year you made a bed inside my closet because I wouldn’t let you sleep with me and you wanted to be close. You were four.

Listen up Bear… if you don’t send me a letter soon, I’m going to be forced to tell your mission president your affinity for profanity.

Love, love, love you!

Sis

Uncle Cabbage Patch took Ben and I to dinner last week. As he was paying (Thanks!) I caught a peek at his wallet and couldn’t stop laughing at his Mexican produce. Is it a fruit or is it a vegetable. Who knows!

You’ve read her name on here before, and may have noticed her blog. But do you really know Midge, and don’t you wonder where I got her?

Marjorie and I met in 2000… I think. A male friend of mine met her on LDSSO.com. Yes, really. The day after their first date I asked him how it went. He described her as pretty, sarcastic and had enough sass to back it all up. “She opened the door with a cocktail in hand. I hated her, but you two would be PERFECT for one another!” And we were. I’ve long since lost track of him, but Midge was the best thing he could have ever done for me. I’ve loved her ever since our first date to Red Rock, even if she did smoke Newports.

I call her Midge because that’s Barbie’s best friend. But you knew that, didn’t you?

Thank you to everyone for all the emails and comments checking up on Daisy! She’s doing much better. I know this because she ate salad when I accidentally dropped some on the floor yesterday.

She’s still taking medications which are re-training her blood to clot. I admit this had me slightly worried at first– I’ve never been able to train her to rollover, much less something so difficult. Puggy is still slightly lethargic, but this is easily explained by the fact she’s following my lead. After all, it is the Lord’s day, which in my house means weekend drinking recovery.

A friend and I were running errands today. And by errands I mean the liquor store for Stoli, and Smiths for mixers.

“Why in the world did I get a tampon coupon for purchasing lemonade? That makes no sense, whatsoever!”

“You bought sugar-free lemonade–only a girl would buy that.”

It’s the little things that make me smile.

Did you know if you wear a bike helmet when peddling home drunk, you’re safer and cuter? A friend proved that to me last night. It almost makes me want to pull out my beach cruiser and ride from bar to bar—almost. I bought a bike two summers ago, for that very reason. Has it happened? No. Will it? Probably not. The street I live on has a slight incline and I can’t be bothered to ride uphill. Can you see why I’m not a mountain biker?

At the beginning of the summer I pulled the bike out with the brilliant idea that if I painted it pink—rather then it’s current blue color—I would ride it more, or at all. I searched until I found the perfect shade of pink paint. When I got ready to paint it, I realized I’d have to pull the bike apart to properly paint it. And if you pull something apart the rules of the universe clearly state you must put it back together. Needless to say, I didn’t tear the bike apart. My bike is not pink. My bike is not currently being ridden.

I’ll just have to live vicariously through my friend’s riding adventures. Maybe I can paint his helmet pink. I do have the paint…