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I have doubts about people, and occasionally their sincerity. I wish that weren’t the case, but a previous boyfriend made sure he left me with a little something special. I wanted a ring from Tiffany & Co, but instead I got baggage.

You live. You learn. And apparently you doubt.

Everyone has been burned, so why do I think I’m the only one with a relationship covered cross to bear? Self centered, perhaps. I try not to doubt the people I date, but sometimes it’s easier to assume the worst rather than communicate. I’m all about communication, so the hypocrisy here is likely the reason I’ll be damned to relationship hell, but at least I’ll be warm there.

I’ve operated under the illusion that when the right guy came along this wouldn’t be the case, but that’s a little optimistic… especially for me. So now what? I mean besides a boatload of therapy.

When you work with nerds all day like I do, time travel is 80% of daily conversation.

And space.

Nerds love to talk about how amazing it would be to live in space. Amazing? Puh-lease. I’ll tell you what’s amazing: the fact my brain hasn’t exploded all over the office.

Space talk I can usually tolerate, but when they start talking about time travel I tune them out. Last week I didn’t. They were discussing what they would change about their lives if they could travel through time. After I mocked them sufficiently, I thought about what I would do. Honestly I wouldn’t change much, but I would offer some advice to teen Sarah… which I did in this week’s “That’s What She Said” for In Utah This Week.

Last night while reading a book to my niece, tears started rolling down my cheeks. She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I tried to explain the story was especially poignant for me, but it’s incredibly difficult to express to a child that I’m so obsessed with finding perfection that I often forget to find happiness. So I did what I do best, I illustrated the point with a drinking example.

“It’s like a mint julep Hannah. I’ve always wanted one, but haven’t.”

“Why?”

“You can drink a mint julep anywhere, but in my head it has to be perfect. I need to be in Savannah, Georgia on a porch swing with someone I love.”

“Aunt Sarah, your head is wrong and kinda weird.”

Ouch. Who needs therapy when you have an insightful niece?

“That’s What She Said” this week is all about my quest to find the perfect house.

On my way home last night I stopped at Target for some groceries. Realizing I still had a long drive ahead of me I made a quick trip to the restroom before shopping, stupid given my history of embarrassing moments in public restrooms.

The first stall didn’t have toilet paper, so I moved to the next. I was finishing up when I heard someone enter the other stall. I considered warning her about the lack of toilet paper, but didn’t want to engage in pee talk. I absolutely hate when people chat it up in the bathroom. Pee in peace, that’s my motto.

As I walked to the sink my phone started ringing. I reached for my purse to silence the damn thing, only to discover my purse was still hanging in the other stall. I started panicking but was quickly distracted when my phone started ringing for a second time. The sound of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” was deafening. I considered fleeing the scene, but my keys were also in the purse.

“Is someone out there?”

I wanted to remain silent, but was terrified she’d rummage through my purse and steal my Hello Kitty lip-gloss.

“Yes, sorry, I left my purse in there.”

“No problem let me hand it over to you.”

Oh my god, this woman was about to stand up without wiping and hand me my purse. My favorite purse was about to be tainted with stranger vagina. I paused my dry heaving long enough to say, “No it’s fine. I’ll wait. I’m not in a rush.” And wait I did.

Seriously, slowest woman alive. I was so busy freaking out about stranger germs I didn’t think to pass her some toilet paper, so this next part is totally my fault.

She walked out and handed me my purse and said, “Sorry, but I think your purse got a little wet.”

I couldn’t look her in the face as I mumbled thank you. I grabbed my vagina purse and ran. I didn’t even get the groceries, which is too bad since Clorax Wipes were number one on my list.

“I got in an argument with my neighborhood clown. Can you believe that? Not the argument but that I have a clown in my neighborhood.”

“Sarah, that’s what happens when you don’t go to your city council meetings. They take the money from the new street sign fund and hire a neighborhood clown. It’s a horrible case of misappropriation.”

“Yeah, because misappropriation is the real issue here. What about the fact that there’s someone with really horrible make-up living so close to me? You know my fear of people who use too much blush.”

“The way your mind works, Sarah, is far scarier than any clown.”

Cheesy right? Only it’s not. Today’s Election Day also happens to be my 35th birthday.

You have no idea how happy this makes me. Two words: PATRIOTIC BONER. I’d weave in a Bill Clinton joke here, but there’s no time to be wasted. I have a ballot to cast and a public bathroom to weep in.

For more musings on my birthday you can read my “That’s What She Said” column for In Utah This Week.

Last year my nephew, Carter, mastered the art of ‘your mom’ jokes. It was a little rough at first, but he eventually caught on. This year it’s his sister, Hannah’s, turn. We started last night.

“Hannah you’re a pug licker.”

“Oh.”

“Come on, Hannah, what do you say?”

“Thank you.”

“NO! You’re supposed to say your mom is a pug licker.”

“Well that’s just ridiculous. No one licks pugs and I was being polite.”

“Hannah, you don’t really have to lick pugs. It’s a hypothetical.”

“Grandma said you’re not allowed to teach me those anymore.”

“Well Grandma is fired. If I don’t teach you how to make dirty jokes and play the hypothetical game who will?”

“Your mom.”

DAMMIT. The six-year-old wins again.

Read about how my new commute brought Eminem and I back together in this week’s “That’s What She Said.”

I’ve spent the last couple of days looking at houses. I’ve only just started the process and know I have a long few months ahead of me, but who cares? I’m buying my own home and feeling a bit proud of myself for having the ability to do so.

I’ve worked hard to be independent.

Damn hard.

I never wanted to be one of those women whose life revolves around a man. The kind of girl who live in his house and let his paycheck buy my groceries. I’m better than that. I’m stronger than that.

Now before I get a bunch of hate mail, I’m not talking about married couples; things are different when you are married and have children. I’m not married and I don’t have children. So until then, the walls I paint will be my own walls, and there’s something wildly satisfying about that kind of independence.

It’s like a great bottle of wine, but with less calories and way more elitism.