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a friend invited me to travel with her to italy this summer. i gladly accepted. we’ll be staying with her family, therefore all i need is a plane ticket and someone to watch daisy.

i’ve never kenneled her more than three days at a time. the thought of her in dog prison for two weeks kills me… and my wallet. previously the only person i’ve trusted her with is the one i’ll be traveling with. this leaves ben–the kid who lost his basketball in the back seat of his own car! what hope does daisy have?

before trusting her with ben i should put him through rigorous testing. i considered assigning him a bag of sugar like in high school, but i can see him sticking it in the pantry and pulling it out only when i came over, or eating it all. what will that prove? that he’s addicted to sugar?(by the way, why the hell were they teaching us in high school how to care for an infant, but not how to balance a checkbook? life skills my ass.)

perhaps i can bribe him with presents. if he keeps daisy alive i’ll bring him back italian leather shoes, the ones he has are looking kinda dingy. or, i’ll get him a prostitute for his birthday. if that doesn’t guarantee daisy’s safety nothing will.

no, seriously– it is. when i moved into my apartment a few years ago, one thing nearly stopped me: fairies. these creepy little things live on the side of my kitchen cupboard. it’s so creepy, but when i moved in i was in a rush and rather than have the landlord paint over them, i just stuck an old mother hips concert handbill over them. since i couldn’t see the them, i just sorta forgot they were there. until today when the handbill, after four years, fell. uggg, i’ve once again been invaded by fairies– and not the good ones, who can help hang the dorothy parker pictures that have been sitting here since november. i can’t sleep, i can’t eat. (okay, the second is possibly because i haven’t been grocery shopping in weeks, but still.) is there some sort of fairy removal service? oh wait, brothers with paint brushes.

the man i’ve been seeing tried to kill me last night. twice. though, if you ask him i’m sure he’d tell a slightly different version of the story.

first of all, his giant dog tried to kill me. (which i’m positive he trained her to do beforehand.) luckily, i’m not afraid of a dog almost my height knocking me over. the steep driveway, however, is another story. everyone knows i’m a giant klutz. now, looking at my hands i see three cuts just on my left hand, from who knows what. i’m always bumping into things, falling down stairs and generally getting hurt because i don’t pay attention. he forced me down that driveway without so much as an offer to have a princess ski lift built in.

he’s very lucky i’m not dead.

when my mom asked me to come home for easter i agreed with two conditions: 1. an easter basket full of candy 2. someone has to reenact the death of christ. neither of which happened. i went home late missing church and did not spending the night. “easter baskets are only for the children who love her enough to spend the night.” whatever. as for the reenactment i don’t think anyone felt comfortable explaining to my grandmother why we were taking part in something so blasphemous–on a sunday no less!

instead the boys celebrated like any other holiday… by fighting. i will never understand why the nielson males need to bond by rolling around on the floor. at least stand up and punch each other in the face. it’s more socially acceptable that way.

“winners never quit, quitters never win.” pshhh…puh-lease. i think quitting can be rewarding… like the time, at age six, i quit ballet because the girl next to me peed herself three classes in a row. last week i quit my brothers wedding because i hated the bridesmaid dress, among other things–also, rewarding.

speaking of family, i’ll be heading to the country tomorrow to spend easter with mine. in our family we honor the death of christ with chocolate in many forms, as well as boiled eggs and the sand dunes. which really makes no sense to me whatsoever, but who am i to argue tradition.

this week’s column can be found here. at the time i wrote it i was okay with my age. today, however, notsomuch… i don’t know how wrinkles can develop overnight, but they did. i swear.

The strangest thing happened. I found myself living the lifestyle of a much younger woman – a junior high school girl to be exact. This sudden change has nothing to do with my new anti-oxidant face cream, but rather a much cheaper fountain of youth.

It all began three weeks ago when I found a note left under the windshield wiper of my car. Upon seeing it, I instantly starting wondering who I could have possibly pissed off enough to leave a note behind. It could have been the H2 I accidentally cut off earlier that day. Fortunately that was not the case.

I, Sarah Middlenameless Nielson, received a love note. Aside from the occasional Birthday card I’ve not received a handwritten note or letter for years. I miss handwritten notes; communication these days is only e-mails and text messaging. For me, there’s something wildly romantic about a man who takes the time to sit down and write a note. It’s beyond thoughtful, it’s downright sexy.

After a little sleuthing on my part, I found the note was from a man who’d noticed me in the parking lot of my office. It appears that he’d waved at me as he drove away one evening. Without a second thought, I waved back. I’m from the country, where waving is expected of all small-town residents. My return wave must have been all the encouragement he needed.

Admiring him for the guts it must have taken to leave a note, I left him one in return.  Simply thanking him for the note and encouraging him to come in and say hello. 

The following day not just one, but three, more notes were left on my car, each asking me to call him or leave my number so he could. 

I vaguely recollect seeing him driving away in his vehicle — just barely catching a glimpse, which isn’t enough. It’s not that I’m shallow (well maybe I am just a bit), but for all I know he could be a circus freak. That wouldn’t make him a bad person, just not a likely candidate for dating me.

At this point, I felt obligated to leave a second note in return. I wasn’t comfortable leaving my phone number on some random car, so I left my e-mail address instead. 

He e-mailed me shortly thereafter, again asking for my number. Since I’d explained to him previously I wasn’t comfortable with giving a stranger my number, I was started to get a little annoyed and didn’t reply.

He did a little sleuthing of his own, found my office number and called me at work. Another woman may have found this sweet, but to me it was entirely too evasive. I was polite but clearly irritated and ending the call by mentioning he was welcome to introduce himself to me in person. He suggested we meet the next day in the parking lot. I found the idea odd, but agreed out of sheer curiosity. 

The next morning I came to work, where I found an e-mail requesting we meet at the neighboring gas station for a drink instead. Substitute drink for Slurpee and suddenly my social life is that of my 14-year-old self.

Again, another woman might have found this cute. I am not that woman.

I let him know he was always welcome to walk in and say hello, but the notes and e-mails were going to stop on my part.

The truth is, on most days I’m content with being an adult. So, why would I subject myself to a junior high school style relationship? I’ll stick with my age and happily accept my laugh lines. 

as banjo ben and i were leaving the pub tonight, he stopped whatever he was yammering on about mid-sentence. i looked over and his mouth was agape as he was stared at a wedding dress in a shop window. he’s considering going drag queen, or on the prowl for a wife. either way, apparently it’s all my fault. i wish he’d just own up to his inner woman already.

reasons why i might be considered white trash:

1. i had stripper-white hair for one week.
2. i own a shot glass collection.
3. i like drinking two buck chuck.
4. my fridge contains pre-made jello cups.
5. i gas up at maverick.
6. my dinner plates are plastic.
7. i don’t own matching wine glasses.
8. i own camouflage.
9. i grew up in a town of 300.
10. i love gas station hot dogs.

let me explain…

1. made a very poor choice in getting my hair colored, but am now back to my natural dirty blond.
2. i’ve never purchased a shot glass–ak started bringing them home to me from each of his business trips years ago.
3. it’s good and cheap, shut up!
4. i don’t like to cook, and jello counts as cooking.
5. it has the best people watching. and hot dogs.
6. target has cute summer dishes.
7. i’m a clutz and broke all my pretty ones last year.
8. shoes don’t count.
9. not my choice.
10. see number five.

my kitchen light has been burned out for over three weeks. any other light i would have replaced the bulb myself. this light, however, is a death trap waiting to happen. the fixture is old making it nearly impossible to extract the bulb. i tried but stopped when i realized if i was electrocuted there’d be no one to save me. daisy is less lassie and more kujo–she’d chew my legs off before attempting to make any sort of rescue.

banjo-ben and chady-bear stopped by last night to drop off the case of wine i asked them to bring from their weekend jaunt to california. the minute they walked in the door i handed ben a box of light bulbs, being the seasoned slave he passed them off quickly to chad and claimed he just had to show me the cool pictures he bought in berkley. we both bolted leaving chad on his own to fix the light, because we’re caring siblings like that.

a few minutes later chady walked outside looking a little dazed–apparently i forgot to turn the light switch off. it’s best chady took care of the job, he’s leaving on a mission and his god is not about to let him die before he squeezes two years out of him.