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I’m legitimately concerned about the well-being of my lady parts. “Sex and the City 2” opened and I haven’t made plans to see it yet.

Or made plans to sneak booze into the theater, which is completely out of character for me. I love boozy movies with my girlfriends. It’s like therapy, but with more calories and antioxidants.

Obviously my vagina is broken.

I left a voicemail for my doctor (which, in hindsight probably sounded creepy and may get me arrested) and then turned to the internet.

WebMD was no help. There were 31 results for broken vagina, but none of them applied to my dilemma. Instead I learned about breech births and foreign objects placed in the vagina. I decided I’m never having kids, or sticking hot dogs up there. I’m a vegan, after all.

I moved to Google. Also not a lot of help. The predictive search for “symptoms of a broken vagina” was “symptoms of a broken valve spring.”

Is that what the kids are calling vag today? I’m way too upset to understand slang. The internet doesn’t care about the health of my vagina! This hardly seems fair since the damn internet is full of advice on male anatomy, and thus proves my theory that the internet is, indeed, a man.

Jerk.

Read this week’s column to hear about my beef with Google.

My niece, Hannah, sent me the sweetest picture in the mail, which is proudly displayed on my refrigerator.

There’s only one small thing I find worrisome. Do you see that question mark?

Hannah questions my niceness. I can’t really blame her. I tease the little girl about things like drinking urine. I don’t want her to grow up thinking I don’t love her. I do love her. Lots. Enough that I’d rather spend money on taking her to Starbucks, not taking her to therapy.

That said, I’ve decided it might be time to start teasing her less and concentrating on being nicer to her, which may have something to do with the fact the kid gives the best damn Christmas presents ever.

Read this week’s “That’s What She Said” to hear about my adventures in lawn care.

RELATED: I need a damn manservant. I cannot offer pay, medical or dental, but I will supply cheap wine.

“Sarah, Caleb and Andrew both think Little Mermaid is hot.”

“Of course they do. They are nerds. It’s in their DNA to have a thing for cartoon characters.”

“So this is normal?”

“Of course not. She’s a damn mermaid. They have the hots for a fish.”

This week’s column for In Utah This Week talks about my experiences with hiding the evidence of a hot date from my mother and the world.

AND…

If that’s not enough, you can read my post on Aiming Low where I explain the best way to lose male friends and fatten your hooha.

After having the below conversation with my nephew, I decided being an aunt is the hardest job in the world. Parents have the right to beat their children. Aunts don’t. You tell me which is the easier way to deal with kids?

Yeah… I rest my case.

“Aunt Sarah, do you remember when you wore your yellow alligator underwear at my house?”

“I do Buddy, but why do you? That was three years ago.”

“I just really didn’t like them. I don’t think girls should wear boy underwear.”

“Carter they were boxers I wore to bed. Not all day underwear.”

“Well I don’t care. I’m buying you real underwear for your birthday, and they are going to be blue with cougars all over them.”

“Why are cougars OK, but alligators aren’t?”

“Because, Aunt Sarah, you are a cougar.”

“CARTER! I’m not a cougar. Who even told you that?”

“Nobody. I just know things.”

“You’re such a brat. Do you even know what that means?”

“Duh. It means you love BYU.”

I didn’t know where to start, so I didn’t. I’m not a BYU fan, nor am I a cougar, but some things aren’t worth explaining to a six-year-old. It’s much better to spend that time thinking of ways to get even. There’s going to be a very painful wedgie in his immediate future.

Some people leave themselves daily affirmations on their bathroom mirrors.

Not me.

I leave myself reminder notes on the shower tile with rejected lip liner colors.

Since I don’t have anyone else to do it, I also leave myself love notes around the house. This is not as sad as it sounds. I just really love notes.

And lists.

And obviously reminder notes. Without them how would I ever remember to do things?

Um, I wouldn’t.

I can’t wait to see if this week’s column offends hippies. I suspect they are easier going than the truck driving community, but these things are hard to predict.

DAMMIT.

I should have asked the tarot reader about this. Maybe she can still email me a list of all future offenses. That would make life sooooo much easier… you know because then I’d have a publishing schedule.