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“What are you guys talking about?”

“Spiderman.”

“Oh, brother…”

“What’s wrong with Spiderman? He’s one of the more accessible super heroes.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You know, like, Spawn. He’s not at all accessible.”

“Who? Vince Vaughn?”

“No, Sarah, I said Spawn. Vince Vaughn isn’t a super hero.”

“Well he does wear ill-fitting clothing and dated Jennifer Aniston for a while. How could he land her without super powers?”

Remaining friends with someone you dated seriously is the worst idea ever. If you dated casually I’m sure it’s a different story. I wish that were my story.

It’s not.

I met—what I thought—was the perfect guy when I was 29-years-old. I had visions of a beautiful wedding at the city library, followed by a perfect life.

Only the perfect guy didn’t turn out to be so perfect. He had issues. His issues turned into my issues. In spite of all the drama we remained friends when we broke up. Best friends. It wasn’t easy. In fact I worked my ass off to keep this friendship.

So did he.

Five years later I’ve discovered all that hard work was a waste.

This entire predicament is Jerry Seinfeld’s fault.

Seriously.

The friendship between Jerry and Elaine led us to believe that remaining friends after dating, not only works, but also works well.

Jerry Seinfeld is a lying fuckwad. He owes me an apology, five years of my life and a house.

Why a house, you ask? Um, because I’m the idiot girl who moves into her ex-boyfriend’s house.

I know, I know… I deserve to be punched the face. Pay attention to this next part: when someone you used to sleep with offers you a great deal on a rental property JUST SAY NO. Nancy Reagan would.

Even if it’s the perfect house for you.

With the perfect yard for a dog.

And the perfect dog door.

I have been living in this perfect little house for the last six months. Everything was smooth sailing, until that friend found himself with a serious girlfriend. I’m happy for him, I really, really am. That’s not the issue. The issue is that there’s suddenly another person in this little equation. Our friendship has suffered drastically. Without the friendship, I end up looking like the crazy ex-girlfriend who can’t let go and remains connected to him by living in his house.

Awesome.

Only it’s not.

I hate being pitied, and I’ve let myself become that ex-girlfriend we all pity.

I have no idea what to do, other than cry and hate myself for getting into this situation.

Hating myself is so time consuming. I think that time would be better spent deciding what’s more important: a perfect place for Daisy and me to live or self respect.

My column this week is about stripping in the name of fitness. Take note of the comment left by Anna. She had some really great words of advice. I feel sexier already! This may or may not be the vodka talking.

OK, it is.

Lest you think I’m day drinking, this post was written at night. Really, I promise.

Also, day drinking is my favorite weekend hobby.

How many minutes until the weekend?

This morning I received an email containing my beloved niece Hannah’s prayer from last night:

Bless the people who have colds and swine flu that they can be healthy and strong.  Thank you that we can have a bed to keep us comfy and wonderful.  Thank you that I can be a big girl and Carter be a big boy. Thank you that I won’t be exhausted tomorrow.  Thank you that we can be beautiful tomorrow.  Thank you that I can be fancy.  Thank you that the mean kids will go away and not distract me.  Thank you that we can go to the places we imagine.  Amen.

It’s amazing how similar our prayers are. Here is my prayer from last night:

Bless all sick people with the good sense to stay away from me. Thanks in advance for sending me a new plush mattress and bedding set. Please never let me get fat. Thank you for creating Ambien and red wine. Thank you for occasionally making me feel beautiful. Thank you for populating the earth with fancy people, so that I have something to aspire to. Thank you for giving my nerds the ability to use nerd humor to provide enough distraction that I don’t crumble in a giant ball of anxiety. I will thank you if you send my bank account a giant wad of cash so I can go to all the places I imagine myself in. Amen.

If only I could harness her innocence and use it for my own life.

Now that I’m 34-years-old, I’ve finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

I want to be this lady:

I’m not kidding around here. Think about it… she gets to wear a pink cowgirl hat AND a motherfucking tiara.

How cool is that?

Um, it’s cool. Trust me. Plus I bet someone else washes her hair and bathes her, which is pretty much my new life goal.

I’ve been struggling with my age lately. When I look in the mirror I see my face starting to age, and that is hard to come to terms with.

Hearing this woman roar with laughter over something the cashier said put everything into perspective. Who gives a shit if my laugh lines are getting deeper? At least I’m still laughing.

I’m finding myself more and more obsessed with the Olympics, especially Apolo Ohno.

You can read my love letter to him.

While you’re doing that, I’m going to drive around South Jordan trying to find his house. It’s not stalking if it’s love.

I’ve had a few contractors in and out of my house over the past few days bidding on replacing the bathtub. One particular contractor walked out of the bathroom and handed me three empty coffee mugs with a disgusted look on his face.

I was livid. How dare he come in my house and judge me? That’s what I have family for.

I’m unsure if it was the coffee that bothered him, or the fact I was drinking it in the bathroom.

“Oh, thanks. I forgot to put that away this morning.”

“Um, there are three.”

I love when people impress me with their counting skills. I felt like I should justify my morning routine, but held back. I also suppressed my urge to smash one of the mugs and use the shards to cut his throat.

Seriously though, it’s not that gross that I drink coffee in the bathroom. Sure, sometimes the mugs leave weird looking cup rings on the back of my toilet, and tub, but it’s not like I sit on the toilet every morning while eating a bowl of cereal.

Actually…

How much time would eating breakfast while peeing save? Five minutes? Ten minutes? I could hit the snooze button one more time.

Or I could stop eating breakfast altogether.

With the money saved on food, I could hire a maid to clean up the mugs, or spend the money on supplies to mainline the coffee. Either option would make me happy, and likely keep the next contractor alive.

Yesterday, on my way home from a client meeting, I stopped by Target to pick up a few grocery items. As usual I took the long way through the clothing.

I’m always on the hunt for cheap, white tee-shirts to replace the coffee stained ones that fill my closet. I snagged a couple and headed to the dressing room. Having the world’s smallest chest makes shopping rather difficult. Usually a size small fits perfectly, but apparently Target decided to turn into a complete jackhole and started making the chest circumference bigger, and the arms much, much smaller.

I managed to get stuck inside a fucking tee-shirt.

I was trying to wrestle the shirt from my body when I heard the woman in the next dressing room ask, “Are you OK?” She sounded annoyed so I assumed she was talking to the child with her, and continued operation remove shirt from ham arm.

A minute later she knocked on my stall and asked again, “Are you OK in there? Do you need medical attention? I’m a nurse, or I can call someone for you.”

What the WHAT?

“One second,” I replied as I hurriedly gave the shirt one final tug. I heard the combination of fabric ripping and a grunting sound. Oh my God. No wonder she was concerned. I sounded like an 80-year-old constipated man, or a teenager giving birth to a secret baby.

I cracked the dressing door room open so she could see that I was OK, and not giving birth to an unwanted child that I would later abandon on the junk food isle. She looked relieved, apologized and left.

Thank God, because I didn’t really have time for pleasantries. I needed to hurry home and start the process of finding a plastic surgeon to move my arm fat into my boobs. It’s not really plastic surgery, it’s an all-natural body shift.

I’m behind on laundry, replying to emails and returning calls, BUT I still found time to watch some reality television and bitch about it. Read about it in my “That’s What She Said” column for In Utah This Week.

The best Valentine’s Day gift I ever received was a porn coffee table book from my then boyfriend. The book had an excellent essay by Lou Reed, and as a bonus made my little brother, who lived with me at the time, VERY uncomfortable.

It was a win/win gift.

Yesterday the second best present made its way to my doorstep:

My hula dancing niece made me a Valentine, which in itself is adorable. Throw in the fact she wants me to have a God day, well that’s just bonus awesome.