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My In Utah This Week column this week sort of makes me sound like a spoiled brat who loves spending money, which I’m not. In fact, just yesterday, I passed up on the cutest footed pajamas because I couldn’t stand the thought of spending $30 on them.

The older I get, the less I want to spend money. Soon I’ll be cashing in on Sizzler coupons for a steak and casing the streets for junk people are throwing out.

In a world where every freaking animal has its own strain of flu, you’d think people would learn that spreading germs is a bad thing.

YOU WOULD THINK.

In my political analysis class there’s this dude who has been sick for two months straight. Every single day, buckets of snot pour from his nose. He doesn’t leave the classroom to blow his nose; instead he does it in class. It’s absolutely disgusting and I’m convinced I’m going to catch whatever he’s got. I’m such a snot snob. I insist that blowing your nose should take place in a bathroom where you can wash your hands afterward. Is that really too much to ask? I’m paying for an education, not the flu.

I’m going to feel really horrible if I find out he has some sort of incurable illness, but for now his only diagnosis is inconsiderate asshole. Currently there is no known cure for this.

The decent into hell has officially begun. Halloween is on Saturday, yet I’ve already encountered my first Trick-or-Treater.

Imagine my surprise when a teenager–dressed up as a ghost–shows up at my door begging for candy. I gave him a dollar to get the hell off my porch. Did he really think if I had candy I was going to share? Pff.

Yeah, yeah… I’m a spoilsport. I’ve already written about why I hate Halloween, so I’ll spare you a repeat rant. Instead I’ll offer up a bit of advice.

1) Teach your teens how to use a calendar.

2) Halloween has a way of bringing out the whore in women. If you want to dress like a prostitute you don’t need a holiday. Just change jobs, or go dancing in Ogden on a Saturday night.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to move my extreme Monday bitchiness offline and to the college campus. You’re welcome.

P.S. HA! I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand the slut level of Halloween. Maybe it’s because we are both country kids and miss the good old days where Trick-or-Treaters were adorable neighbor kids dressed in cute hand-sewn costumes that resembled baby farm animals.

Reader email is one of my favorite things about my column. Well, that and the paycheck, but I’m pretty sure Emily Post would roll over in her grave if we discussed incomes online. She’d also be really upset I discussed sex with animals in print, but I did anyway.

What?

I had to! It was the only way to answer a reader email. Read my column here.

It’s not easy being a crazy, single chick. I like being independent, it’s sorta my thing, but lately it feels like a lot of work.

I don’t want to be in charge of putting air in my low car tires, or be the sole household bug killer. I’ve killed 30 spiders and crickets in the last two days alone. I don’t live in the south, so that’s a LOT of household bugs. I’m not scared of bugs, but I am scared of zombie bugs. Yeah. This is where the crazy part comes in.

Today is the third week my garbage hasn’t been picked up. I have trouble remembering to take it to the curb. The bins aren’t full so it’s not a huge deal. I hardly mind the smell of rotting food anymore. It’s all the dead bugs I’ve tossed in the trash that bothers me.

WHAT IF THEY TURN INTO ZOMBIES? It’s close to Halloween and that’s when spooky things happen. And then what? I don’t even know how to kill a zombie spider.

When I got home yesterday I found a box from Nordstrom sitting on my porch.

Fuck.

Guess who has been online shopping after taking Ambien again?

The shirt is a cute, and I would have most certainly picked it out in a non-Ambien state. That’s not the problem. Breaking my budget is the real issue.

Why can’t my Ambien spending sprees be limited to paying bills? Clearly my subconscious doesn’t understand that I’m going to need to replace my car soon. Oh, and buy groceries, UNLESS my subconscious is telling me to go on a diet. In which case, my subconscious is a total dickface and I demand a new one immediately. Can you imagine being able to custom order your subconscious? I would have a smaller ass, perfect skin, a great rack and much longer legs.

So I guess I need to train my subconscious to think I’m a Victoria’s Secret model. Great.

Sometimes I try and be a good person, but my effort usually turns into a giant wad of embarrassment. Driving home from school today I saw my friend Jeff walking to the train station. His house is on my way home so I figured why not save him some time and give him a lift.

I pulled my car over and yelled out the window, “Hey jerk, wanna ride home?”

Well the jerk wasn’t Jeff. It was some stranger, who probably isn’t a jerk at all. Neither is Jeff, really, but I use the word jerk in a loving manner. Something a stranger wouldn’t know about me.

I should have explained the case of mistaken identity to the stranger, but noooooooo. Instead I sped off. Yup, that’s me. I flee when humiliated. That’s ALWAYS been my M.O.

Tomorrow that all changes, because tomorrow my new life M.O. will be: Just be an asshole already. You end up looking like one anyway.

After a weekend in dirty Las Vegas I made it back to SLC just in time to meet my friend Sandi’s new baby.

Sailor is perfect. She is beautiful, sweet and content to let a perfect stranger hold her. It was love at first sight. I wanted to toss her in my purse and take her home, but I was worried that Sandi would kill me, and her feeding tube might get caught in the zipper of my purse.

I promise, I’m not usually the kidnapping type, but oh my God I fell in love with this little girl. The minute I saw her my ovaries did a perfectly choreographed tap dance up and down my womb.

I took the batteries out of my biological clock years ago, but holding Sailor close enough to feel her heartbeat started that damn clock. I don’t know how that thing is running without batteries, but it is. And, man, is it loud.

Internet, I think I’m in big trouble. Let’s just hope a pug puppy this spring will fill the void, because a baby daddy is just like the perfect red lipstick. Impossible for me to find.

Read this week’s “That’s What She Said” to hear my reasons for hating the holiday. Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it’s your favorite holiday and you can’t imagine how ANYONE could hate it. Um, bloody zombies.. isn’t that enough to hate anything?