Contact

This week’s “That’s What She Said” talks about the movie “My Sister’s Keeper” and friends who cry… A LOT!

A friend of mine shared her biggest fear with me the other night. She’s not terrified of mice like I am, or even crow’s feet like the rest of women. Nope. She’s afraid of getting stuck somewhere and not having anyone around to help her.

I live alone with a pug. Daisy has one freaking eye so it’s not like she’s Lassie. If I got stuck and couldn’t reach my phone I’d be a goner. And just like that getting stuck is now one of my fears.

I voiced this fear to another friend who reminded me I have a zillion brothers that would find and save me. Hardly. Those boys are lazy asses. They’d take my silence as their own personal vacation. After thinking about the problem for a few minutes I realized I wouldn’t ever get stuck in my apartment and die. I could easily use the gay husband signal as a beacon to alert RLO that I needed to be saved. Super RLO looks hot in tights, plus he’s a biker so super comfy in spandex.

I’m going to practice the method by getting stuck on my way to the pub. It’s really the best way to get some quality BFF time in. Plus I’m really hungry for a good pub dinner.

“Your brother read me the blog about the dead cat, and then he buried it for a second time.”

“MOM! I don’t want to know this.”

“Fine, I won’t talk about it, but just know that it’s not on the front lawn anymore. Also, honey, don’t write about this on your blog tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want people thinking we are weird.”

“Mom, I think it’s a little late for that. We are weird. And adorable, so it’s OK.”

Last year I wanted to attend BlogHer, but didn’t. I was so worried I wouldn’t fit in. I’m not a mommy blogger and many of the sessions were parental themed because lots of attendees are moms.

What if we have nothing in common? Yeah, I’m an idiot like that. I have a lot of things in common with them. We all have a vagina and blogs for example.

This year I ignored all my fears and decided to go. Plus I finally found a silver lining to hanging out all weekend with thousands of moms. Are you ready for this? Moms are flask insurance.

Huh?

It’s brilliant really. Every mom I know has a bottle, or sippy cup somewhere in the bottom of a purse. Bingo! Sippy cup o’ vodka: it’s the must have drink for this year’s conference. The first thing I’m going to do when I arrive Thursday is beg my mommy roomies, Loralee and Sandi, to let me dig through their purses.

Now, whose purse has the vodka? Seriously, WHO? I want to meet you.

Actually I want to meet everyone, but vodka purses have priority. That’s the kind of bag that takes the edge off, which I’ll need because large crowds freak me out.

“Sarah, I think there’s a dead cat in the front yard.”

“Gross, Mom, why did you call to tell me this?”

“Because I just saw it.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to hear about it! Besides, I’m two hours away from you. I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

“I think maybe the dog did it, but I’m not positive.”

“Is there hard evidence it was the dog?”

“No, so it could have been the neighbor’s dog.”

“Mom, this is starting to sound like a country Clue board game and is sort of freaking me out.”

I still don’t understand the need for a dead cat phone call, but I’m grateful for every phone conversation I have with my mom.

I absolutely adore her.

So much that I would drive the two hours to her house just to clean up an animal carcass from her lawn. Actually I’d take it a step further: I love my mom enough that I’d call one of my brothers and have them take care of it. True love means loving my mom enough to not emotionally scar her only daughter.

Show me a woman who doesn’t have insecurities about her body and I’ll show you a fucking liar. We all have things we hate: our noses, thighs, cheekbones, hair, et cetera.

I’ve always been extremely self-conscious about my chest, or lack thereof. I can still hear the taunting from boys in junior high school.

“Sarah’s a carpenter’s dream…she’s flat as a board and she’s never been screwed.”

I hated those little prick bastards. I cried myself to sleep many a nights in those days.

I never got over it. And my chest never got any bigger. I still have the chest size of a pre-teen. I hate it. Nothing ever fits right.

It’s so hard to shop when you have a regular sized body with the chest size of a 10-year-old. Yesterday I finally took in a pile of sundresses that need to be tailored into my favorite tailor Mr. Charlie. He’s the most adorable elderly Chinese man.

As I tried the dresses on for him I could see the frustration on his face. “Why you have such little teeny boobies?”

I muttered, “Because God hates me, that’s why.”

“Tsk, tsk.” He shook his head at me. “Nothing fits you right.”

I handled the situation like the adult I am, and not the child my chest size might suggest. I held my tongue and didn’t run off in tears. Instead I looked at him and said, “We’ve all got body issues, but at least I have pretty hair.”

“Oh, yes. Such pretty hair, “ he replied.

We finished up and I left the shop with my head held high, because it draws attention to my kick ass hair and not my teeny boobies.

Read this week’s “That’s What She Said” for details on my not-so-secret crush on the Old 97’s frontman.

I’ve had a busy week, hence the boring blog. I’m leaving for BlogHer next Thursday and I’m trying to wrap up a bunch of school projects before I leave. This means the majority of Daisy’s time has been spent sleeping instead of demanding I fill her treat stick.

Luckily she hasn’t been too lonely. She had a stuffed friend to snuggle.

That or she’s found the dog equivalent of a blow-up doll which even grosses me out to write, so let’s stick to the snuggle partner.

If you’re going to give someone a housewarming plant the appropriate thing to do is name it after yourself. You want the recipient to have a constant reminder of your amazing generosity. When the gift is from two people you obviously have to give the plant a celebrity couple name.

The problem is that when you combine Sarah and Susan you get Saran. Not only is it pretty much still my name, but it sounds exactly like the toxic nerve agent Sarin. Actually now that I think about it Sarin is fitting. I have been called a weapon of mass destruction before so may as well stick with the familiar.

Plus the name “the hot blond girls who drink all your wine and boss you around” is way too long and just not as catchy. Sarin it is.

Now all that’s left is hoping the plant lives. And the boy.

Over the weekend I helped my friend Summer launch her new blog. To thank me she called me fat. No really, she did.  Not phat, which I totally am by the way, but fat.

F-A-T!

She didn’t word it exactly the same way. She’s way too nice for that. Instead she offered me training sessions with her personal trainer boyfriend which is exactly the same thing as calling me fat. Or maybe she just wants someone else to suffer as much as she is. Their Friday night dates are held at the gym more often than that. If he weren’t such a nice guy I’d insist she break up with him.

I’m training with Mr. Summer tomorrow. So if you don’t hear from me he’s obviously murdered me with a dumbbell. And no Summer, you can’t inherit my blog. You’ve got a pretty one of your own now.