Thanks!
This week’s “That’s What She Said” is all about my inability to figure out dating equations. You guys, math is HARD! I’m suddenly wishing I’d paid a little more attention in College Algebra. You can download the PDF here.
I leave for BlogHer one month from today. I wasn’t stressed out until I wrote out my ‘to do’ list:
1) Lose ten pounds so no one has to see pictures of my ham arms all over the Internet and wonder why there weren’t Mormon funeral potatoes served with the ham.
2) Find someone to design a new blog header and business cards. This stresses me out beyond belief. Design work makes my brains explode, which would NOT make a cute design. Only zombie lovers like that shit.
3) Magically fix my dog’s rotten ass so I can find someone that will agree to watch her while I’m gone. No one will volunteer to keep a dog that can melt skin with her farts.
4) Figure out what clothing to pack. I don’t understand why pants are required in public. It would be a lot easier if I could wear my pajamas the entire weekend. Seriously, BlogHer planners, wouldn’t a giant girly sleepover party be more fun?
I’m only allowing myself to worry about four things. The rest will fall into place. And if it doesn’t? Well too bad. I’ve got school and work to stress about.
Here’s what I’ve done with my list so far:
1) Jillian Michaels is working my ass every single day but so far the only thing lost is my will to live.
2) I found someone who will design something I love, but she’ll also get it done quickly. Yay for Alma Loveland’s design work! Use her. Worship her. Do not send her chocolate. That you can send straight to my mouth. OK, so I think we figured out why I’m not losing weight.
3) I’ve only made Daisy’s ass worse by switching her food. If you live in the greater Salt Lake area and you smell something disgusting that is not the lake. That is Daisy. Sorry.
4) I had planned on wearing jeans and tee shirts the entire time, but I was lucky enough to find a clothing saint. Heather from Fawn Boutique has agreed to come pick through my closet and find just the right outfits to take. What she doesn’t know is all she’ll find is black shirts and jeans. I can’t wait to see what surprises she has in store. (Heather if you’re reading this please bring magic. You’re going to need it.)
Two out of four isn’t bad. I’m halfway through my list, people! I totally deserve a drink.
I adore my dog, but her high pitched barking drives me stark raving mad. I do whatever it takes to avoid that bark. She knows this and usually gets whatever she needs by piercing my eardrums until I do what she wants.
I’m a damn human robot. I hate it, but I hate the bark more.
She has a new treat stick that she rolls around the house like a kibble vending machine until it’s empty. Then she runs around my apartment barking until I refill the thing.
The first time is sorta cute, but after three days of this routine I’m ready to take my bloody eardrums back to work for some peace and quiet.
I was twelve when my baby brother, Chad, was born. I was a bratty pre-teen and horrified that my parents were even having sex let alone bringing home the result and expecting me to love him.
I already had three younger brothers. The last thing I needed was another one. I may have been more forgiving of their transgressions if they had brought home a baby girl.
But noooooooo, they brought home yet another stinky, pain in the ass brother.
I tried to remedy the situation by dressing him up like a girl as much as possible. I called him Chadina:
My parents found out what I was doing and that was the end of that. He still made a pretty cute boy though:
When I graduated from high school and moved away from home we were both brokenhearted. I was once again brokenhearted when he decided to serve a Mormon mission in Japan for two years.
It was a long two years without him, but he’s served his time and is headed home!
My parents flew to Japan last week to pick him up. Today they will bring home my baby brother, but today they will also bring home a man.
I hate having my picture taken. I’m not naturally photogenic like some people. My eyes are always closed, or my mouth is hanging open. And sometimes? It’s both.
There’s nothing worse than stumbling across a horrid picture of yourself that should have been burned, or at least given to an ex-boyfriend so when his new girlfriend finds the photo she always feels hotter. Yeah, I live in a dream world where any future boyfriend will only have pictures of his ex-girlfriend that make me look even better. I’m shallow and insecure like that. I think it partly comes along with having a vagina.
Sure, I’ve had some great photos taken, but it’s a process AND by very talented photographers (@Calanan @Cottonsox I’m looking at you guys!). For the most part, however, my experiences haven’t been good.
Whenever I’m out doing something and someone pulls out a camera I turn my head and avoid the shot. I try to be discreet about it, but there’s always someone that calls me out on it and I end up looking like a giant jerk. Which I’m totally used to, but it still sucks.
Last night at a get-together for In Utah a local photographer was taking pictures of everyone at the bar. Wanna guess what I did? Yup. I turned away and, of course, looked like a bitch. In fact a friend even called me one. I shook it off and changed the subject.
I think having my photo taken is just going to be one of those things I always hate, like chicken. Don’t ask. It’s just gross.
Typos are the bane of my existence. Seriously. They haunt me as much as old relationships do.
Yet I still make them ALL THE TIME!
Sometimes the copy editors catch the mistakes and sometimes they don’t. The worst feeling in the world is seeing those typos in print. Sigh.
I wish my typos were limited to my column, but they aren’t. There are typos in my text messages more often than not. Like the time I tried to send a text message to a co-worker telling them to “give me a sec” but it came out “give me a sex.”
Yeah, that was fun to explain.
With that said, here’s my typo filled column for this week. Luckily the typos on the website were changed. Print, though? Not so much. For the print version you can download the PDF here.
How early is too early to start drinking?
No really?
Noon?
1:00 pm?
Breakfast?
..you see a magic seagull eating fry sauce in the drug store parking lot.
Dear Jillian Michaels,
I hate, hate, HATE you! You’re the biggest ragbitchslutcuntwhore I’ve ever met. Only we’ve never met. I’d never even heard of you when I ordered your 30 Day Shred video. I’ve never seen “The Biggest Loser” so I had no idea what I was getting into. I saw an advertisement for your fitness DVD and thought it looked cool so I bought it.
Maybe you’re a lovely woman in your life outside of the gym. I’ll never know. What I do know is that you’re the damn devil. You’re the evil influence I need to stick to a workout program. My ass and thighs love you; I, on the other hand, want to punch you in the freaking face. And that’s just what I’m doing each time you have me doing 30 second intervals of punching. In my head I’m knocking your teeth out. It feels so damn good, so thanks for that part.
I’m only four days into the program and I can already see a difference. That doesn’t mean I hate you any less, it just means my ass looks way hotter. I thought you should know.
Regards,
Sarah
My friend, Loralee, made the trek from Logan to Salt Lake so I could see her new baby. As I held her baby I sniffed his head and felt my ovaries do cartwheels.
She let me feed him a bottle and give him as many snuggles as I wanted. I haven’t been dating much these days, so I tried to get as much cuddling with a man as possible.
Mid snuggle I noticed a familiar snorting sound.
“Dude, you made a pug!”
“Um…”
“Seriously. Listen to him. He snorts just like Daisy AND his face is just as wrinkly as hers is. You’ve got a human pug!”
In hindsight it may have not been the nicest comparison I could have offered. A simple, “Oh what cute little sounds your baby makes” would have been much nicer. Lor didn’t mind. She’s used to the fact I don’t have a internal filter to shut myself up.
Later I compared him to a potato bug, and then, even later, a horse.
I’m an excellent friend. And well versed in animal sounds.
After spending that much time with a newborn I suddenly pictured myself as a mother. I’d rock the shit out of the playground. I’d be the cool mom that was crazy enough to be fun, but not crazy enough to be committed.
I spent the rest of the day planning my future as a parent.
And then?
I read this.
Yeah. That bitch went and ruined my parental dreams by talking about icky birth details. I’m soooo printing out her post and the next time my family asks when I’m going to settle down and make some freaking babies I’ll hand them her post and scream NEVER! at the top of my lungs.
That’ll shut them up.
