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A demon cold has decided to use my body as a host, and I still haven’t found a cold medicine that doubles as an exorcism. This is exactly why I hate winter: first a case of Strep Throat and now this.

Last night I took some nighttime cold medicine in hopes of getting a full night of sleep.  I did!  However, waking up this morning was a bitch.  I slept through my alarm clock, woke up dizzy and had the general symptoms of a Las Vegas bender.  The good news is I didn’t have to worry about where I lost my panties or whether or not I really did dance on top of a table in the middle of a crowded bar.  So I’ve got that going for me.

The bad news is I have no idea what the remedy for a cold medicine hangover is.  Somehow I don’t think greasy eggs and a Bloody Mary is going to solve this one.  Instead, I’m going to try a lot of coffee and a day filled with sarcasm.  It’s really all I’ve got at this point.

Last week after dinner RLO and I stopped by Williams-Sonoma. That’s what you do when your non-gay BFF fancies himself a gourmet chef.

The KitchenAid hand mixer on display had flour in the bowl.  Really, messy flour?  You know what happens next, right?  Of course I stuck my fingers in the bowl and wiped them on RLO’s dress pants, all while giggling like a six-year-old little girl.

I smiled at him and asked, “Do you hate me now?”

“Not more than usual, Sarah, you do a pretty good job of keeping the hate consistent.”

And that, dear readers, is the recipe to a beautiful friendship: 90% hate, mixed with the occasional 10% mushy feelings.

Today is the 10% mushy, as it’s RLO’s birthday.  I may tease him endlessly on this blog, and in real life, but truthfully I adore RLO and am incredibly lucky to have him as a best friend.  He’s intelligent, hilarious, handsome and most importantly patient enough to deal with me on a daily basis.

Happy birthday RLO! I hope to make you miserable for another 31 years!

After asking my niece Hannah what she wanted for Christmas I found her twin brother, Carter, and asked him what he wanted. He too wanted a scooter. Which is why I have a new favorite: my nephew Coltin. He’s didn’t ask for anything extravagant, so he’s in and the twins are out.

This is my brother Ben holding Coltin. I tell you this because otherwise you may think he’s just some random guy off the street we let hold the babies in our family before kidnapping them.

Realizing that I hadn’t started my holiday shopping I asked my niece, Hannah, yesterday what she wanted for Christmas yesterday.

“A pink scooter, please.”

“Wow, that’s a big gift.  What if Aunt Sarah can’t get you a pink scooter, then what do you want?”

“A purple scooter.”

“Hannah, let me explain this to you.  Scooters are pretty expensive and Aunt Sarah can’t afford to buy a real scooter for you.  Is there something else you want?  Maybe a book, or a Barbie?”

“A Barbie scooter, please.”

I guess this is my own fault for storing my scooter in my brother’s garage for the winter.  She got a taste of the good life and wants one. I can’t blame really her for that, now can I?

Seeing this at the mall yesterday made me laugh so hard I ignored my coffee for three whole minutes, which is a new record. I checked.

Daisy is going to get a big dose of healthy this week, thanks to Anna at Puppenschnoodles!

Anna read my MANY messages on Twitter about Daisy’s sick tummy and was kind enough to contact me to offer her advice on a more holistic approach to Daisy’s rotten ass.  This includes natural dog foods, which don’t contain icky chicken guts, and a special puppy supplement. If you’re having your own dog issues I’d strongly suggest contacting her.

I’m excited to try this natural route, and frankly it works perfectly because I always suspected Daisy was a hippie; ever since that time at the Liberty Park drum circle when she put on a tie die skirt and danced while chanting to the moon goddess.

I’m very much hoping this solves the toxic gas problem we’ve got going on.  I am not kidding when I say Daisy farts could be used as a torture device.  However, if I come home one day to a pug dog who is begging me for dreadlocks,  I’m going to be very upset.

My hands are orange today.  ORANGE!  Which is not even my favorite color, though it was Frank Sinatra’s favorite color in case you care.

I want you to read this next part closely and take heed.

When going to the bathroom in the middle of the night you should always turn the bathroom light on.  I don’t care how tired you are, or how much your throat hurts.  Turn that motherfucking light on, because otherwise when you reach for lotion after you wash your hands you will accidentally grab the bottle of self-tanner from the drawer and slather it all over your poor little dry hands.

Orange hands don’t suit me.  I look like George Hamilton, which sucks because I have a date tonight.  But don’t you worry I’ll insist he calls me George all night, which may prove to be awkward for him, but entertaining enough for me that he’ll agree to it.

This completes your public service announcement Friday.

You’re welcome.

As you know I was OBSESSED with seeing the International Spy Museum while I was on my vacation, so it’s no surprise my column this week is about just that.  Here it is: “That’s What She Said”.

I’m a sucker for dive bars, so when we found a dive bar named after pugs in Georgetown I knew I’d love it. And I did, until the bartender told me about the special spiced cider they were serving.

“What’s in the spiced cider exactly?”

“It’s regular apple cider laced with rum.”

“Laced?”

“Yup, laced.”

I had no idea what to say so I sat there awkwardly silent for a moment, until he spoke again, “Oh, yeah, maybe laced was a bad choice of words.  We don’t want people thinking they’re going to get drugged in here.”

“How about infused with rum?”

“No, that’s way too much fancy talk.”

“Fine.  Can I get a vodka tonic, please?”

I’m going to post about my trip soon, I promise. But right now I’m very busy catching up on emails, snuggling my dog, and trying to forget the horror that was flying Southwest. There was baby barf involved. Baby barf, people, ON MY LEG!

Until I get some time to post pictures and stories of my adventures, I will leave you with yet another to hate RLO: as soon as I arrived home he emailed me a picture of a letter he received in the mail addressed to “RLO & Michelle.” When the cat is away, the mouse will play.

AND FAKE A MARRIAGE!

It’s cute that he thinks a marriage would stop me from taking over his life again now that I’m home. Silly, silly boy.