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Dear RLO,

Mark your calendar; my birthday is one month from today.  For my birthday I would like a month long celebration.  And as everyone knows, no celebration is complete without cake.  Your job is cake–a month of cake.

You’re busy with school, I know, so rather than a daily cake just keep me in continuous cake.  I’ll try and eat slow, but no written promises.  Is this really too much to ask of you?  I think not.  You’re already skating on thin ice as it is.  That chocolate you brought into the movie last night was horrible.  And this busy thing?  It’s getting old.  Your roommate only has one birthday per year.  I swear this is the 14th time you’ve had to stay home to celebrate.  I’m onto you RLO.  You do realize you can be replaced, right?

Just yesterday I had lunch with a new friend, Summer, who I met through blogging. I wished all of my female readers lived in SLC so we could get together and have one giant sleepover.  Of course hundreds of woman may result in a giant catfight, or porn.  Either way I could video the event and sell to my male readers, which will pay my tuition.  I’ll consider it a scholarship, ahem.

Out of that many woman there’s got to be a BFF. If I were you, I’d get yourself to the grocery store for baking supplies. If you don’t come through on the cake thing, I’m going to have to find another BFF.  Consider yourself warned.

Love,
Sarah

This week’s That’s What She Said.  I know you people, so before you write me emails complaining about the headline please remember I didn’t write it.  The only puns in my vocabulary are dirty ones.  You people know that.  You do know that, right?  Well RLO does anyway.  And frankly he’s growing tired of my wiener jokes.  Get it?  Growing wiener?  I kill me.

“RLO, will you make cookies for me?”

“I’ll make some of my specialty anti-Trainer Tracey cookies. I’m going for 700 calories per cookie.”

“What cookies might those be?”

“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you. Though I can say that each cookie has a stick of butter in it.”

“I don’t like butter, so they’d have to taste like sex for me to eat them.  And good sex, the kind that doesn’t involve love. Sex with strangers, do they taste like sex with strangers?”

“All right. I’ll make special buttery coitus cookies for you. Or just butt sex cookies for short.”

“Sex cookies probably have chocolate in them, right?”

“Sarah, it’s hard to separate the two.”

“RLO, I’m seriously so hungry right now.  I’d take sex, cookies OR a stick of butter.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you would. You really need to push for an office so you can satisfy all three of those needs anytime you want.”

Today at lunch I came home, ate a turkey sandwich and finished a book Tori Spelling wrote.  That’s not my confession.  My confession is that I cried at the end.  TEARS OVER A FUCKING TORI SPELLING BOOK!  I need a life ASAP.

I dare you to one-up my tears.  Go ahead, do it.  I need a laugh.  Well what are you waiting for?

On Sunday RLO and I took Little AK to brunch with us.  Her parents were out of town and we naively offered to spend an hour or so with her.  Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love Little AK, but she is a handful.

After brunch we tried to take her to a movie, which she was adamantly against. At that point RLO decided he wasn’t cut out for pseudo parenting, (which we already knew) and dropped us off at my apartment so he could go home and nap. He’s obviously in a heap of trouble and will only be forgive by sneaking in chocolate when we go to see a movie on Wednesday night.

When Little C walked into my apartment the first thing she said was, “It’s going to be very hot in here, I think I’d better take my pants off for this.”  I couldn’t help but laugh, since that’s the first thing I do every time I walk in the door, no matter if I have company or not.  It was then that I picked her up and gave her a big hug and kiss.  It’s the little things kids say that keep you from killing them.  I’m convinced of it.

Today marks the 100th day that I’ve been soda free.  To some may not be a big deal, but to me it’s huge.

I’m no newbie to quitting; in fact I’m quite experienced in the art of quitting.  I quit ballet, art lessons and piano.  Not to mention a shit load of boyfriends.  But this is one of the few times I quit something I love.  I love Diet Coke and Diet Dr Pepper.  Yeah, yeah… “why don’t you marry one of them?”  I totally would have, both even; this is Utah after all.  But humping an ice-cold can isn’t my idea of the perfect sexual relationship. That’s the last place I want frostbite.

I was able to quit with the help of my trusty Dr Pepper Lip Smacker.  Any time I’m craving a soda I pull out my lip gloss where the soothing smell of DP gets me through the rough spots.  Which got me thinking that I should totally invent heroin, meth and cocaine lip gloss and open a rehab center.  The center would have a giant outdoor pool where you could catch some rays while sexy models coated your lips with my unique blend of lip gloss.  It would put The Betty Ford Center to shame.

I’m going to make millions, but don’t worry I’ll still write my blog just poolside.

Although I’ve forbidden it, RLO does have other friends.  Most of which are female.  And if I hadn’t recently promised to stop making him sound so gay on this website I’d point out that the boy has more fag hags than Hollywood.  That doesn’t make him sound gay, right?  That’s what I thought.

Anyway, one of these friends, Sugar, recently took a trip to Chicago for business and met up with an old friend who lives there. The friend was playing with Sugar’s phone and noticed some pictures that RLO had taken.  When Sugar mentioned his name the friend asked if she was talking about Sarah Nielson’s RLO.

Which leave me wondering why strangers on the Internet realizes I own RLO, but he doesn’t.  Clearly I have my work cut out for me.

Trainer Tracey hates me.  She acts all nice and sweet, but secretly she wants me dead, or at the very least humiliated.

At my last training session she made me work out with those giant balls.  Yes, the balls that have terrified me for years. She quickly realized I have zero coordination when I couldn’t simply toss the ball and catch it with my feet while laying on my back.  So she punished me.

“Sarah, hold the ball between your thighs and pulsate.”

“Really? This isn’t a joke?  You seriously want me to sit in the middle of a gym full of people with a ball between my thighs and pulsate?”

“Yes.”

“If you weren’t such a great person, I’d really hate you right now.”

“I know.  Now pulsate and count to 30.”

I did, but I wasn’t very happy about it.  To make things worse, I got home and found my Gliding Discs had arrived in the mail.  I finally gave up on using paper plates when I came home to find Daisy gnawing on them.

The good news is if the discs don’t glide me into my skinny jeans as promised I can use them to glide over to the freezer for consolation ice cream.

My brother and I went to see Body Worlds 3 at The Leonardo last Sunday.  If I was going to look at dead bodies of course I was going to drag Ben along with me.  Nothing says family bonding like skinless bodies, right?  That last sentence was far creepier than anything in the exhibit, except maybe the guy behind me in line that kept brushing up against me inappropriately.  I’d like to have him skinned and tossed into the exhibit, but I wasn’t entirely sure how to go about that.  OK, I’m creeping myself out here.  Just go read the damn column.

Being the good friend that she is Kelli thinks she has found a solution for my financial woes.  She has decided I should move to San Diego, go to school there on student loans, and commit to teaching school long enough for the government to pay off the loans.  Not a bad idea, but I think she just wants a scooter buddy.  Which is completely selfish given the fact I’m not near ready for year round swimsuit season.

Since RLO is my closest girlfriend these days, I discussed the idea with him.

“Sarah, you realize kids are shits, right?”

“All people are shits.  I think age is irrelevant. You know this would all be so much easier if you’d a) be my sugar daddy, or b) let me sell your flower to the Internet.”

“Well you’re getting closer to being a born-again virgin. You can sell your own flower.”

“RLO, I think yours would yield a higher profit than a slightly used flower.”

“I just looked born-again virgin up and Urban Dictionary says 6 months. You are good to go. And I think your flower is in higher demand than mine.”

“I’ll sell both flowers and of course take all the profit, but at least you’ll be left with a satisfied wiener.”

He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t veto the idea, which is pretty much a green light.  It wasn’t until later, I realized it was odd RLO knew the exact timing of my last sexual escapade.  Needless to say, I’m going to find that hidden camera tonight and I’m going to give him a show to remember.