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Last night I popped RLO’s cherry.  No, not that cherry, you perverts!  RLO has lived in Utah for years and not once has he been to the Training Table Restaurant,  which to me is a far worse sin than any word of wisdom infractions.

I’ve always loved Training Table. Years ago, when Tim was still alive we’d all go there for lunch. AK and I quoting the old school television commercials, while Tim just shook his head embarrassed to be seen with us. After Tim died, it took a while before any of us went back, but eventually we did.

We had to assemble a new lunch group.  We added JB and PMK to the mix, which I realized was a huge mistake when AK and JB fought over the proper way to mix the dipping sauce.  Who knew a fork and/or butter knife could cause such a controversy among nerds.

I was thrilled when RLO mixed the dipping sauce with a fork and didn’t feel the need to discuss his method.  RLO was just thrilled with the food.  So much, in fact, I had to photo shop the above picture to remove his hard nipples.  Internet, you owe me.

For the past week I’ve had a headache I just can’t get rid of.  Saturday night when it reached the point of nausea I called my mom, the nurse, for advice.

“Honey, it sounds like a tension headache.  Do you have someone who can massage your neck?”

“Yeah, let me ask Daisy if she has some free time.”

“Sarah, I meant a date.”

“I’m not in the habit of calling men over to rub my neck while I barf in their lap.”

“Well, do you have a vibrator you can put on your neck?”

“Are you seriously suggesting I put a sex toy on my neck?”

“Sarah, some people have vibrators specifically for muscle aches.”

“Mom those are called massagers.  We’ve been over this before.  Please, stop calling them vibrators.”

“Fine.  Do you have a massager?”

“No, but I have a vibrator I could substitute.”

I was outside, yesterday afternoon, letting Daisy out when I noticed something black hanging in the tree outside of my house.  I moved in for a closer work and found something I didn’t expect to see… my panties.

I have no idea how this could have happened. I’d like to think crazy drunken debauchery is to blame for the wild pantie tossing, but I have a feeling laundry day is to blame.  There is a coin operated washer and dryer in the basement of the house I live in.  I have to go outside and around back to use them, which can easily explain the panties being dropped outside.  The tree part, however, I’m still having trouble explaining.

I carefully picked the panties out of the tree and took them back upstairs.  I won’t be harvesting them into jam or pies.  The lace is as hard to pick out of your teeth as strawberry seeds.

Dear Al Gore,

I rode my bike to the store last night. The fact that I couldn’t locate my car keys may have had something to do with my decision, but I’d still like props for saving that itsy bitsy piece of the planet.

But that’s not why I’m writing you; I just wanted to check in.  How are you?  I’ve been a little worried that you may be feeling down in the dumps over this whole McCain inventing the Blackberry fiasco.  Party affiliations aside, you’re still my man.  Sure, the Blackberry was pretty cool.  I had one for a while, but I quickly moved onto the iPhone.  Whereas your invention, the Internet, I’ve not moved on from.

The Internet has made such a difference in my life.  It gives me a place to share stories of the crazy, stupid things I do.  Not to mention I’ve found a really great support system online.  And even a boyfriend or two.  I’ve never humped anyone because of a Blackberry.  For that alone you’re the clear winner. So, as you can see you’re still very much ahead of the game.

I won’t quit you Al Gore.

Love,
Sarah

Thursdays are my favorite day for blogging, because I can post a link to my column and call it good.  Frankly, I’m too stressed out to be clever, and since I can’t afford a therapist I’m going to vent here.  If you don’t like it there’s this cute little button at the top of the page with an X on it just for you.  Come back tomorrow.  I’m sure I’ll have some stupid, embarrassing moment to share.  If I leave home, something humiliating is bound to happen.

I’m about to have a pity part here.  Seriously, are you sure you don’t want to log off? Fine.  I warned you.

Yesterday, I found out how much it will cost to finish my degree and needless to say I’m considering prostitution.  Look for me on a street corner near you!

On top of that, after five years of living in my tiny princess pad, my rent is being raised.  I told myself when I moved in that I wasn’t moving out until I purchased my own home.  How very naive of me.  My salary isn’t high enough to afford an education and a house.  I’m not willing to give up on my education quite yet, so it looks like I’m stuck in my tiny apartment without a proper kitchen, AC or laundry.

I know, I know… I’m VERY fortunate to have a job, an apartment, and a chance at a higher education. And while I know how incredibly lucky I am to have these things it doesn’t stop me from noticing those around me who can afford a much nicer lifestyle, and still manage to whine about life.  The worst part is biting my tongue when I really want to tell them all to fuck off.  I don’t because I love them.  And that, folks, is what love is: not telling people to fuck off.

For now, I’ll continue to go to work every day, and then I’ll go to school.  Afterward, I’ll come home and cry because I’m terrified of how I’m going to pay for it all.  Promise me when you see me on the street corner you won’t heckle me.

And if you do, I won’t write columns about threesomes anymore.  How’s that for punishment?

When I stopped dating Non-Troll Doll I decided there was no reason for me to change my grocery store.  We’re still friendly with one another; so seeing each other while shopping is no big deal.

Last night was the first time I’ve run across NTD.  I was in the cereal isle when I noticed him.  So of course I said, “Hey douchebag, move your fucking cart; you’re in my way.”

And of course the man turned around and it wasn’t NTD.

And of course he was hot.

And of course I looked like a total asshole.

I apologized telling him I thought he was someone I used to date.  He laughed and said, “Well no wonder you two are no longer dating.  Most guys don’t like to be called douchebags.”

He did not ask for my number, how odd.

I’ve avoided the “I Can Haz Cheezburger” phenomenon for long enough. For the record I still hate the site, but Daisy’s cuteness trumps all stupid Internet sites.

Last week when my brother asked if I was interested in adopting a pug that needed a home, I scoffed at the idea of a second dog.  Surround sound snorting, are you kidding me? That sounds as appealing as finally washing my week-old dirty dishes.  But the more I thought about it, the better the idea sounded.

After all, Daisy is 12 and not getting any younger.  People, when my girl dies I’m going to hit rock bottom. Is that morbid to worry how you’ll handle your pet’s death?  Because it’s something I’ve been starting to concern myself with this past year.  If I get a second dog now, will it make things easier when she goes?

Not to mention Daisy might just enjoy someone to boss around all day. I could name the dog after RLO just to piss him off.  Which, by the way, if pissing RLO off were an Olympic sport I would fucking take Michael Phelps to the ground. Fourteen gold medals, pfff, I could accomplish that before my morning coffee.

Ben hasn’t heard back from the people that were trying to place the pug, which probably means they’ve changed their minds or found another home for the puppy.  Meanwhile I’m cruising adoption sites and classifieds for the perfect mate for Daisy.

Internet, this is where you come in… talk me out of this, and fast.  If I become a single girl with two dogs, I’m only one step away from learning to knit my own clothing, and collecting Precious Moment figurines

Today I regain custody of RLO.  I’m a tad nervous about what condition I’ll find him in.  I swear if he comes back quoting scriptures every time I have another glass of wine I’ll rip that Holy Ghost right out of him.  Then I’ll make the Holy Ghost my new best friend naming him Hank.  Hank, RLO and I will become the new, hip three musketeers.

We’ll ride off into the sunset on white horses.  Wait, did they have horses?  I didn’t read the book and the only thing I remember about the movie was Charlie Sheen.  It was 1993.  I was way too busy trying not to get knocked up in the back of the movie theater to pay much attention to anything on screen.

I have a long list of activities for this week.  Though I haven’t actually shown him the list—he has a much harder time saying no to me in person.  It’s because I bat my beautiful, long lashes while threatening to give Daisy to him.  He has a hard time saying no at that point.  He’d do anything to stay away from my dog, even driving me to Utah County to play mini-golf at Liberty Land.

Yes, I will take pictures.  You’re welcome.

My friend Kelli is a sneaky little bitch, which is exactly why I adore her.  Being the horrible, anti-social blogger that I am, I never fill out those survey things.  Even when tagged by someone as lovely as a Summer day. Kelli took it upon herself to force my hand into taking part, though technically I still didn’t post a meme or fill one out for myself.  I’m only telling you about it, because Kelli threatened me.  AND, because I’m too busy working on homework today to write a proper post.