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I had a date Saturday night.  Rather than be creative or at all interesting, we opted for a movie at my place.  I’m quickly realizing the only good taste non-troll doll has is in women, because this is the second worst movie I’ve seen in the past month.  The other god awful movie was also his pick.

I’m not kidding, this movie was so boring I pulled out my iPhone and read the newspaper while he continued to watch.  I continued to refill my wine glass, and even that didn’t make the movie better.  I whined enough that he finally turned the movie off, gave me a kiss and went home.

The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen for coffee and vitamins–the breakfast of champions, yo!  While I waited for the coffee to brew I grabbed a handful of vitamins and reached for an orange vitamin drink that had been left on my counter. I tossed the pills into my mouth and took a giant swig of the orange drink.

Something didn’t taste right.  In fact it was downright disgusting. I spit the drink and pill concoction into the sink.  Still gagging over the taste, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and picked up the drink for a closer inspection.  I’d somehow forgotten he’d mixed a few shots of vodka into the drink.  Warm vodka is one of the least pleasant things to experience on a Sunday morning.  Well that, and church.

Dear Internet,

I’m likely going to die in a fire this weekend.  I only tell you this because you’ll miss me.  I know you will.  You, my mother both, and possibly Ben.  RLO, however, will not miss me.  I can’t blame him at all.  In fact upon my death RLO may bloom into the lovely person I won’t let him be.

I just took out the batteries of every single fire detector in my apartment.  Not because I have a death wish but because I couldn’t figure out which one was the cause of the low battery chirp.  I’d rather risk death than risk chirping-induced insanity.

Internet I will miss you.

Love,
Sarah

I saw them again today at the bus stop. Once again my heart melted, which is good because it proves I had a heart in the first place.

To read this week’s column click here. I don’t have much to say about it besides bitching about RLO’s friend CALLING HIM SUGAR!  I liked her and all, but seriously! Clearly she is unaware that he is my back-up plan, not hers.

If we’re single at fifty we’re going to marry, and make out on the street.  Of course by then my womb will have long since given up, so we’ll adopt children to serve us from a third world country and be the new Brangelina.  Only less hot, and way, way older.

I’ve always fancied myself a single gal.  I’m not a relationship person. I’ve had a series of one to two month relationships, in which I get bored, or am unable to make an attachment to the man and I simply move on.  Sure I’ve had “real” boyfriends, but without going into great detail IT NEVER WORKS OUT!

It’s entirely possible I have a distorted view of relationships.  My parents have been married for 33 years.  Are they happy?  I have no idea. I haven’t seen them kiss or hug one another in years. They’re most certainly happy enough.  But I don’t want happy enough.

And my friends?

My married girlfriends bitch about their husbands; my married male friends bitch about their wives.  I can’t think of one happily married couple.  I can think of plenty of semi-happily married couples. Is bitching about your partner part of a happy marriage?  I DON’T KNOW! See why my views on the institution of marriage are slightly dismal?

But then yesterday I saw something that shook me to the core.  I saw an elderly couple kissing one another at the bus stop.  The kiss itself wasn’t shocking.  It was quite possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever witnessed.  I felt like I was intruding on a private moment and that I should look away.  But I didn’t.  I sat and stared.  The light turned green, but I didn’t drive away. The light turned yellow and still I didn’t move.  Multiple cars were honking at me, but I was frozen.  Frozen in someone else’s moment.  Finally they looked up to see what the commotion was.  At that point I regained composure and quickly drove away.

I thought I’d never say this, but I want that.  I want relationship longevity.  I want to still, at the ripe old age of ninety, love a man enough to kiss him in broad daylight on a busy downtown street, and not care about who is watching.

Fuck.

Lately I haven’t been spending as much time and money at Starbucks as I have in the past. Since giving up soda I’ve upped my daily coffee intake, and my lovely leopard print wallet can’t handle the burden of more Starbucks on a daily basis.

Don’t you worry; I’ve been coping with making my own coffee at home.

Hannah on the other hand hasn’t been able to wean herself of that Starbucks fix.  After the museum we headed to get ice cream.  The ice cream place my brother chose was located next to a Starbucks.  Hannah refused to get ice cream.  “NO, I’m having Starbucks with my Sarah.  That’s what we do.”  There was such force in her little voice that no one attempted to change her mind.  What can I say?  The kid’s got damn good taste; seriously, just take a look at her sugar daddy bling in the picture.

I didn’t bother to mask my delight in her choice.  I gleefully grabbed her hand and rushed into Starbucks, leaving the boys on their own for ice cream.

She stood on her tippy-toes and ordered her drink from the barista, “I want a girl, pink frappuccino.  And I’ll be over there in that green chair.”  She then flounced off and settled into her chair.

I beamed with pride as I paid the barista. This beautiful child, I’m lucky enough to call my niece, is going to make a kick ass yuppie someday. Someday very, very soon.  And when she is, I’m going to insist she buy her favorite auntie an espresso machine, complete with a sexy, shirtless male barista to work the damn thing.

As promised I took the twins to the dinosaur museum over the weekend.  While we were there I realized my brother is raising a teenage daughter, and not just any teenager, but a bratty one.  Which makes me love her even more.

Every time I looked over at Hannah during the 3-D movie she had taken off the glasses.  I tried to explain to her that she needed to wear them to get the full effect.  The first time she listened to me and immediately put the glasses back on.  The second time, however, she didn’t.  Instead she glared at me, pointed her chubby, little finger in my face and screeched, “Sarah, don’t you dare make me freak out at you, because I will!”

It was the single bitchiest thing she’s ever said to me.  I was so pleased I leaned over and gave her a kiss.  This, of course, pissed her off even more.  “Aunt Sarah, seriously I WILL freak out at you if I have to.”

I left her alone, because I, of all people, understand the need to freak out. I love the hell out of this little girl, and feel sorry for anyone who will someday date her.  Seriously.

RLO met the new guy I’m dating last night.  The guy that I’ve promised not to liken to a troll doll on the Internet anymore.  Oops, I did it again.   OK, starting NOW I’m not going to liken him to a troll doll on this website.  That one doesn’t count.  Right?

Anyway.  The point.  I have one.

RLO and the non-troll doll guy met for the first time last night.  Today RLO mentioned that the new guy was cool.  RLO’s opinion means so much to me that I mentioned it to the new guy.

Him: “So RLO liked me, eh?”

Me: “He did.”

Him: “Is that just because he thinks that I’m easily manipulated and that I’ll be sharing his workload.  The workload being you of course.”

Me:  “I’m not work.  I’m a hobby.”

Him: “I like that.  You’re going to be my new favorite hobby.”

This is where the conversation should have ended, but nooooo.  He felt that it was important to share with me an imaginary conversation.

“So what do you do with your spare time?”
“Oh, I listen to music nobody’s ever heard of, work on my motorcycle, and a dabble a bit in Sarah?”
“Sarah? I could never figure that one out–too complicated.  Had to drop that hobby the moment I picked it up.”
“Yeah, I hear you. But it’s supposed to have its payoffs–I just haven’t figured them out yet…”

I laughed and decided to keep him. For now.  But the minute this turns sour I’m totally blaming RLO.

RLO and I watch Project Runway with AK and Mrs. AK every season.  RLO likes to show off his knowledge of the designers and make us feel stupid for not remembering every single detail.  I like to drink wine and make fun of RLO for being so involved.

This Wednesday the new season begins.  I cannot wait. This season is going to be the best yet.  Why you ask?  Because our friend Keith made the cut! I don’t know who is more excited me or RLO.

Let’s get Filthy!

Dear Ben,

Happy Birthday!  I know I don’t tell you this enough but I love you Ben.  You’ve always been an extraordinary brother to me.  I don’t deserve you, but I’m sure as hell happy I got you anyway.

You have so many great qualities, but luckily for me one of your best traits is forgiveness.  I don’t think most people know that about you.  I do, however, because despite the below list you still love me.

I’m sorry I made you wear a pink shirt when you got home from your mission.
I’m sorry for constantly trying to get you killed when you were a child.
I’m sorry I made you peanut butter and spicy salsa sandwiches every time I was forced to babysit you.
I’m sorry for swearing in your mission farewell talk.
I’m sorry I told everyone we know you always cry in the movie “The Land Before Time.”
I’m sorry I just told the Internet that you cry in the movie “The Land Before Time.”
I’m sorry I called you Benjaminoballbaby when you were a kid.
I’m sorry I called you Benjaminoball-less when you were a kid.
I’m sorry for calling you Ben-gina when you were a kid…. and last week.
I’m sorry for teaching the twins to call you Uncle Mean.
I’m sorry for teaching the twins, just yesterday, to call you Auntie Uncle Ben.

You’re an incredible person, Ben.  I’m so proud to be able to call you my brother.  You grew up from the cutest little dimple-faced boy into the amazing man you are now.  I love you baby brother.

Love,

Sissy