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The agency I work for has a central speaker system. The first person to get access in the morning plays DJ all day. Usually that person is me. Having control of the office music is the driving force for getting out of bed every day. My life is very rewarding like that.

Yesterday morning I had Ben Folds playing. Typically when I leave the office I turn off my music of choice. However, when a meeting I’d forgotten about popped up on my calendar I was in a rush and forgot. When I returned I heard something that sounded less like Ben Folds, and more like my voice. I ran to my computer in horror. No it wasn’t a sex tape, though it sounded astonishingly like one.

“Oh my god! Oh my god! I am seriously sooooo hot right now!”

The file playing was my Botox session, which I recorded so I wouldn’t forget any minor details. Yes, as a matter of fact, humiliation is my middle name. So far, no one has said anything, but really why would they? They are too busy silently judging me, as they should be.

My dog, Daisy, has met her match.  A feisty little chipmunk I have named Damian. This animal is the bane of Daisy’s existence.

Every evening when I get home, I open the sliding glass door to my balcony and let Daisy lounge around, watching people out for their evening walks.  She rarely makes any noise.  For a pug owner this is heavenly.

A few days ago, while she was outside I heard a high-pitch whiney noise and what sounded like scratching noises. I went outside to find a chipmunk perfectly balanced on the balcony railing.  Daisy was going insane; I imagine she wanted that chipmunk as much as I want a boyfriend made out of lavender-flavored chocolate.

Damian, the devil chipmunk, could have easily climbed back onto the roof and down the side of the house, but ohhh no.  This little guy wanted to torture Daisy, and thereby torture me.  I brought her back inside and closed the door behind us.  Damian saw the safety in this and scurried closer to the door, making my dog loose her mind.  This went on for an hour before I finally opened the door and shooed the furry little fucker away.

This one night created a new nightly routine for my neurotic little household.

Now, the minute I get home Daisy doesn’t want to go outside for a walk, she wants to stalk her new obsession.  She whines and scratches the door until I let her out onto the balcony, where she patiently waits for Damian.  He always shows up, and the barking and whining continues until I bring her back inside.  At that point, if I listen very closely I swear I can hear a devilish little laugh.  I hate nature.

Yesterday while lunching with Rlo and Milinda at Red Rock a man walked by our table and snapped his fingers at Rlo. I was stunned. I thought I was the only one allowed to snap at Rlo. It turns out they knew each other from a previous life–one where Rlo worked at a gym, or worked out at a gym. I’m a bit foggy on the details because my wine was so very tasty, but I do remember the word gym being uttered repeatedly. I think I picked up on it purely out of guilt– they were discussing exercise as I stole fries from Rlo’s plate.

When Rlo introduced us the guy mentioned I looked very familiar to him. I hate this. I think peoples sometimes recognize me from the column but can’t place how they know me. I gave him my standard reply, “I get around. A lot.” He looked taken aback and gave me a half laugh. Whatevs. I think it’s funny, FUNNY BECAUSE IT’S TRUE! In fact, I’m quite sure that’s what my mom writes about me in her Christmas newsletter: Sarah gets around and she’s STILL in college. We love her anyway.

When purchasing beer to take to a Summer BBQ you are attending, do not pick the brand by the cutest packaging, because ultimately you will be mocked. REPEATEDLY. Stick to the manliest, cheapest brand you can find. Trust me, Internet.

“Fuck you, I’m a wine drinker,” only gets you so far. And so far I mean mocked even more.

Today, while rushing back to the office from lunch, I managed to barely escape hitting someone with my car. And to make matters worse, that someone was a co-worker.

Thankfully with my big sunglasses on and hair in a ponytail I don’t think he recognized me. He did, however, shake hit fist in anger and flip me the bird. Seriously? Do people still do that? I can’t remember the last time I flipped someone off. Though, it does sound rather tempting now that I think about it. In the last few moments of writing this post I’ve already thought of ten people I’d love to wave a little bird action in their general direction. In fact, maybe that’s what I’ll do this weekend.

Who wants to drive me around while I hang out the window flipping random strangers off? Come on. That sounds like an excellent Sunday afternoon plan. Well worth skipping church over. I’m sure Baby Jesus would understand.

Week after week I sit down and watch “Lost” on the TV I inherited from Tim when he died.  Each time I watch the show I find more reasons why Sawyer reminds me of him.

I don’t know how the rest of you cope with death, but I have to keep Tim alive in my thoughts.  In this instance, I like to play out the scenario of how he would react over my Tim/Sawyer comparison. He would be so pissed off at me, but then go home, watch the show and find he was secretly flattered.  He, of course, would never admit he had watched the show. Tim was a complete bad ass with a softer side that would have made any mother proud.

Every Thursday after the show ends, I want to cry because I desperately miss my friend. I hold back my tears and vow never to watch the stupid show again, but I always do because for one hour every week Tim seems close… and I need that.

To read this week’s column go here. One of these days I may even get around to posting the pictures with needles in my forehead. Just not today… I’m too busy being pissed off at the President for making me late to work. The war is one thing, but fucking up my commute? Now that’s something worthy of impeachment.

*Edit: for all those who have emailed me requesting the contact info for the Botox doctor I used here you go Center For Facial Appearances. Make sure you ask Dr. Anderson to tell you the stories about his travel abroad.  Trust me.

After an especially crummy day yesterday, the child guy I’m dating took me to dinner at my favorite pub. Yes, he’s of legal drinking age. Barely. I know I really should have a blog name for him, but I typically use people’s initials and his initials are bad luck for me, and seeing them on a constant basis would make me even more superstitious than I already am.

I don’t recall the exact comment I made, but he called me difficult. Me? Difficult? I should have been more offended than I was, but I’m fully aware of how difficult I can be so I just shook it off.

Later that night, however, I just couldn’t shake his observation. I couldn’t decide if he was calling me difficult in a joking matter, or if he was serious. I called and asked him, “On a scale of one to ten, ten obviously being the highest, how difficult am I?”

Without a moment of hesitation he replied, “I’d say 6.5-7.” I was crushed. Anything above a four is of concern. Then again, I know if I called and asked my mom the same question she would tell me I was of the charts at a 99.5 on a scale of one to ten. Somehow knowing that put it all into perspective and I didn’t take away his Pokemon cards as punishment.

Yesterday Ben, Kiesha and I went to the cemetery to leave flowers on my grandparent’s grave. We were walking around when I looked down and noticed which tee-shirt I’d put on that morning. Talk about poor planning. Who picks a shirt with a girl shooting herself in the head to wear to the cemetery? Me. That’s who. I’m an idiot. I have got to start paying closer attention to the little details in life.