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Last night while hanging out at very, VERY young guys house, his roommate walked in. He started to introduce me to the roomie, and everything froze. Shit. This could totally be the end of a good thing. I’m so weird about this, well, and everything really… If he introduced me as someone he’s dating I’d feel too much pressure. Did I mention I’m a total lunatic?

And then I heard the magical words I needed, “This is my friend Sarah.”

Bingo. We’ve got a winner.

I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s done everything right so far. Three tickets to see Wilco: one for me, one for him and one for whomever he’s dating at the time. Calm down, Internet! That’s what I wanted.

In fact the only thing he’s done wrong is being born in the wrong year, and I can’t be too hard on the boy. His age is really his mom’s fault, not his. Seriously, how selfish of her. Is it really too much to ask that she be doing it four years earlier?

To read this week’s column go here.  To see a few of the pictures from the party go here.

My brother was out of town yesterday so I picked up his four-year-old twins from daycare.  I knew it was going to be a good night when I walked in and Hannah started jumping up and down and told her teacher, “That’s my aunt Sarah, she’s a total rockstar.”

As per usual, the ride home consisted of Jesus talk.  These kids are just as obsessed with him as I am.  So much for the Jesus talk dying  (Puntastic, no?) down after Easter.

“Aunt Sarah, we have to take a different road home.”

“Why, buddy?”

“Because Jesus brought a big, yellow pipe and left it on our street.”

“Um… why would Jesus leave a pipe in your street?”

“Aunt Sarah, the road is broken.  Some big tractors came and dug it up, and then Jesus left a big, yellow pipe to fix it with.”

“Did this Jesus guy have a hard hat on?”

“Yes.”

“Buddy, I’m pretty sure that was a construction worker, not Jesus.”

“NOOO, it was Jesus… I just know it.”

“Seriously, buddy, I know for a fact Jesus is not a construction worker.  Grandma told me he was a carpenter.”

Silence.  Oh heavenly silence.

And then… in an amazed tone he asks, “Grandma knows Jesus?!”

Fuck.

I wanted to tell him that his grandma is obsessed with Jesus.  And not in the fun/blasphemous way I am, but in the “Jesus is the Savior” kind of way.  I’ll let him figure that one out on his own.

When it comes to preserving the environment and recycling, I feel like I have to double my efforts to make up for my family.

My parents live in the country and as far as I know there is no recycling program. I’m not sure if my other brothers recycle, but I know Ben doesn’t. He’s way too lazy. His idea of preserving the environment is leaving the food wrappers and empty drink cups in the back of his car. At one point when I told him how gross it was he replied, “Sarah, I’m working on a compost pile, leave me alone.”

Last night, when a light bulb burnt out in my apartment I went to retrieve the energy-saving fluorescent light bulbs I’ve been using, but I was out–thus the following conundrum: use the regular light bulbs that I already had, or drive to the store to buy more fluorescent bulbs?

Using low-energy bulbs is awesome, but using the fuel to drive to the store isn’t exactly the most environmentally sound decision. And fuck walking, I didn’t want to change into comfy shoes.

Being a list lover, I sat down and started writing a pro/con list to help make the decision. Ten minutes into the list process I poured myself a glass of wine. Five minutes later a second glass was consumed, and then a third…

Clearly my drunken subconscious was telling me to stay home and preserve gasoline. I can’t very well drive after drinking, right? Right! I then polished off the remainder of the bottle of wine and vowed to recycle the bottle, which I promptly forgot about and threw the bottle in the trash bin. Next time… I promise.

Summer is here.  Which means I finally have an excuse to strip down the minute I walk into my apartment.  It’s hot as hell in my little princess pad.  Last night my bedroom was 95 degrees, and nothing justifies being naked more than 95 degrees.

I love soaking up the sun.  Nothing makes me happier than roasting myself tan.  However, I’ve learned my lesson.  Two summers ago I had to have some spots on my back removed that were direct results of a lifetime spent in the sun.  Listen up: WEAR SUNSCREEN BITCHES!  Now, I look around at all the tanned bodies and find myself envious.  Saturday I finally broke down and tried the sunless spray tanning at a local salon.

OH MY GOD! For the life of me I cannot figure out why I waited so long to try it.  It looks as close to real as my cancer fearing self will allow.

There was only one small incident…  the very Mormon looking girl who showed me how the machine worked forgot to warn me how cold the spray would be when it hit me.  I screeched so loudly I think they thought the Second Coming had arrived.  And oddly enough, I was totally fine with the thought of Jesus walking through the doors to the tanning salon.  If there is a Jesus, and he comes to earth I want to look my very best.  Perhaps if I look hot enough, he can overlook all that sinning I’ve been busy with.

The AK’s were busy preparing for the big party last night so Rlo and I stepped in to help. Since I’m worthless in the kitchen and cleaning bores me, they found a task I could handle: taking Little AK to her soccer game. Rlo was to meet us at the field with chairs and drinks. He was late. Which isn’t a big deal, but strangers were talking to me about parenting. Aughhhhh! I considered screaming “stranger danger” at the top of my lungs to get them to stop, but figured the scene wouldn’t be worth it.

Finally the game started and the parents left me alone. At the end of the first quarter Little AK ran over to get her drink. Her drink? Shit. Rlo hadn’t arrived yet, so I made something up about the dangers of being waterlogged during a soccer game. She bought it.

By half time Rlo had arrived with two chairs and two drinks: a Mountain Dew for him, and a Diet Dr Pepper for me. He, too, had forgotten a drink for Little AK. Clearly we would both make lousy parents. However, I wouldn’t be nearly as lousy because at least I shared my drink. Who cares if she ends up more dehydrated because of it. She’ll still love me more than Rlo because I shared and he didn’t.

Dear Stranger.

I did not mean to call your child fat. I really didn’t. You only heard part of my comment. You heard, “Oh my god, look at that chubby kid!”

What I said was, “Oh my god, look at that chubby kid. He is soooooo cute! I want to steal him, take him home and have him terrorize my dog while bringing me drinks and changing the TV channel for me.”

If I hadn’t driven away so quickly you would have heard the entire thing. Sure you would have still glared at me, but for a very different reason. You’d have been upset I wanted to kidnap your child and turn him into a slave. However, at least you would have known I thought he was cute enough to turn into a slave.

Love,
Sarah

Today, AK turns 40. Yes, 40. He’s an old fart, but a beloved one.

AK and I met ten years ago when he moved to SLC to work at the company I where I was employed. I was soon to become his work wife, much to his wife Mrs. AK’s dismay. Not because she was jealous, but because she felt sorry for me. The dude cannot remember where she keeps paper towels. I don’t live with them, but I can tell you where they are kept–IN THE SAME FUCKING SPOT FOR 8 YEARS, that’s where. He also cannot remember that I am in charge of everyone and everything, and he is not. He’s very easily confused. Obviously.

AK and I shared an office for a few years and it was then he became the older brother I never had. He teased me mercilessly for things that should not matter. Who cares if I add a ‘s’ to street names? Foothill(s) Blvd. is in the FOOTHILLS it should have an ‘s’. He also forced me to listen to Toad the Wet Sprocket all day, every day. And did you hear? The band broke up in 1998.

AK and his family quickly became some of my favorite people, and not just because they fed me and kept me in wine. I couldn’t ask for better, more supportive friend in my life than AK. I can’t imagine a life without him, and luckily I don’t have to. We’ve been through a lot together, and I wouldn’t be the person I am without his influence in my life. I love him for that.

Happy Birthday AK! I’m sorry you’re soooooo old, but it could be worse… you could be RLO.

After receiving a couple emails about my last column, I feel like I need to clear something up… I don’t write music reviews.

I listen to music and see a few concerts here and there, in no way does that make me an expert. Apply the same theory to movies and food. I’m not a reviewer by any means. This column is about me, and my life. Yes, I really AM that narcissistic.

With that said, click here for this week’s column, in which I don’t review music or food. Instead you’ll get another peek into my neurotic life.

I absolutely love Wilco, yet I’ve never heard them play. Sad, right? Not to fret my lovelies, they are coming to SLC this summer!

So when a guy I recently met mentioned buying tickets and having us go together I wasn’t exactly sure how to feel. Obviously it would be fun to go with him, but the concert isn’t until mid-August. The concert will, without a doubt, sell out fast. So do I want to risk saying yes and then if we aren’t still hanging out be stuck without a ticket? Hell to the no. I kid you not about my love of Jeff Tweedy. But then I also don’t want to risk offending him, since he seems like a pretty cool guy. Ahhhhh, what to do??

At dinner last night he mentioned his age. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but I thought he was older than he really is. He’s 28, which is a whopping four years younger than me. FOUR WHOLE YEARS! This guy is a kid; he’s in his 20s!! I’m sure he’d mentioned his age, but as you can see by all my editing mistakes on this blog… I suck with small details. With this newfound knowledge my decision is made: I’m buying my own ticket. I can’t risk him outgrowing me before the concert.

And if that’s not enough to make me a bitchy person, I bring you my latest foot in mouth moment…

Yesterday while getting on the elevator, my CUTE! polka dot shoes nearly made me trip. The two men in the elevator looked at me curiously and I said, “Sorry, it seems like I’m having a gimp day.” Neither man said a word to me, and went back to their conversation.

Two floors later the elevator stopped and they stepped out, one walking with a VERY distinct limp. The other man turned and gave me the look of death. Great. Just great. I’ve moved from offending Republicans to the handicapped.