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When my mom called last night I thought either she read her will on the Internet and wanted to call and confirm validity, or she was calling to thank me for her Mothers’ Day gift. While neither were the case, she did laugh over the fact I added my gas receipt to her card. Yes, that’s right, I love my mother $44.12 dollars more than Ben does. Proving once again I am a superior being. As it turns out she wanted to talk about something far more important. My death.

“Thanks for driving down yesterday. I’m upset I forgot to have you, Matt and Ben sign some paperwork.”

“What paperwork? If you’re trying to adopt us out I think you’re too late, we are, after all, adults now.”

“Sweetie, I’ve not gotten rid of you yet, so it’s not likely going to happen, besides I’m counting on you to take care of me when I’m old. I figure you owe me. I want you guys to fill out a living will, so if something were to happen to you I’d know what your wishes were.”

“That’s probably a good idea. Is there somewhere in there I can request male strippers and vodka on my deathbed? But why doesn’t Jeff have to fill anything out? You’re getting rid of him, right?”

“Sarah, please be serious about this.  Jeff has a wife that can legally make his decisions.”

“So let me get this straight, because Matt, Ben and I don’t have spouses you’re punishing us with homework?”

“If you’d rather produce a husband that’s fine too.  I’m emailing you the paperwork tomorrow, so you better hurry and find a man.”

On my last birthday my mom handed me a blank birthday card and said, “Here’s your card sweetie. I didn’t have time to fill it out, so can you? You’re a writer, write yourself something thoughtful and appropriate.”

Last night I found the card in a book. It reads:

Darling Daughter,

Happy Birthday sweetie! You’re by far the best accomplishment of my life. As your gift this year I want to give you the world. However, since I don’t have that authority I’m going to give you everything else.

Consider this my last will and testament. I’m leaving everything your dad and I own to you, and only you. Your brothers are not to inherit anything. I’m forever apologetic that you were forced to grow up alongside such horrible boys. I hope this one act will make up for a childhood of brothers farting and burping on you. I trust this will guarantee forgiveness as well as place me a spot in the heaven place I’m forever talking about, which I imagine is much like a cruise: a good idea at the time, but miserable as fuck.

Catch you on the flip side.

Love your Mommy.

Ben and I drove to the country today for Mothers’ Day. We wanted to prepare breakfast in bed for my Mom like we did in the old days, however, we are admittedly the laziest kids ever. Instead of getting up at the ass crack of dawn we left instant oatmeal and a “Gilmore Girls” card on her bed while she was at church praying for replacement children.

Reading the BlogHer site today I noticed there is a student ticket price for the upcoming SF conference.  Umm, hello, why did I not know this?  I’ll tell you why, because Loralee is a horrible friend.  Trying to keep me from going on a trip to San Fran with her.  She’s totally fired and the only way I will forgive her is if she drives to SLC and wins back my love by having a lunch date with me.  Or if she finds me a roomie for the conference, preferably one that doesn’t suck.  I can swing the ticket price but the hotel room will kill my shoe budget.

Who out there is going?  Who out there needs a roomie?  Who do I have to sleep with to get a good place to stay?  Seriously.

To all the people at Liberty Park last night, I was not dancing in anticipation of playing kickball. I was only jumping around trying to get my pants to itch the back of my ass and legs for me. I’ve learned my lesson about putting my hands down my pants in public. I really, really have.

Remember being a kid and thinking that if only you had a certain kind of shoes you’d be faster on the playground? I’m here to tell you it’s a giant lie!

Believing in the magical power of my pink KangaROOS tennis shoes I wore them to my kickball game last night.

My turn up to kick was comedic gold. I kicked the ball and started running for first base, albeit a little slow. Hey, I was very busy admiring how cute my shoes looked kicking the ball. Don’t give me shit, even the catcher commented on the cuteness!

The pitcher grabbed the ball and tried to tag me out. I wasn’t going down without a fight. I ran outside of the baseline avoiding him while screaming, “Don’t you dare hit me with the fucking ball!” I was called out. Apparently you’re not allowed to run outside of the baseline or something?

I played right field, which I love because it’s typically very uneventful. Last night was the exception. Someone kicked the ball my way and as I watched it in slow motion flying through the air I screamed, at the top of my lungs, “NOOOOOOO!!!!!” Thankfully my personal MVP, Melissa, caught it for me. Whew.

We lost.

And despite all this, I had fun. Which in my book is way more important than winning. Now if I could just talk my friends into feeling the same way.

To read my column this week click here. When you finish please pray to whatever god you believe in, that I may be blessed with extraordinary kickball skills by six o’clock tonight. Otherwise, pray I don’t punch anyone who makes fun of me in the face.

The minute I get home I shed my pants. I’m not alone in this; you guys do too, right? If not, now is the time to lie.

Last night, after an especially shitty day, I went home, ditched the pants and poured myself a glass of wine. So you’ll understand how annoyed I was when someone knocked on my door. For a brief second I considered answering the door pants free. It wasn’t like I was naked, just in boy short undies. I looked down, saw my chunky thighs and opted for the Old Navy pajama pants on my floor.

I open the door and much to my dismay found a pimple-faced teenage girl, who had knocked on the wrong door. Without thinking I said, “Do you realize I put pants on for you?” She was speechless. And can you blame her? What do you say to some crazy, half-drunk woman bitching about pants? Nothing. You blush, remain silent and fear for your life.

I wish the story ended there, but it doesn’t.

Before retiring for the night I let Daisy out one last time. As I was standing there waiting for her to pee I did the unthinkable: I reached down the back of my pants and started scratching my ass. Thinking I was alone I muttered under my breath, “Yeahhh, that’s the spot.” I heard someone behind me and with my hand still down my pants, I turned to find the same teenage girl.

Mortified, I grabbed Daisy and retreated upstairs. I immediately grabbed all the different kinds of lotion I could find, and slathered my entire body with a concoction of all five in hopes to prevent any further embarrassing public displays of scratching.

AK and I never talk about our friend Tim. In fact, since his death, we haven’t spoken about him for more than a few minutes at a time. It’s too hard for both of us. We both feel guilty. Anyone who has dealt with a suicide knows this feeling all too well. While we both know we weren’t responsible for Tim’s decision, we will spend the rest of our lives questioning if we could have done more to help him.

Yesterday AK and I talked about Tim for nearly an hour. It was heartbreaking, yet beneficial for both of us. I told AK I’m scared of forgetting all the small details of Tim’s life. It’s time I start writing about him, I suppose. Writing is cathartic for me, and frankly I need to remember all the funny details of his life rather than remembering the day I found him.

Sometimes when I miss Tim so much I can’t breath I think about him in some sort of after life. Tim hated religion. He was an avid atheist and took great pleasure in arguing with everyone about his or her own personal beliefs. I picture Tim approaching the pearly gates and screaming at God for existing. I can see him saying, “God you’re driving me fucking crazy with this bullshit; I need a beer.” And then he’d challenge God to an arm wrestle; the winner would get to rule the world. Tim would, of course, lose and then accuse God of cheating. Without fail, my tears are suddenly tears of laughter as I picture the Tim vs. God scenario.

And as blasphemous as this coping mechanism may seem to some, I don’t care.  It works for me, and that’s what counts.

“Sarah, do you want to go to the pub for dinner?”

“Duh, Rlo. But we have to order something semi-Mexican there since it’s Cinco de Mayo. Do you think they serve Mexican wine?”

“Doubtful. You know, you could just drink so much you vomit and pass out. It’s just like going to Mexico.”

I think secretly Rlo wants to get me drunk and take advantage of me. In doing so he’ll prove he is not as gay as I make him sound, and I’ll be forced to write about his manliness on the Internet.

Not only do I humiliate myself in real life, I also do it online. A lot. This morning I was talking to a client via instant messenger and simultaneously messaging someone else.

Of course I sent the wrong message to the wrong person.

And of course the message was about sperm.

And of course my client is from Texas, and was raised in a conservative Southern Baptist environment where sperm is not part of an everyday conversation.

Today’s incident, however horrible, pales in comparison to the time I accidentally sent an instant message to the CEO of the company I worked for saying, “Let’s shag ass!” I intended the message to go to a friend, who for the record, I did not want to shag I was just informing him I was ready to leave for lunch.

The next day when a company meeting emphasizing what is appropriate workplace conduct was called I was secretly humiliated knowing it was intended for me and me alone.

Obviously I learned nothing from the seminar, as the following week the CEO overheard me saying to a male co-worker, “Oh my god, she’s so hot I would totally turn lesbian and hump her straight for you.”