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Mrs. AK, and I force Arlo to have BFF nights with us once a week. These nights consist of Arlo attempting to whip a little something up in the kitchen. When Arlo bakes with us around there is always an incident. Remember the MSG cookies? While the baking is happening Mrs. AK and I drink red wine and heckle him. It’s a bonding experience we all enjoy.

Sometimes I worry that Arlo feels left out because he doesn’t drink wine. To alleviate this I always take a swig off his Diet Coke, leaving enough wine backwash to give anyone a good buzz.

Yesterday at the drugstore while loading up on Vitamin C I found a way he can share in on the red wine fun without partaking of my germ loaded saliva. Also proving I am a caring friend who wants him to reap the benefits antioxidants provide. In one simple purchase I’ve proven myself as an loving friend who cares about the longevity of a friend’s life.

Things in today’s news I don’t care about:

American Idol contestant previous life as a stripper
If the movie “Juno” has taught us anything previous strippers are like totally talented. Besides, I hate this show. As much as Sabby wants me to watch it and like it, I won’t. Ever.

Brett Favre retires from NFL
Who, what? Huh?

Eddie Van Halen has medical tests
It’s a miracle the dude is still alive anyway. Let me know what it’s a good aging rock star, then I’ll care.

Things in today’s news I do care about:

Paris Hilton gives away diamonds on street
As always I have a love/hate relationship with Paris. Either way I’d accept diamonds from her. In the street or in bed. I’m not picky when it comes to jewels.

Avalanche on Mars
I care because it’s a given at some point AK will want to discuss and I’ve found it’s so much easier to take part in the conversation rather than picturing in my mind different ways to sneak out of the room without anyone noticing. Dude has a planet fetish. Once again proving it’s a miracle he ever scored a babe like Mrs. AK.

Drunk Three Year Old
Yeah, that sucks. Why waste liquor on a kid that can’t even appreciate it? Send it to me. I’ll appreciate it enough to send them a lovely thank you card in the mail.


I think it’s time to re-evaluate what I feel is important.

I’m feeling much better today. I went back to work, and it didn’t completely suck. Sure, I wanted to be back in bed, but the social aspect was good. I fear The Kid had no one to entertain him, or boss him while I was out and may have been bored. He can pretend he didn’t miss me, but I know the truth.

Tonight, however, you wouldn’t know I was feeling better. I’m in the same cozy corner on the couch, wearing practically the same uniform of flannel pajama pants, pink fuzzy slipper sock and a Neil Diamond shirt. Though, this version is clean, and less contaminated with death flu germs. I’m snuggled under the same, also newly laundered, blanket watching more Gilmore Girls reruns while reading news sites on my laptop. I should be out celebrating the fact I’m a death flu survivor at the pub with friends, but frankly I can’t muster the energy. I’d much rather enjoy the witty banter of my all-time favorite show and long for the days when Midge and I would snuggle in bed with a bottle of red wine while watching, and yell at one another for talking during any dialogue.

Perhaps Arlo would enjoy the show. I use the term enjoy loosely, because he won’t, but he also doesn’t enjoy Rock of Love and still tolerates it for the sake of shutting me up. And if he refuses I’ll use guilt. He’s religious, so clearly he responds well to such tactics.

You’d think Daisy would be thrilled I’m feeling better so she doesn’t have to share the couch, but here she is on my side of the couch waiting to lay by me. All together now… “ahhhhh.” Really, I think she just likes watching Gilmore Girls, but then who doesn’t?

The last time I felt this horrible was when I had kidney stones three years ago and spent Christmas in the ICU. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t all that bad. Midge brought movies and cuddled in bed with me. The pain was somewhat tolerable with a Morphine drip. However, once I started seeing the face of Jesus in the wallpaper I made them take it out. Talk about ruining a good time.

My body has never handled germs of any kind very well. I’m a chronic puker. When I was in high school a doctor accused me of being bulimic when, after a case of Mono, I couldn’t stop throwing up for weeks. My mother in her prime mama bear days got angry with the doctor and reminded him I’ve had a weak stomach since I was a very tiny baby. As a nurse, she was always very involved when I was sick. Perhaps that’s why, at 32, the minute I feel sick I want my mom taking care of me. And if I asked she’d drop everything and drive two hours to get here, just to rub my back or get me a drink of Gatorade. Since it’s my dad’s birthday tomorrow I’m not asking her to drive up. After all, he only has a birthday every four years.

What I thought was a cold is a full-fledged case of the bird flu—self-diagnosed of course. Sure, I get flu symptoms with a minor headache, but this is beyond ridiculous. I can’t even keep a sip of water down. Not to mention, every part of my body hurts, even my eyebrows. Which is all very inconvenient given that I had a math midterm tonight and a Lost party to attend.

I promised my mom if I wasn’t feeling better tomorrow I’d go in and have then hydrate me with an IV, but until then I’m going to lay on the couch, continue to whine, watch trash TV and remind myself over and over what the silver lining of being sick is…

SKINNY JEANS!

Obviously, I’m going to look really good after this “diet” helps me fit back into them.

I’m sick, and it’s all Ben’s fault. I’ve not had a cold or flu all winter. With the small exception of food poisoning inflicted by Arlo, I’ve been completely healthy.

Like a good sister I picked Ben up from the airport Sunday and gave him a ride home. He coughed the entire time and spewed his disgusting boy germs all over my car.

I started feeling gross yesterday, and then woke up this morning with a fever and coughing so hard I puked. Awesome. It was obvious I was Instacare bound. Ben called to see which one I was going to so we could meet there. The jerk is still sick. I told him where to go, but he never showed. Is he OK? Who cares. Part of me was hoping he had overdosed on NyQuil. Not because I don’t love him, but because he totally deserves it.

After waiting an hour in the lobby, my name was finally called–music to my insanely clogged ears. Another wait in the room and finally a doctor arrives. And by doctor I mean Doogie Fucking Howser, MD. Young doctors before have seen me but this was ridiculous—he looked like he was in high school.

“Bad news, Sarah. Looks like you don’t have strep throat.”

“Um, why would that be bad news? I didn’t really want it.”

“Strep we could have treated. This particular funk you’ve got can’t be treated. I can, however, give you a prescription of codeine pills to ease the pain a bit.”

“Pills? Can’t I just get some cough syrup? I think with my throat this swollen I won’t be able to swallow pills.”

“Unfortunately there’s a shortage on codeine syrup, so pills will have to do. Try crushing them in ice cream.”

“Ohhhh, is that what your mom does, too?”

He glared at me. I’m guessing he gets wisecracks about his age all the time. Quite honestly, I was just excited at the prospect of ice cream. I swore off ice cream a few months ago and was very much looking forward to having a reason to buy some.

“Go home, load up and get as much sleep as possible. You should feel better in a few days.”

Maybe having a young doctor isn’t all that bad. Loading up sounds just like what I need. And who am I to defy a doctor’s orders? Exactly.

This week’s installment of “The Dating Years.”

The theme of this week’s issue is dancing, in a roundabout way.. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to discuss dancing in a dating column. This has been rather difficult given I’ve already written about my short-lived pole-dancing career.

The only retained memory of my other short-lived dancing career, ballet, was timing. My dance teacher used to repeat to me over and over, “Sarah, timing is everything.” My timing has always been a bit off–in dancing and dating alike.

Last summer when I should have taken some time off dating to heal a past relationship, I chose to instead date The Yuppie. Consequently, ruining any possibility of maintaining a healthy and loving relationship with him. But, I just couldn’t help myself. You’d understand if you spent five minutes with him. He’s incredibly handsome, intelligent and witty, with the perfect blend of sarcasm.

I’ve always had a difficult time forming a loving attachment. For me, it’s a matter of trust. I’ve had enough negative dating experiences in my life, that it takes me a little longer than most to gain an element of trust. While dating The Yuppie, I didn’t give myself enough time to form that trust and attachment. I was too caught up in my past relationship baggage to realize that.

When we ended our relationship last summer there were some hard feelings on both our parts. Fortunately after a fair amount of time, we both moved on and were able to establish a healthy friendship.

We don’t see one another as often as I’d like; life is busy with work, friends and other relationships–ones we tend to vent to one another about.

Saturday night we got together for dinner and some above-mentioned venting. Sitting across from him at dinner I couldn’t help but remember why I was so attracted to him in the first place. He is one of the few people in my life who really understands me. I know how cliché that sounds, but it’s entirely true. When talking to him about my love life I never feel the need to justify my decisions to stop dating someone. He understands my snobbery, as he has been accused of the exact same thing.

As he spoke I felt a wave of sadness hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t help but question our relationship. What if our timing had been different? What if we’d met now, rather than a year prior? With a giant lump in my chest I quickly changed the subject to something a tad less emotional: the band playing. Unknown to me, my favorite brunch spot, Caffé Niche, has live music on Friday and Saturday nights. The Yuppie had noticed a sign out front and invited me to go check it out with him. The band was incredible. I have no idea who they were, but the singer was astonishing. I for one, will most definitely being going back to hear her sing. Plus they serve wine.

The evening ended and once I got home I couldn’t shake the feeling that my poor timing had ruined something with him… something that could have been extraordinary. It was extremely difficult to make sense of my emotions, but I finally did. What I wasn’t able to achieve when dating The Yuppie I was able to achieve now. In my friendship, I finally found that much needed element of trust, and with that I have been able to form an attachment. Proving once again, my timing it complete crap.

When I started working for a company only ten minutes from home, I was thrilled. Finally, I could start going home a couple of times a week for lunch–what a great way to save money for my jean habit!

And it was great, for the first couple of weeks anyway. After which things took a turn for the worse–I blame the writers strike. They took away my “good” TV habits and forced me into a reality TV addiction. I’ve despised reality television ever since Julie, the Mormon BYU student, cried in what felt like every single episode or The Real World. The only exception was when Mrs. AK started watching Project Runway. As a rule of thumb when your host is feeding you dinner you watch what she is watching without complaint. (Yes, Arlo, that’s directed at you.)

But suddenly, with nothing decent on primetime TV, I found myself watching Rock of Love, The Hills, and Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant religiously.

When I go home for lunch I watch my trash TV while eating my lunch. Yesterday, however, I hit my breaking point. With a weekend to catch up on my shit shows, I was left with nothing but daytime television to accompany my lunch. I found myself watching Full House reruns. Yes, seriously. And let me tell you, they are just as stupid now as they were then. Uncle Jesse is still the only reason to watch the show, and frankly I remember him being sexier. I guess this is further proof that cheesy writing can ruin anyone’s sex appeal.

On my drive back to work, I vowed to stop watching lunchtime TV and start reading. It’s not like I don’t have enough books at my house, not to mention a growing list of books to buy. At a red light I reached into my pants pocket for my earlier written grocery list to add a book or two while I was thinking about it. Only there wasn’t a grocery list, there was instead a movie ticket and bar receipt. Odd. Upon closer inspection I found I wasn’t wearing the pants I had on earlier.

Another thing about going home lunch is the minute I walk into my apartment I feel the need to shed my pants and shoes as quickly as possible. I have got to start paying closer attention to details… like clothing. Otherwise I could easily end up back at the office in pajama pants.