Today as I cleaned up all the dog shit in my backyard I ran across this teeny flower:
I stood still and stared at the flower for the next five minutes. Maybe I needed the visual reminder that underneath all life’s shit it’s possible to find something special.
Or maybe I was just scared of stepping in crap.
Last week Lou Reed turned 68, which means it’s only a matter of time before he’s dead.
I’m not being morbid, I’m just planning ahead. I need to steal his sperm before he dies.
I was in junior high school the first time I heard a Lou Reed song. By the first chorus I knew I wanted to make lots and lots of chubby babies with him.
It was his voice.
It’s always the voice. Some woman are attracted to a nice ass or washboard abs. Those qualities are nice, but a sexy voice gets me every single time.
Now that he’s getting older it’s time to make those babies. I’m no spring chicken myself.
I haven’t finalized my plan yet. I know, I know… I’ve had a zillion years to work on it, but I’m a procrastinator, even when it comes to man juice.
Oh. My. God. I just typed man juice and giggled. Maybe I AM a spring chicken after all.
So far my plan involves a flight to New York City and some master stalking skills. When I find him I think I’ll just be frank with him and say, “Hi, Lou, my name is Sarah and I’m here to steal your sperm.”
Just in case he’s not down with it, I’ll have a concoction of Rohypnol and Viagra ready. The plan isn’t perfect yet, but it will be. It has to be. I need those babies, because God forbid my offspring inherit my voice.
This week’s “That’s What She Said” is about my first cooking class–rephrase: my first ATTEMPTED cooking class.
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Spiderman.”
“Oh, brother…”
“What’s wrong with Spiderman? He’s one of the more accessible super heroes.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You know, like, Spawn. He’s not at all accessible.”
“Who? Vince Vaughn?”
“No, Sarah, I said Spawn. Vince Vaughn isn’t a super hero.”
“Well he does wear ill-fitting clothing and dated Jennifer Aniston for a while. How could he land her without super powers?”
Remaining friends with someone you dated seriously is the worst idea ever. If you dated casually I’m sure it’s a different story. I wish that were my story.
It’s not.
I met—what I thought—was the perfect guy when I was 29-years-old. I had visions of a beautiful wedding at the city library, followed by a perfect life.
Only the perfect guy didn’t turn out to be so perfect. He had issues. His issues turned into my issues. In spite of all the drama we remained friends when we broke up. Best friends. It wasn’t easy. In fact I worked my ass off to keep this friendship.
So did he.
Five years later I’ve discovered all that hard work was a waste.
This entire predicament is Jerry Seinfeld’s fault.
Seriously.
The friendship between Jerry and Elaine led us to believe that remaining friends after dating, not only works, but also works well.
Jerry Seinfeld is a lying fuckwad. He owes me an apology, five years of my life and a house.
Why a house, you ask? Um, because I’m the idiot girl who moves into her ex-boyfriend’s house.
I know, I know… I deserve to be punched the face. Pay attention to this next part: when someone you used to sleep with offers you a great deal on a rental property JUST SAY NO. Nancy Reagan would.
Even if it’s the perfect house for you.
With the perfect yard for a dog.
And the perfect dog door.
I have been living in this perfect little house for the last six months. Everything was smooth sailing, until that friend found himself with a serious girlfriend. I’m happy for him, I really, really am. That’s not the issue. The issue is that there’s suddenly another person in this little equation. Our friendship has suffered drastically. Without the friendship, I end up looking like the crazy ex-girlfriend who can’t let go and remains connected to him by living in his house.
Awesome.
Only it’s not.
I hate being pitied, and I’ve let myself become that ex-girlfriend we all pity.
I have no idea what to do, other than cry and hate myself for getting into this situation.
Hating myself is so time consuming. I think that time would be better spent deciding what’s more important: a perfect place for Daisy and me to live or self respect.
My column this week is about stripping in the name of fitness. Take note of the comment left by Anna. She had some really great words of advice. I feel sexier already! This may or may not be the vodka talking.
OK, it is.
Lest you think I’m day drinking, this post was written at night. Really, I promise.
Also, day drinking is my favorite weekend hobby.
How many minutes until the weekend?
