Tales of Wit and Charm…

Thank you to everyone for all the emails and comments checking up on Daisy! She’s doing much better. I know this because she ate salad when I accidentally dropped some on the floor yesterday.

She’s still taking medications which are re-training her blood to clot. I admit this had me slightly worried at first– I’ve never been able to train her to rollover, much less something so difficult. Puggy is still slightly lethargic, but this is easily explained by the fact she’s following my lead. After all, it is the Lord’s day, which in my house means weekend drinking recovery.

A friend and I were running errands today. And by errands I mean the liquor store for Stoli, and Smiths for mixers.

“Why in the world did I get a tampon coupon for purchasing lemonade? That makes no sense, whatsoever!”

“You bought sugar-free lemonade–only a girl would buy that.”

It’s the little things that make me smile.

Did you know if you wear a bike helmet when peddling home drunk, you’re safer and cuter? A friend proved that to me last night. It almost makes me want to pull out my beach cruiser and ride from bar to bar—almost. I bought a bike two summers ago, for that very reason. Has it happened? No. Will it? Probably not. The street I live on has a slight incline and I can’t be bothered to ride uphill. Can you see why I’m not a mountain biker?

At the beginning of the summer I pulled the bike out with the brilliant idea that if I painted it pink—rather then it’s current blue color—I would ride it more, or at all. I searched until I found the perfect shade of pink paint. When I got ready to paint it, I realized I’d have to pull the bike apart to properly paint it. And if you pull something apart the rules of the universe clearly state you must put it back together. Needless to say, I didn’t tear the bike apart. My bike is not pink. My bike is not currently being ridden.

I’ll just have to live vicariously through my friend’s riding adventures. Maybe I can paint his helmet pink. I do have the paint…

Dear Nicotine,

I saw you at the drugstore last night, and I was oh so tempted to toss you in my cart and take you home. I love any new product and one that promises “a neat and tidy nicotine fix” by delivering you into my system via hand gel seemed like a dream come true. Only I don’t smoke, and not for lack of trying.

Remember when I first bought you? You were packed into little tiny Capri cigarettes. The box had pink on it, so I overlooked the granny image and went for it. After one afternoon of smoking on the porch with a neighbor, I quit you. Even at the age of 21 I had commitment issues.

I forgot about you for a while, and then I found Midge. When I met her the two of you were already best of friends. Feeling left out I tried you again. This time in the form of a white trash Newport with a tiny mint Altoid tucked in my cheek to hide the smoky flavor. I tolerated you on occasion, but sadly couldn’t form an addiction.

Two years ago you re-entered my life–this time in the form of a patch. A friend of mine was trying to kick you out of his life… can you imagine? I convinced him that I needed you and he carefully applied the patch on my back. Minutes later I was on the floor of the bathroom puking my guts out. Oh, Nicotine, why do you hate me so? I’d love to lather up my hands with the clean cool gel, all while getting a fix. But I’m sure you can understand why I put you back on the shelf and walked away. Maybe in another life…

Love,
Sarah