Tales of Wit and Charm…

Last night The Yuppie invited me over and prepared a Sunday dinner that put Arlo to shame. Pasta with a vodka red sauce, salad with lime ginger dressing, and a chocolate cake baked with wine. Brilliant move on his part combining my two favorite items: chocolate and wine. Though, he didn’t need to add liquor to the food to get me drunk–I would have done that on my own willingly.

When I mentioned the cake to Arlo he didn’t understand what the big deal was. “Sarah, when have we ever baked chocolate without wine?” “WINE IN THE CAKE, not with the cake!” “Oh, I didn’t think it mattered, it all ends up in the same place anyway.”

It’s so cute when The Yuppie doesn’t think he’s a yuppie at all, but each time I spend time at his house I find another reason why his moniker is just so fitting. Last night I found he prepared dinner with recipes collected from The New York Times. If that’s not yuppie-esque, I don’t know what is.

Since it’s the sabbath I decided to drink my caffeine cold to honor my Mormon upbringing. That’s mostly a lie, I was just too lazy to make coffee.I grabbed a can of Diet Dr Pepper out of the fridge, a handful of Girl Scout Cookies and settled on the couch to catch up on some TV. I opened the can, lifted it to my lips and took a sip. I instantly spat out the liquid. It wasn’t the sweet tasting soda I was expecting, it was a can of beer. I can’t justify a beer this early in the day, but I certainly don’t want to waste it. I guess if it tastes OK with cookies…Calm down mom, I don’t need the beer and cookie calories together. I’ll make Ben drink it.

My dog is a giant bitch. She, like me, is having a difficult week and has decided to take it out on my apartment–first the pasta incident and now the carpet. My dog that never, ever pees in the house peed last night right IN FRONT OF ME! She squatted by the plants and pissed on my carpet while staring me straight in the eyes. And it didn’t help that people were over. I have never wanted to haul her ass off to the pound like I did that minute. But I won’t.

If I didn’t get rid of her when she ate my grandmother’s antique chair, or when she ate an entire stash of my neighbor’s weed, I certainly won’t get rid of her now. Though, empty threats still feel good.

Maddie pointed out that maybe I shouldn’t tease her with Girl Scout cookies. She’s got a point, but did I mention that she PEED ON MY CARPET!! I can’t wait to see what she’s got in store for me this weekend. Perhaps chewing my legs off while I sleep? I’ll be sure not to wear my vanilla scented lotion at night, just in case.

Or maybe she will learn how to text message on my iPhone and send every single ex-boyfriend a drunken text message. Oh wait, that will be me after I drink an entire bottle of vodka to numb the pain that will undoubtedly follow being rendered legless by an angry pug.

Just when I thought I was done writing about dating, the most significant heartbreak of my life occurs.

One of my longtime favorite bands, The Mother Hips, played at The Urban Lounge last weekend.  A man I dated in 2002 first introduced me to this alt-country band when he played me the song “Sarah Bellum.” I’ve been obsessed with them ever since.

I hadn’t seen them play in a couple of years, so when I noticed the band was coming to town I knew I had to go.  I talked two friends into going, promising they would be attending the concert of a lifetime.  Apparently, I’m a big fat liar.  How was I to know my once beloved band had lost their mojo?

The highlight of my evening came before the concert even began.  I was hurrying out of the bathroom when I ran smack into the back of the lead singer Tim Bluhm. I nearly fell over and he kindly helped me back on my feet.  I was too tongue-tied and embarrassed at my klutz-like behavior to thank him, and before I knew it he was on his way to the stage to ruin my life.

I miss the old days—where my rock star idols were still rock stars and not middle-aged men with salt and pepper hair, rocking out to a twelve-minute guitar solo.  I only slightly exaggerate.  It’s entirely possible the solo was only ten minutes.  Either way I felt like I was attending a Phish concert, not the high-energy concerts I remember The Mother Hips once playing.  I’m finally OK with my own aging, but I shouldn’t be expected to watch my idols age as well.  Isn’t music supposed to be timeless?

They did play some old favorites: “Red Tandy” and “Magazine,” but the songs sounded nothing like they did at previous concerts. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a band discovering a new sound, but typically I like the new sound not to suck.

The crowd was full of loyal fans—a few that I recognized from the days where I attended every single concert the band played at the dearly departed Zephyr Club.  I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were as dissatisfied with the performance as I was.

As we slipped out before an encore I ran into an old friend. When he asked why I was leaving, I mentioned something about the band being the biggest disappointment of my life; he assured me they were much better the night before.  Leave it to me to pick the worst night to attend.  I wanted to hear alt-country, not alt-crappy.

Determined to prove to friends, and myself the band really was good, I went home and made a Mother Hips play list to die for.  I burned each friend a copy, hoping to show the band really was a talented one–just one having an off night.

I think with the demise of The Zephyr Club came the demise of The Mother Hips.  Earlier that day my four-year-old niece, Hannah, told me that sometimes your heart just breaks.  And you know what?  She was right.

My internet-hooker friend George came to visit over the weekend, I tried my best to rally and spend some quality time drinking with him at the bar.

Sadly, my “best” is total crap. His last night in town was spent at Red Rock having dinner with a couple of my girlfriends. I wanted to be home and in bed by 10:30 p.m. because apparently I have turned into my grandmother.

As we walked into the restaurant I saw a guy I briefly dated having dinner. I haven’t seen him since I told him via email I didn’t think we should date anymore. Yes, I really AM that girl. Shut up, I had my reasons. And good ones at that, for example he likes NASCAR, which we all know I strongly detest. In addition, he had a tendency to use words on my ‘do not say’ list. The two I couldn’t deal with were: “LOL” and “faggot.” Both words make me cringe to the point of nausea. I tried to get past it, but I couldn’t. The thought of sticking my tongue into a mouth that used either word was more than I could handle.

I know what some of you are thinking, “No wonder she is single, she’s way too picky.” Well guess what, I am picky and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I refuse to date someone I don’t respect and I can’t respect anyone who uses the “f” word in regular speak. I just can’t, no matter how much fun and nice the person is.

We enjoyed our dinner and I tried not to obsess over it, but I couldn’t help but wonder why I bother dating at all.

A good night of rest is key to my survival, and mostly the survival of others. I get grumpy, FINE grumpier, when I’m tired.

I got shit for sleep last night, and that bitch I live with is to blame. My dog somehow found a way to open my lower kitchen cabinet without opposable thumbs. Here she found a giant Costco sized bag of dried cheese tortellini pasta, and proceeded to eat half the bag. When I got home at midnight I found the mess. Too tired to yell, I just cleaned up, let her out and went to bed.

Around 2:00 a.m. she woke me up and needed to be let out. In a zombie state I stumbled down the stairs and let her outside. She took care of business and I went back to bed.

Then again around 3:30 a.m. we made the same trip. And then again at 4:45 a.m.! Finally at 5:30 a.m. when she woke me up for the last time I lost it. I yelled at her, and then cried because I was simply exhausted, proving I should never, ever be a parent. Or a dog owner.

In fact, I decided I was a cat person. I can overlook my extreme allergy. Who cares if I can’t breathe and 90% of my body will be covered in hives? Not me. I want an animal trained to use a litter box.

Now I just have to go home and tell this cute face I’m breaking up with her. Luckily for her my follow through is total crap.