Tales of Wit and Charm…

Maddie and I went to dinner a few weeks ago with a friend of ours. He’s married, older than we are, and Mormon–which would explain why I refer to him as my Bishop. He hates it, which only encourages me further.

After dinner we headed back to my place for some Girl Scout cookies. I’d like to point out I am not in the habit of taking married men home with me. He invited himself, I promise.

I was busy trying to talk my neurotic one-eyed dog out of jumping off the balcony because I invited a stranger into our home, that I didn’t notice the Bishop walk upstairs into my bedroom. I never, ever walk into someone’s bedroom without asking because I know what people keep in bedrooms! I’m a single girl living alone so I’m not exactly in the habit of putting away my… ahem, “unmentionables” or the batteries that go along with them.

When I finally realized he was upstairs my face went white, my jaw dropped. Maddie knew exactly what my reaction meant. Her eyes doubled in size as she whispered, “Sarah, where is your you know what?” “Laying in the middle of my unmade bed,” I whispered back. We both remained silent hoping he would walk back down the stairs and without making his way to my bed. Suddenly a booming voice from above hollered, “Hey what’s the story behind this poem above your bed?”

It was everything I could do to not scream: get the fuck out of my bedroom! Instead I took a deep breath and rose above my humiliation and answered, “It’s a Dorothy Parker poem.”

The good Bishop has not mentioned it to me, but if I get struck by lightening anytime soon I’ll know he mentioned it to god.

I took part in a local news show called On the Record with Chris Vanocur. Also on the show were Jon and Heather Armstrong. It airs Sunday, but you can watch the video here.

When I was told the writer of Dooce was taking part I was pissed. This meant I would have to switch out my purse. I mean, sure, I thought it would be cool to meet her since we have so much in common—we both watch “The Hills” and I have a feeling she knows the super secret that I do: THE SHOW IS REAL, DAMN IT!

But the purse issue took precedence!

A couple of months ago George! sent me an article about his cousin Heather (Dooce) I couldn’t get past the picture to read the article. Her purse was incredible, and I knew I had to have it. And really can you blame me? The retro style print is amazing and those colors? Perfect for spring!

After hours of unsuccessfully searching online I gave up. The next day I couldn’t get that purse off my mind. I convinced myself the purse and I were totally meant to be. And we must have been, because I finally found it and immediately ordered it.

I knew it was a risk as I live in the same city as Heather, but I figured the chances of me ever running into her were slim. I forgot to take into consideration the gods of fate hate me, because a few days later she posted the purse in her daily style section. Within a day the purse was sold out.

The next day a friend of mine complimented the purse and said that it looked familiar. OF COURSE IT DID, because it was posted online for millions of Dooce readers to see. The purse is now fondly referred to as the “Dooce ruined my life” purse. Despite the fact half the world now owns the purse I still carry it daily. So, you’ll understand my annoyance at having to switch purses for the filming. After all, nothing says crazy stalker like showing up with the exact same bag as an Internet rock star.

I don’t understand why everyone feels the need to inform me that “The Hills” is not real, and in fact, a very scripted television series. My question is why is it so important to people who don’t even watch the show?

A friend, who shall remain nameless because he’s a giant baby about being written about on this site, felt the need to lecture me on “The Hills.” My friend who has never seen ONE SINGLE EPISODE, is currently as obsessed with the show as I am, but for all the wrong reasons! He’d much rather lecture me on the validity of the show than sit down and watch an episode.

After a heated discussion his final argument was, “Come on Sarah, you’re much smarter than this.” Which translated into “Sarah, I woke up this morning with the sole intention of pissing you off.”

And guess what? IT SO, SO DID!

Last night, someone I met for the first time, also insisted the show wasn’t real. If I had known him longer than forty minutes I would have jumped up and down screaming until he admitted the show is not only real, but incredible, and then bought him a drink to celebrate being on Team LC.

Let me live in my tiny world of denial. Because it’s like totally awesome, overly tan and pretty.

In Utah This Week–Pick Your Poison: Bret Michaels chooses his whoriffic winner of ‘Rock of Love,’ then melts hearts in SLC.

When I heard the “Rock of Love” tour was coming to Salt Lake City, there was only one thing to do: GO!

I’ve loved Bret Michaels since that fateful day in junior high school when the bus driver played Every Rose Has Its Thorn on the way home from school. I was thirteen years old; I was in love. I begged and begged my mother to buy me a Poison tape but she refused– she wasn’t big on glam metal. If she had her way, I would have fawned over John Denver, not some lead singer of a band named Poison. That’s right folks; I’ve been disappointing mothers since 1975.

Sunday night my friend, and fellow groupie, Aimee headed out to the ‘burbs to see our beloved perform. As it turns out we weren’t the only girls up for a night of wild Bret. The place was absolutely packed. Luckily, we managed to bypass the line that wrapped around the building, and headed straight in to meet with the tour manager. I begged him to tell me who had won Bret Michael’s heart, but instead he directed me to the bar where the “Rock of Love 2” season finale was to going to be aired shortly.

After ordering our obligatory vodka tonics, we found a quiet corner with a TV just in time to watch the show starting. It wasn’t long before our quiet corner turned into a madhouse. Everyone wanted to see which stripperesque contestant Michaels chose. Out of the two finalists, Amber and Daisy, I liked Amber much better, but appreciate Daisy for the crazy train-wreck that she is. When Michaels announced that Amber was indeed his rock of love, the crowd erupted with cheers and deafening whistles. Apparently train-wreck Daisy wasn’t a favorite of anyone but her plastic surgeon, who incidentally, should be shot for the horrible lip injections she was seen sporting throughout the show.

Shortly after the finale finished, the main event started. I really had no idea what to expect. I didn’t actually read the press release past his name and date of the show. What I thought would be Michaels and a parade of the women from his show, was really an intimate concert with just my beloved. Aimee and I were able to snag a great spot near the stage. I wanted to be close enough to see the sweat glisten off his body, and thankfully I was. The chosen song for Michaels to come on stage to was Guns and Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” I thought it sort of an odd choice since it wasn’t a Poison song, but once he was on stage he announced he’d not only be singing some of his old stuff, but some of his favorite cover songs.

I’ve got to hand it to him; the guy can certainly rock a microphone. After a few songs, he had his bodyguard from the TV show, Big John, pass out beers to the audience. I’m never, ever, throwing that bottle away.

The remainder of the show was mind-blowing; I’m just as much in love with him as ever. And as for the V.I.P. after party? What happens backstage stays backstage. Sorry kids, but my lips are sealed.

Upset you missed the fun? Don’t fret–Bret Michaels is coming back to SLC on July 3rd to kick off his summer Poison tour– info at www.poisonweb.com.

Even after getting puked on three times and catching a death cold from my germ infested niece and nephew, I was still sad to drop them off at their daycare. Leaving Carter is especially heartbreaking a) because he hates being left so much he watches you drive away through the window, and b) because I think I was just making headway on why he should hate NASCAR and deer hunting.

I was Mormon once, and now I’m not. But for that brief time that I was, my parents forced me to attend Primary. I hated it. Everything single thing about it, but mostly I dreaded sitting in those ugly, orange plastic chairs. They didn’t match my pink dress, and at six I was very into things matching. But my OCD inspired neurosis isn’t the topic of this post. Hookers are. No really, they are.

My primary teacher was obsessed with talking about what kids wanted to be when they grew up. She liked filling our heads with silly things like a future career as an Avon lady, or better yet a mother, which I guess is an acceptable career for me with the right amount of prescription drugs and wine.

I didn’t want to be an Avon lady when I grew up. In fact, I was terrified of the woman who came to our house trying to peddle makeup to my mother. She smelled bad, like 18 kinds of perfume and peppermint gum. To this day the smell of peppermint gum makes me want to curl up into a fetal position and cry.

I sat and listened to each kid explain what they wanted to be when they grew up and why. “I want to be a doctor because I like to help people.” “I want to be a fireman because I like red trucks.”

When it was my turn I looked at the teacher, smiled and said, “I want to be a prostitute when I grow up because they get lots of presents and play with boys all day long.”

My teacher gasped. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I was six and certainly didn’t know what a prostitute actually was. To this day my parents can’t explain where I came up with such an idea. Although one can’t help but suspect one my four uncles was somehow responsible for this knowledge. Kudus to whichever one it was.

And while I didn’t grow up to be a prostitute, I still adore receiving presents, and would much rather spend my day among a group of men than women.