Tales of Wit and Charm…

Being the good friend that she is Kelli thinks she has found a solution for my financial woes.  She has decided I should move to San Diego, go to school there on student loans, and commit to teaching school long enough for the government to pay off the loans.  Not a bad idea, but I think she just wants a scooter buddy.  Which is completely selfish given the fact I’m not near ready for year round swimsuit season.

Since RLO is my closest girlfriend these days, I discussed the idea with him.

“Sarah, you realize kids are shits, right?”

“All people are shits.  I think age is irrelevant. You know this would all be so much easier if you’d a) be my sugar daddy, or b) let me sell your flower to the Internet.”

“Well you’re getting closer to being a born-again virgin. You can sell your own flower.”

“RLO, I think yours would yield a higher profit than a slightly used flower.”

“I just looked born-again virgin up and Urban Dictionary says 6 months. You are good to go. And I think your flower is in higher demand than mine.”

“I’ll sell both flowers and of course take all the profit, but at least you’ll be left with a satisfied wiener.”

He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t veto the idea, which is pretty much a green light.  It wasn’t until later, I realized it was odd RLO knew the exact timing of my last sexual escapade.  Needless to say, I’m going to find that hidden camera tonight and I’m going to give him a show to remember.

Last night I popped RLO’s cherry.  No, not that cherry, you perverts!  RLO has lived in Utah for years and not once has he been to the Training Table Restaurant,  which to me is a far worse sin than any word of wisdom infractions.

I’ve always loved Training Table. Years ago, when Tim was still alive we’d all go there for lunch. AK and I quoting the old school television commercials, while Tim just shook his head embarrassed to be seen with us. After Tim died, it took a while before any of us went back, but eventually we did.

We had to assemble a new lunch group.  We added JB and PMK to the mix, which I realized was a huge mistake when AK and JB fought over the proper way to mix the dipping sauce.  Who knew a fork and/or butter knife could cause such a controversy among nerds.

I was thrilled when RLO mixed the dipping sauce with a fork and didn’t feel the need to discuss his method.  RLO was just thrilled with the food.  So much, in fact, I had to photo shop the above picture to remove his hard nipples.  Internet, you owe me.

For the past week I’ve had a headache I just can’t get rid of.  Saturday night when it reached the point of nausea I called my mom, the nurse, for advice.

“Honey, it sounds like a tension headache.  Do you have someone who can massage your neck?”

“Yeah, let me ask Daisy if she has some free time.”

“Sarah, I meant a date.”

“I’m not in the habit of calling men over to run my neck while I barf in their lap.”

“Well, do you have a vibrator you can put on your neck?”

“Are you seriously suggesting I put a sex toy on my neck?”

“Sarah, some people have vibrators specifically for muscle aches.”

“Mom those are called massagers.  We’ve been over this before.  Please, stop calling them vibrators.”

“Fine.  Do you have a massager?”

“No, but I have a vibrator I could substitute.”

I was outside, yesterday afternoon, letting Daisy out when I noticed something black hanging in the tree outside of my house.  I moved in for a closer work and found something I didn’t expect to see… my panties.

I have no idea how this could have happened. I’d like to think crazy drunken debauchery is to blame for the wild pantie tossing, but I have a feeling laundry day is to blame.  There is a coin operated washer and dryer in the basement of the house I live in.  I have to go outside and around back to use them, which can easily explain the panties being dropped outside.  The tree part, however, I’m still having trouble explaining.

I carefully picked the panties out of the tree and took them back upstairs.  I won’t be harvesting them into jam or pies.  The lace is as hard to pick out of your teeth as strawberry seeds.

Dear Al Gore,

I rode my bike to the store last night. The fact that I couldn’t locate my car keys may have had something to do with my decision, but I’d still like props for saving that itsy bitsy piece of the planet.

But that’s not why I’m writing you; I just wanted to check in.  How are you?  I’ve been a little worried that you may be feeling down in the dumps over this whole McCain inventing the Blackberry fiasco.  Party affiliations aside, you’re still my man.  Sure, the Blackberry was pretty cool.  I had one for a while, but I quickly moved onto the iPhone.  Whereas your invention, the Internet, I’ve not moved on from.

The Internet has made such a difference in my life.  It gives me a place to share stories of the crazy, stupid things I do.  Not to mention I’ve found a really great support system online.  And even a boyfriend or two.  I’ve never humped anyone because of a Blackberry.  For that alone you’re the clear winner. So, as you can see you’re still very much ahead of the game.

I won’t quit you Al Gore.

Love,
Sarah

Thursdays are my favorite day for blogging, because I can post a link to my column and call it good.  Frankly, I’m too stressed out to be clever, and since I can’t afford a therapist I’m going to vent here.  If you don’t like it there’s this cute little button at the top of the page with an X on it just for you.  Come back tomorrow.  I’m sure I’ll have some stupid, embarrassing moment to share.  If I leave home, something humiliating is bound to happen.

I’m about to have a pity part here.  Seriously, are you sure you don’t want to log off? Fine.  I warned you.

Yesterday, I found out how much it will cost to finish my degree and needless to say I’m considering prostitution.  Look for me on a street corner near you!

On top of that, after five years of living in my tiny princess pad, my rent is being raised.  I told myself when I moved in that I wasn’t moving out until I purchased my own home.  How very naive of me.  My salary isn’t high enough to afford an education and a house.  I’m not willing to give up on my education quite yet, so it looks like I’m stuck in my tiny apartment without a proper kitchen, AC or laundry.

I know, I know… I’m VERY fortunate to have a job, an apartment, and a chance at a higher education. And while I know how incredibly lucky I am to have these things it doesn’t stop me from noticing those around me who can afford a much nicer lifestyle, and still manage to whine about life.  The worst part is biting my tongue when I really want to tell them all to fuck off.  I don’t because I love them.  And that, folks, is what love is: not telling people to fuck off.

For now, I’ll continue to go to work every day, and then I’ll go to school.  Afterward, I’ll come home and cry because I’m terrified of how I’m going to pay for it all.  Promise me when you see me on the street corner you won’t heckle me.

And if you do, I won’t write columns about threesomes anymore.  How’s that for punishment?