I’m finding myself more and more obsessed with the Olympics, especially Apolo Ohno.
You can read my love letter to him.
While you’re doing that, I’m going to drive around South Jordan trying to find his house. It’s not stalking if it’s love.
I’ve had a few contractors in and out of my house over the past few days bidding on replacing the bathtub. One particular contractor walked out of the bathroom and handed me three empty coffee mugs with a disgusted look on his face.
I was livid. How dare he come in my house and judge me? That’s what I have family for.
I’m unsure if it was the coffee that bothered him, or the fact I was drinking it in the bathroom.
“Oh, thanks. I forgot to put that away this morning.”
“Um, there are three.”
I love when people impress me with their counting skills. I felt like I should justify my morning routine, but held back. I also suppressed my urge to smash one of the mugs and use the shards to cut his throat.
Seriously though, it’s not that gross that I drink coffee in the bathroom. Sure, sometimes the mugs leave weird looking cup rings on the back of my toilet, and tub, but it’s not like I sit on the toilet every morning while eating a bowl of cereal.
Actually…
How much time would eating breakfast while peeing save? Five minutes? Ten minutes? I could hit the snooze button one more time.
Or I could stop eating breakfast altogether.
With the money saved on food, I could hire a maid to clean up the mugs, or spend the money on supplies to mainline the coffee. Either option would make me happy, and likely keep the next contractor alive.
Yesterday, on my way home from a client meeting, I stopped by Target to pick up a few grocery items. As usual I took the long way through the clothing.
I’m always on the hunt for cheap, white tee-shirts to replace the coffee stained ones that fill my closet. I snagged a couple and headed to the dressing room. Having the world’s smallest chest makes shopping rather difficult. Usually a size small fits perfectly, but apparently Target decided to turn into a complete jackhole and started making the chest circumference bigger, and the arms much, much smaller.
I managed to get stuck inside a fucking tee-shirt.
I was trying to wrestle the shirt from my body when I heard the woman in the next dressing room ask, “Are you OK?” She sounded annoyed so I assumed she was talking to the child with her, and continued operation remove shirt from ham arm.
A minute later she knocked on my stall and asked again, “Are you OK in there? Do you need medical attention? I’m a nurse, or I can call someone for you.”
What the WHAT?
“One second,” I replied as I hurriedly gave the shirt one final tug. I heard the combination of fabric ripping and a grunting sound. Oh my God. No wonder she was concerned. I sounded like an 80-year-old constipated man, or a teenager giving birth to a secret baby.
I cracked the dressing door room open so she could see that I was OK, and not giving birth to an unwanted child that I would later abandon on the junk food isle. She looked relieved, apologized and left.
Thank God, because I didn’t really have time for pleasantries. I needed to hurry home and start the process of finding a plastic surgeon to move my arm fat into my boobs. It’s not really plastic surgery, it’s an all-natural body shift.
I’m behind on laundry, replying to emails and returning calls, BUT I still found time to watch some reality television and bitch about it. Read about it in my “That’s What She Said” column for In Utah This Week.
The best Valentine’s Day gift I ever received was a porn coffee table book from my then boyfriend. The book had an excellent essay by Lou Reed, and as a bonus made my little brother, who lived with me at the time, VERY uncomfortable.
It was a win/win gift.
Yesterday the second best present made its way to my doorstep:
My hula dancing niece made me a Valentine, which in itself is adorable. Throw in the fact she wants me to have a God day, well that’s just bonus awesome.
To read how I spent my Super Bowl Sunday check out “That’s What She Said.” I’m thrilled football season it over! Finally I can have a conversation with my friend, Kelli, that doesn’t revolve around balls. Oh wait…
