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…
This week I’ve tried to write several blog posts, both for this site and Aiming Low. That obviously hasn’t happened. I have the hardest time staying focused. I try to write something entertaining, I really do, but instead I sit down and my thoughts are all over the place.
This was my exact thought process when I sat down to write a post last night:
I should write a blog post
Wait, without using a pen or pencil is that still writing
I should type a blog
Oh, I need to clean and display my pink typewriter
I need a new desk
I really need to vacuum my office
I need to empty the garbage
I should start recycling my glass
I need to buy wine
Are my dishes clean
Dishwasher detergent
Target trip
Clothes
I need my jeans hemmed
I need new jeans
Are skinny jeans here to stay
I should lose some weight
Going to the gym more makes my ass hurt
My ass looks great in Citizens of Humanity
I hope that jackass doesn’t call
I wonder if I could play ‘jackass’ on Words With Friends
I should call my mom back
I need to find stationary for kids by Sunday
I need an updated dictionary
IKEA!
Bookshelves
I should buy art to hang on my walls
I don’t like the wall color
Tan
Beer
The pub
pugs
Daisy
And then I spent twenty minutes watching pug videos on You Tube. Sooo, forgive me for not having anything of value to post?
Please?
Then send Ritalin.
There’s nothing I hate more than tax time. Well except for going to the post office. I fucking hate the post office.
Oh, and I hate grocery shopping.
And the doctor’s office waiting room.
So, yeah, I HATE STUFF.
Anyway. Taxes suck. Luckily an old co-worker of mine is an accountant. Every year I have to track her down. I suspect she changes her phone number and email just to keep me from bugging her about finances. Or I just suck at organization and lose the info. Good think I have trusty AK to keep track of people for me. He’s way better than any iPhone assistant app.
“Hey, what’s Angie’s email address? I need to see if she can do my taxes. Not DO as in have sex. I do not want Angie having sex with my taxes.”
He laughs… jerk.
“Can you imagine how awkward that would be? Ohh, Angie, sorry that my taxes gave you the paper-cuts. And what if you can’t treat vaginal paper-cuts?”
“Sarah, I’m trying not to imagine this.”
“No need. I’m sketching a picture of it now. I’ll take a photo and send it over.”
And to think he didn’t even appreciate the drawing. People need visuals. Duh.
“Sarah, I found the new love of my life.”
“Oh, you got a new pug?”
“No, it’s a Swiffer WetJet.”
“You’re in love with a mop?”
“Sarah it’s not JUST a mop. It’s a mop and broom combo.”
“What did you name her?”
“I didn’t.”
“Benjamin, if you don’t know the name of your true love, then it’s not love. That’s called a one-night stand. You’re having a one-night stand with a freaking mop.”
“I told you, it’s not JUST a mop. Why can’t you just support my choices?”
“Um, because you’re a weirdo.”
There’s been some major excitement in my mailbox over the past few days. No really, my MAILBOX. This is not a euphemism.
Saturday I received my college diploma (Can I get a hell yeah?).
Monday was also pretty eventful. I received a whopping 13 credit card offers. I’m practically rich.
Yesterday’s trip to the mailbox was heart stopping exciting. I opened my front door, stepped into the dark and was startled when two strange men were standing there. Once my heart began beating again I tried to figure out why these men were here.
They were too old to be Mormon missionaries. Ah-hah, they must be my graduation parade!
The University is fired. Two old dudes in pleated khaki pants weren’t what I had in mind. I wanted a float, a jazz band and someone throwing candy at kids. Not to kids, at kids. What? Kids always ruin parades.
Stranger dudes weren’t a two-man parade, nope. They were welcoming me to the neighborhood. You know the neighborhood I moved into MONTHS AGO. I asked which neighboring houses they lived in, but found they lived blocks away. There was something suspicious about this late welcome.
This welcome screamed Mormon, so I nonchalantly asked…
“Are you with the neighborhood watch? Or did the church send you? Are you my home teachers? Where are my baked goods? Who turned me in? Was it my mom? It’s always the mothers. Though it could have been my grandma. Or maybe one of my brothers as a prank. Is this a prank? OH MY GOD, are you really here to sell me a vacuum?”
I was met with a moment of confused silence. My line of bombarding questions usually has that effect on people.
Once composure was regained—theirs not mine…OBVIOUSLY—they confessed to being from the “ward” and were just informed of my neighborhood arrival. I appreciate them making me sound like royalty, but in my world royalty should be awarded with baked goods. They already provided heart damage by scaring me, so they may as well obstruct my arteries with deliciously fatty food.
Is that really too much to ask?
I THINK NOT.
