Tales of Wit and Charm…

My timing is impeccable, as usual.  After I submitted my last column about suffering through the Twilight Concert Series at the Gallivan, the advertising manager for the newspaper asked if I would sit at our sponsored booth there.  He hadn’t yet read my column.  Obviously.  I agreed but took RLO along as a buffer, just in case.

The concert was much more enjoyable in the safety of a booth with chairs and free wine.  It was also nice to meet some of our readers and see my friend Michael.

After the concert RLO and I headed over to Liberty Park for the firework display.  Crossing the busy street, I was just about to stupidly walk into oncoming traffic when RLO grabbed my arm and stopped me.  What he should have done is pushed me further into the street.

After all the grief I give that boy online (and offline) he had every right to push me in front of that speeding car.  But I’m sure glad he didn’t.

After my heart slowed down I remembered a comment he said to me last week, “Sarah, given the choice I’d rather have you alive than dead.”  At the time I laughed and told him it was the best compliment I’d ever received.  Now I know it wasn’t meant as a compliment, it was a true statement.  Diamonds aren’t a girl’s best friend… RLO is.

RLO and I watch Project Runway with AK and Mrs. AK every season.  RLO likes to show off his knowledge of the designers and make us feel stupid for not remembering every single detail.  I like to drink wine and make fun of RLO for being so involved.

This Wednesday the new season begins.  I cannot wait. This season is going to be the best yet.  Why you ask?  Because our friend Keith made the cut! I don’t know who is more excited me or RLO.

Let’s get Filthy!

Yesterday while lunching with Rlo and Milinda at Red Rock a man walked by our table and snapped his fingers at Rlo. I was stunned. I thought I was the only one allowed to snap at Rlo. It turns out they knew each other from a previous life–one where Rlo worked at a gym, or worked out at a gym. I’m a bit foggy on the details because my wine was so very tasty, but I do remember the word gym being uttered repeatedly. I think I picked up on it purely out of guilt– they were discussing exercise as I stole fries from Rlo’s plate.

When Rlo introduced us the guy mentioned I looked very familiar to him. I hate this. I think peoples sometimes recognize me from the column but can’t place how they know me. I gave him my standard reply, “I get around. A lot.” He looked taken aback and gave me a half laugh. Whatevs. I think it’s funny, FUNNY BECAUSE IT’S TRUE! In fact, I’m quite sure that’s what my mom writes about me in her Christmas newsletter: Sarah gets around and she’s STILL in college. We love her anyway.

Today, AK turns 40. Yes, 40. He’s an old fart, but a beloved one.

AK and I met ten years ago when he moved to SLC to work at the company I where I was employed. I was soon to become his work wife, much to his wife Mrs. AK’s dismay. Not because she was jealous, but because she felt sorry for me. The dude cannot remember where she keeps paper towels. I don’t live with them, but I can tell you where they are kept–IN THE SAME FUCKING SPOT FOR 8 YEARS, that’s where. He also cannot remember that I am in charge of everyone and everything, and he is not. He’s very easily confused. Obviously.

AK and I shared an office for a few years and it was then he became the older brother I never had. He teased me mercilessly for things that should not matter. Who cares if I add a ‘s’ to street names? Foothill(s) Blvd. is in the FOOTHILLS it should have an ‘s’. He also forced me to listen to Toad the Wet Sprocket all day, every day. And did you hear? The band broke up in 1998.

AK and his family quickly became some of my favorite people, and not just because they fed me and kept me in wine. I couldn’t ask for better, more supportive friend in my life than AK. I can’t imagine a life without him, and luckily I don’t have to. We’ve been through a lot together, and I wouldn’t be the person I am without his influence in my life. I love him for that.

Happy Birthday AK! I’m sorry you’re soooooo old, but it could be worse… you could be RLO.

My friend, the Bishop, has lunch with me every single Thursday. He calls our lunches Therapy Thursdays. At first I thought it was funny, but now I’m starting to realize just how true it is. We go. We eat. He points out my shitty behavior. It’s fun. FOR HIM!

It’s always been just the two of us, however, yesterday he invited our friend Maddie along. I suspect he was slightly nervous and/or embarrassed to being alone with me after I informed the Internet that he saw the contents of my naughty drawer.

I expected a bit of awkward behavior from him, he is after all very bishop-like, but I was completely mistaken. After ordering our food and sitting down at the table he presented me with a gift:

He is obviously absolved of all bedroom peeking sins.

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.