Tales of Wit and Charm…

Reading the BlogHer site today I noticed there is a student ticket price for the upcoming SF conference.  Umm, hello, why did I not know this?  I’ll tell you why, because Loralee is a horrible friend.  Trying to keep me from going on a trip to San Fran with her.  She’s totally fired and the only way I will forgive her is if she drives to SLC and wins back my love by having a lunch date with me.  Or if she finds me a roomie for the conference, preferably one that doesn’t suck.  I can swing the ticket price but the hotel room will kill my shoe budget.

Who out there is going?  Who out there needs a roomie?  Who do I have to sleep with to get a good place to stay?  Seriously.

To all the people at Liberty Park last night, I was not dancing in anticipation of playing kickball. I was only jumping around trying to get my pants to itch the back of my ass and legs for me. I’ve learned my lesson about putting my hands down my pants in public. I really, really have.

Remember being a kid and thinking that if only you had a certain kind of shoes you’d be faster on the playground? I’m here to tell you it’s a giant lie!

Believing in the magical power of my pink KangaROOS tennis shoes I wore them to my kickball game last night.

My turn up to kick was comedic gold. I kicked the ball and started running for first base, albeit a little slow. Hey, I was very busy admiring how cute my shoes looked kicking the ball. Don’t give me shit, even the catcher commented on the cuteness!

The pitcher grabbed the ball and tried to tag me out. I wasn’t going down without a fight. I ran outside of the baseline avoiding him while screaming, “Don’t you dare hit me with the fucking ball!” I was called out. Apparently you’re not allowed to run outside of the baseline or something?

I played right field, which I love because it’s typically very uneventful. Last night was the exception. Someone kicked the ball my way and as I watched it in slow motion flying through the air I screamed, at the top of my lungs, “NOOOOOOO!!!!!” Thankfully my personal MVP, Melissa, caught it for me. Whew.

We lost.

And despite all this, I had fun. Which in my book is way more important than winning. Now if I could just talk my friends into feeling the same way.

To read my column this week click here. When you finish please pray to whatever god you believe in, that I may be blessed with extraordinary kickball skills by six o’clock tonight. Otherwise, pray I don’t punch anyone who makes fun of me in the face.

The minute I get home I shed my pants. I’m not alone in this; you guys do too, right? If not, now is the time to lie.

Last night, after an especially shitty day, I went home, ditched the pants and poured myself a glass of wine. So you’ll understand how annoyed I was when someone knocked on my door. For a brief second I considered answering the door pants free. It wasn’t like I was naked, just in boy short undies. I looked down, saw my chunky thighs and opted for the Old Navy pajama pants on my floor.

I open the door and much to my dismay found a pimple-faced teenage girl, who had knocked on the wrong door. Without thinking I said, “Do you realize I put pants on for you?” She was speechless. And can you blame her? What do you say to some crazy, half-drunk woman bitching about pants? Nothing. You blush, remain silent and fear for your life.

I wish the story ended there, but it doesn’t.

Before retiring for the night I let Daisy out one last time. As I was standing there waiting for her to pee I did the unthinkable: I reached down the back of my pants and started scratching my ass. Thinking I was alone I muttered under my breath, “Yeahhh, that’s the spot.” I heard someone behind me and with my hand still down my pants, I turned to find the same teenage girl.

Mortified, I grabbed Daisy and retreated upstairs. I immediately grabbed all the different kinds of lotion I could find, and slathered my entire body with a concoction of all five in hopes to prevent any further embarrassing public displays of scratching.

AK and I never talk about our friend Tim. In fact, since his death, we haven’t spoken about him for more than a few minutes at a time. It’s too hard for both of us. We both feel guilty. Anyone who has dealt with a suicide knows this feeling all too well. While we both know we weren’t responsible for Tim’s decision, we will spend the rest of our lives questioning if we could have done more to help him.

Yesterday AK and I talked about Tim for nearly an hour. It was heartbreaking, yet beneficial for both of us. I told AK I’m scared of forgetting all the small details of Tim’s life. It’s time I start writing about him, I suppose. Writing is cathartic for me, and frankly I need to remember all the funny details of his life rather than remembering the day I found him.

Sometimes when I miss Tim so much I can’t breath I think about him in some sort of after life. Tim hated religion. He was an avid atheist and took great pleasure in arguing with everyone about his or her own personal beliefs. I picture Tim approaching the pearly gates and screaming at God for existing. I can see him saying, “God you’re driving me fucking crazy with this bullshit; I need a beer.” And then he’d challenge God to an arm wrestle; the winner would get to rule the world. Tim would, of course, lose and then accuse God of cheating. Without fail, my tears are suddenly tears of laughter as I picture the Tim vs. God scenario.

And as blasphemous as this coping mechanism may seem to some, I don’t care.  It works for me, and that’s what counts.

“Sarah, do you want to go to the pub for dinner?”

“Duh, Rlo. But we have to order something semi-Mexican there since it’s Cinco de Mayo. Do you think they serve Mexican wine?”

“Doubtful. You know, you could just drink so much you vomit and pass out. It’s just like going to Mexico.”

I think secretly Rlo wants to get me drunk and take advantage of me. In doing so he’ll prove he is not as gay as I make him sound, and I’ll be forced to write about his manliness on the Internet.