Let the Crying Commence

Final Score:

Sweeper attachment = 1

Bone Junior = 0

Thank You Sir May I Have Another?

I had my first appointment with my new lady doctor today, and I have to say, I'm not sure I'll be going back to her.

First of all, the paper robe they gave me was more like a bolero, and I managed to rip the sleeves off at the seams from trying to pull it tighter around me. I tried to arrange myself somewhat gracefully, but by the time the doctor came in, my butt was sticking to the deli paper on the table and I looked a crazy mess with my torn paper bolero and bare butt hanging out.

She told me to put my hands behind my head for the breast exam, and then she said the words that immediately made me decide that I wasn't going back to her:

"Well! You have such small breasts! That's ok - it makes these exams so much easier!"

Really, lady? As if I need someone else confirming the fact that I got the concave end of the gene pool when it comes to boobs.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah. Can you just...not? Thanks."

Which just confirmed my decision that instead of buying these:
I'm going to buy these:
Yep, I'm really doing it. In the near future. Stay tuned - Erin and I have already planned out the before & after pictures.

Love/Hate

I recently started going to a physical therapist because I tweaked my neck pretty bad a few weeks ago and Lortab did absolutely nothing for me. I was kind of disappointed - I didn't get high or anything, and at the very least I was hoping to have an excuse to be loud, obnoxious and bossy. Oh wait. I already am. How about that.

So when the muscle relaxers and Lortab didn't help and I was still having to turn my entire upper torso, a la Batman, just to look to the side, I started seeing Dr. John. I've seen him three times now and I kind of love him and hate him at the same time.

I only hate him for the same reason I hate all doctors/dentists/gynos/waxers: they ask questions that make me feel like I'm supposed to know the right answer, but I don't think I do. Like when he's rubbing my neck so hard that my whole body is moving and he asks, "How does that feel?"

Um...hurts? But... good? Hurts so good? How do I explain that the knots in my neck are so tight that my eardrums are throbbing when he rubs it, but it doesn't necessarily hurt per say.

"How are you feeling today?"

Uh...good, I think? My neck was sore this morning? But...it's getting better? Right? Is that the right answer?

I hate him because the way he pulls on my head and stretches my neck back and forth gives me vertigo and static hair, and smears my eye makeup; so I stagger out of there like I'm doing the walk of shame at seven in the morning.

I also hate him because his seventeen-year-old male assistant squirted the ultrasound gel all over my back and up into my hair. Personally, I don't buy into the whole ultrasound on my neck thing. I don't think that machine is really doing anything.

But I love him because getting my neck rubbed for twenty minutes is oh so wonderful, even if it makes my eardrums throb. And I like to mess with his stuff when he's out of the room - like the controls for the tabs he sticks on me that send pulses to my neck and shoulder muscles. I like to turn up the strength so that my arm is bouncing all over the place. It just cracks me up. They probably wonder why I'm laughing so much when they leave me in there alone.

Then again, if they knew me at all, they probably wouldn't wonder at all.

Bruce Declares It; It Must Be So

When I was in high school, my tennis coach Yaquim, used to yell at me all the time. Most often he'd be screaming, "Moo ya feet, Sair! Moo ya feet!" Somehow he always made my name into a one-syllable word. Other times it would be, "Loo where you standin! You in NO man's land!" Then he'd call me Meeda because I looked like a Mexican, and make jokes about how he thought I worked at Ray's Boom Boom Room on the weekends.

The point is that in between all his crazy ramblings, sometimes Yak actually had some good advice. He'd say, "Its jus that simple." Oh, is it? Is it really just that simple, Yak? Ok. Next time I'm getting my butt handed to me by the number one ranked singles girl, I'll remember that it's just that simple to beat her and I'll do it, instead of just not moving my feet.

Which brings me to Bruce. Bruce is Bone Senior's father in law, so I'm not really sure what that makes him to me, other than my number one all time fan. How do I know this? Last week I got a phone call from an unrecognized number. The man on the line asked if I was Bone Junior, then said that he'd seen me driving around in a blue mustang, and that he'd been trying to find out who I was.

Given my recent track record with guys and driving around, naturally my interest was peaked. But I was still a little suspicious, so I set a trap, a la Stallone in Lock Up ("A-Block? There is no A-Block!" Anyone? No? Never mind).

The trap being that I asked if he'd seen my plates and he said yes, but wait! At the time, there were no plates on my car, so I knew this guy was full of baloney. Gotcha, sir. Then he revealed himself as Bruce and I felt a little awkward for kind of flirting with him at first when I really believed that he'd somehow tracked me down after seeing me drive around. How sad is that.

The reason for his call being, in a nut shell, that he thought I should be famous. I always wanted to be famous for winning a mayonnaise eating contest, but Bruce thinks I should be famous for my writing.

He went on to tell me exactly how to accomplish this fame, and made me take diligent notes:
See? It's jus that simple.

DDYS GRL

That's what my plates say: DDYS GRL.

Just kidding. I would sooner die. However, along with the grand unveiling of my license plates, which finally arrived this weekend, I thought it would be fitting to give a shout out to my dad - after all, he's the one responsible for the name on my plates.

Drum roll, please...

... and cue the sigh of disappointment and confusion from those of you who don't actually know me in person.

My dad says that when I was learning to talk, I could repeat back almost any word he'd say, except when he'd try to get me to say my own name. He'd say, "Ok, say 'Sarah'..." and my response would be to pause, get a huge cheesy grin on my face, and say, "Sasheeeeeeeee!" And it's stuck ever since.

Those who know me, get it. Those who don't, I'm sorry for the months of anticipation that have led to this huge moment of disappointment. At least now you'll know if you ever see me on the road.

Speaking of seeing me on the road, I hung out with my Man Cub last night... and I think I have a crush on him. Seriously. All week we'd been texting, and in my mind I expected him to be monosyllabic and to bow to my every beck and call. But he's actually really, really funny...and really, really skinny. Still really, really cute...just really, really skinny.

I'm not sure how I feel about that. Riding on the back of his bullet bike (sigh, yes, really..I know, I know, just let it go), I felt like I had nothing to hold onto. Like I was going to pull him right off the back of the bike with me. At least he'd have me to pad his fall comfortably.

There's nothing wrong with skinny guys, I just don't like the feeling of looking like the number ten when we stand next to each other. Not so crazy about that.

But I totally got my flirt on with the Man Cub. I'm talking full on, no holds barred, cougar-style flirting. I was a predator, and if I got into it, you'd feel retarded for me. So I'm just going to let it go at that.

But we'll see how it goes. In the meantime, I'm honing my predatory skillz and hoping to see the Man Cub again.

I Shall Call Him My Man Cub

Let me begin by saying that when my team morale is down, I'm not above calling a certain bullet biker even though I didn't think he was cute and his texts kind of freaked me out. Ladies, help me out here - we all like a little positive reinforcement, and Friday night, positive reinforcement was exactly what I needed. I'm sure you all have "moments" that you're not proud of...

He asked if I wanted to go for a ride so I said sure and arranged to meet him at Starbucks nearby. As I pulled up, I saw that not only was my biker boy there, but there were four other biker boys all with girls on the backs of their bikes. Ick. Those kind of girls. I know you know what kind of girls I'm talking about. I was on the phone with Yanaj at the time and she said, "Just keep going, man, don't even stop. Just keep going." But they'd already spotted me, so I climbed aboard and became one of them. That's right - I totally blended in with their tight skinny jeans and butt cracks hanging out as they crouched over their boyfriends. Not really.

Not the point. The point is that I wasn't even bothered by those girls and they're skinny jeans and little butts - I wasn't even bothered when biker boy's spittle flew back in my face as we were riding - because on my way there, I'd met a new prospect. As I was driving on the freeway, I noticed a Mazda 3 trying to race me, so naturally I smoked him (listen to me, I'm such a snob now) and then he pulled alongside me and I thought, hey he's kind of cute, so I smiled at him and let him pass. Then he started waving for me to follow him off the exit, and I thought, hey he's kind of cute so what the hell, and I did. And guess what - he was really cute and he asked for my number. Even better is the fact that he's got a bullet bike too...so maybe I'm becoming one of those girls, minus the skinny jeans and little butt, of course.

He texted me five minutes after I met him and then I found out...that he's only twenty two. Which kind of made me shudder and at the same time made me feel awesome. I know that four years isn't that big of a deal, but there is a big difference between a twenty two year old guy and a twenty six year old guy.

I call him my Man Cub, and I kind of want him to be my boyfriend so that I can be his puppet master and mold him and make him into exactly what I want. I have visions of us out at dinner and me teaching him which fork to use and then when he drips food on his chin, I tilt my head to the side and give him a knowing smile and say, "Oh, Man Cub. You are just adorable!" as I use his squared hankerchief to dab his chin.

Then I'll take him to a fancy wedding reception and teach him how to tie his tuxedo bow tie and he'll step on my toes when we're dancing but I won't mind because I am his older woman and he idolizes me.

Then we'll be sitting on his bike parked at the pier and between kisses I'll say, "Maverick...you big stud...take me to bed or lose me forever." And he'll say, "Um, my name isn't Maverick..." and I'll say, "Shhhhh shhhhhh shhhhh....." and I'll die a little inside because I'll realize that he's too young to have seen Top Gun and he totally doesn't get my fantasy.

I think the whole thing could be really fun. After all, isn't it my duty as an older experienced woman to crack open an egg of wisdom over the head of my Man Cub? Or several eggs, since in my fantasy, he doesn't even know which fork to use?

Yes...this is gonna be good.

That Shirt Just Paid For Itself...And A Restraining Order

Here's how it happened: My friends convinced me to buy a hot pink top. Let me clarify: a hot pink, short sleeved, cropped jacket with lapels and everything. For those of you unfamiliar with myself, I rarely wear anything other than black, and I never ever have worn a cropped jacket with lapels and everything.

So, the hot pink top. I wore it, got flagged down by a guy on a bullet bike who asked for my number and said he'd take me for a ride. Sold. Mostly because he looked cute - at least, the part around his eyes looked cute because he didn't take his helmet off. Then I remembered that any guy in either a helmet, baseball hat, or sunglasses looks cute. It's the trifecta of good looks tom foolery.

I totally got picked up by a complete stranger who liked my car and I liked his bike. Except I didn't know what his face looked like, so when he called me that night to go for a ride, I was a little nervous. I met him at a gas station and was relieved that when he pulled off his helmet and he looked OK. He wasn't bad looking at all, he just wasn't my type. [Read: huge bald guys with biceps as big as my head.]

He took me for a ride on his R6 and he smelled really good, but I thought I was going to die. It wasn't until later that I found out he'd been going 120 MPH on the freeway with me on the back. And also that he was Mexican. Lit'rally.

After about an hour of riding, I knew it was time for me to go because my butt and thighs had fallen asleep and my back and neck were kinked from being hunched over. He took me back to my car, and up until that point, I thought to myself, "This guy's OK...I should spend more time with him before ruling him out. I'd go out with him again."

Then I got home and he started texting me. And as I read the texts to my roommates, I knew I'd never want to hang out with him again.

I think ur really cute, I would love to keep hanging out with u, and date u and maybe become more than friends with you, I don't think u think the same though.

Ick. Shudder. I can't stand when people write "ur" or "u" or "2 cool 2 b 4 got 10". It gives me the retarded tingles. But it didn't stop there. After I didn't respond to his first charming text, he spent the rest of the night sending me the following messages:

So, is that ur answer to what I said? Lol.

What's ur answer to the first text, I sent though? I am confused, did u get it? Or do I have 2 say it in a different way? lol.

Hopefully we can get to know each other better so it can go somewhere, what r u doig tomorrow?

Would you b down to watch a movie?

N e way goodnight sexy.

You guys. Ew. Ew. N e way??? Really?? It was all just...wrong. I just don't even have time to tell you all the things wrong with this situation. And to think it all started so well, but at least I got a free near-death experience out of it, right? And a huge boost to my ego.

There was only one thing I could do to erase the stench of his poor texting etiquette: count down the minutes to ten o'clock this morning and buy my New Kids on the Block tickets.

The New Kids always make me feel better, but I don't know if I'm going to wear that hot pink top again.