The Park City Mustang Show: Where All My Wildest Dreams Came True

Saturday morning I got a call from a co-worker, telling me that I had to get my butt up to Park City because there were about two hundred Mustangs lining Main Street.

A few hours later, I was strolling down Main Street with a huge ridiculous grin plastered on my face, oooh-ing and aaah-ing at all the different Mustangs, and getting amazing ideas to pimp my ride. Mirrors!! On the inside of the hood!!!

This one was my hands down, absolute favorite. It has all the common elements of things that I love: purple, sparkly, bad ass, and has horses on it.

Let's take a closer look...

Aaaaaaaand let's take an even closer look...That's right. I'm not above shamelessly drawing attention to my little ta ta's.
Really I just wanted you to be able to see what my shirt says.
Find your own variation at www.savethetatas.com.

Finally!!

Something amazing and incredible happened this morning. Something I'd been waiting for months to say finally came to be.

In our weekly team meeting, as per usual the conversation had become peppered with "That's what she said" lines from the estimator.

Mitch: Hey guys, can we please stop with all the sexual innuendo?

Bone Junior: In YOUR endo!

So I admit that I totally ripped this line from "Scrubs", but I've been waiting for SO LONG for the perfect opportunity to use it, that I don't care if it's stolen - the pay off was worth it.

Snooty? Snotty.

It's fair to say that I get made fun of on a daily basis for the way I pronounce certain words. (Anyone from Pennsylvania will identify with what I'm talking about here). For example, 'horrible' is 'harrible'; 'orange' is 'ahrange'; 'forehead' is 'farhead', etc etc. My crowning glory is 'wood-er' (water).

Whenever I use any of these words at work, a co-worker will immediately stop and say, "What's wood-er?" My typical response is, "Oh, I'm sorry. Waaaaahhhhhhhhhter." Sigh. Eye roll. It drags out a lot of conversations.

I'm so tired of being "corrected" and I'm so arrogant that I called into a morning radio show to correct the on-air host for her pronunciation of "Reading Railroad", a la Monopoly. Unfortunately, instead of sounding educated, I sounded just plain pompous.

"Um, hiiii. I was just calling to tell you that it's pronounced Redding? Not Reading Railroad? Yeeeeah. It was originally the Philadelphia and Redding railroad, before the Redding company split off in the 1920's?....yeah, and there's a city in Pennsylvania named Redding, and there's even a baseball team called the Redding Phillies.... I'm from there? So, you know....yeah."

I am such an ass.

Character Witness

This weekend, on our way home from the pool, Nicole and I were comparing sun damage. She gets cute freckles all across her shoulders while I am uniformly the color of deck stain.

Bone Junior: I wish I got freckles like you. It adds character.

Nicole: (Sigh) Bone Junior, if you had any more character, I don't know what I'd do with you.

Case in Point: If you ever get pulled over for going 64 in a 35, make sure the cop has a sense of humor before handing him this when he asks for your license and registration:Otherwise he might threaten to slap you with falsely identifying yourself along with a hefty speeding ticket. Hypothetically.

Because I'm a Grownup

My recent "Anonymous" post got a lot of attention, hence the comments. And while it warmed my heart to get everyone's general agreement that Anonymous isn't worth another minute of my time, there were some hilarious, strongly worded comments that I loved, but I chose not to post.

Why? Mostly because I don't want to start some kind of underhanded war with Anonymous. I just want to let it lie, because I made my point. Posting those comments would be juvenile.

And then I emailed the comments to my friends so that we'll have one more thing to laugh about together. Because that's the mature thing to do.

Mobile Shout Out Part 3

Happy Anniversary Hoss & Rose!

Here's to another four years of student hood!

It seems like just yesterday I was looking at these pictures and peeing myself and making everyone at work come look at them and peeing some more from laughing so hard. This is my favorite memory of you, which might be kind of weird, since I wasn't even there... maybe it's because my sister is cracking up as you're suffering and dry heaving, and I know that had I been there, I would've done the exact same thing. The exact same thing as in cracking up, not as in dry heaving and suffering.

Here's Looking at You, Anonymous

You know what's awesome about having Sitemeter on your blog?

Let's say, hypothetically, "someone" named "anonymous" looked at your blog and left a really mean comment; hypothetically, saying that you should have gotten lipo instead of getting new boobs.

Hypothetically, with the help of Sitemeter, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person was. You could find out their IP address, their longitude and latitude, their server provider, what time they left the comment, how long they looked at your blog, how often they look at your blog, where they were before they got to your blog, and where they went after.

And putting all these elements together, you'd be able to find out exactly who the person is that feels the need to anonymously post his opinion about your body. But instead of posting that information, you could choose to take the high road. Because it's someone that you actually know, and now he knows that you know it's him - because he reads your blog regularly.

And your best defense is to take pleasure in the fact that you know he's not worth another second of your time or thoughts.

Hypothetically.

Mobile Shout Out Part 2

Happy Anniversary, Andi & Adam!It seems like only four years ago that we were playing bachelorette games in your grandma's basement. Remember this handsome fella?

Good times, noodle salad. Happy four years!!

Mobile Shout Out

Happy Anniversary, Barbie & Mike!

It seems like only yesterday when I was sleeping on the couch at the colony and you came home from a date and didn't know I was on the couch and I awkwardly heard you making out at the door.

Congrats on your anniversary - you've been able to awkwardly make out whenever you want for seven years now. Way to go!

This is What 1380 CC's of Saline Looks Like

I decided to forgo posting the 'before' pictures because they were so unflattering; and really, the less everyone sees of my small, sad little boobies, the better. Suffice it to say that it didn't look like I had boobs until I put on my padded uplift bra. That being said...

Ta da!
There is still some swelling, so I'm wearing an ace bandage to strap them down for another week. But not too shabby for two weeks after surgery, eh??

It's Been a Tramautic Week

During the course of the past seven days, I have done the following:

- Thrown up in Erin's car;

- Had nightmares that a small man was sitting on my chest suffocating me;

- Nearly passed out when the nurse yanked the surgical tape off my brand new boobs, ripping the skin off in the process and causing blisters;

- Didn't poop for six days;

- Slept sitting up every night;

- Had an emotional breakdown when I took my first post-surgery shower (three days after surgery...I know. I'm gross) and saw my bruised, battered, and broken looking new boobs in the mirror. Crying and wailing continued when I tried to raise my arms to wash my hair for the first time;

- Had an emotional recovery when I bought my first cute new bra and rejoiced at the size.

And then... there was last night. I don't know if I can recount the details of the most horrific, traumatic, terrifying thing that's ever happened to me.

First I need to explain that for the past week (and for the next two weeks) my brand new boobs are wrapped in an ace bandage (otherwise they'd pop out the top of my turtleneck) and I have to wear a granny bra on top of that. It's quite the attractive combination.

Last night, due to the fact that I live in the desert, I was sleeping on top of my covers in my skivvies. And by skivvies, I'm referring of course to the sexy hot granny bra and ace bandage. I was thisclose to falling asleep when in my semi-sleep stupor, I felt something crawling on my hand.

I sat straight up in bed and flailed my hand before leaping up and turning on the lamp. If it was a fly, no big deal. But if it was the alternative...a spider...I had to have a visual, hone in on the target, and destroy it.

I spent several minutes scouring my bed and all surrounding areas, but didn't find whatever had been crawling on me. Which made me feel even more unsettled. If I could just see it and know what was there...

I finally convinced myself that it had only been a fly and went to turn the lamp off. When I looked down, I nearly fainted from fright. There, on my brand new boob, was a huge crusty spider. Right. On. My. Boob.

As you can imagine, I let out a manly wail and started to flail, except it was more of a panicked waving motion, as my boobs are so sore, I didn't dare touch them. Not only did the spider not fall off, but it proceeded to crawl across the ace bandage towards my brand new cleavage.

At this point, I started to cry and flail more violently, except this time I bent forward at the waist and did some kind of shimmy (which I'm sure was incredibly attractive and all sexy like) in an effort to stop the spider from reaching my actual skin. Which somehow incredibly shook the spider off my body to the floor, where I promptly grabbed a sneaker and bashed the living hell out of it, crying the whole time.

I'm amazed that my neighbors didn't come over to make sure I hadn't been raped and pillaged.

Then again, judging from the screams they heard, they probably thought I was a man.

Still Alive

I'm still alive, and almost four pounds heavier!

As I'm still coming out of my percocet-induced haze, I haven't been doing much except for laying around and having nightmares that someone is sitting on my chest trying to suffocate me.

And I owe a million thank-you's to all the people who have called, texted, and emailed to see how I'm doing. And especially to Erin and Nicole for their round-the-clock nursing duties. And also sorry to Erin for puking in her car.

"After" pictures to come as soon as my chest doesn't look like a battered wife anymore.

My Car Got Gang Banged

I looked out the office window today and was not at all surprised to see the latest stunt of three superintendents:And yes, I am one of "those people" who parks way far away from everyone else to avoid door dings, and now, gang bangs.

In Which I Become A Woman

"Dad, now that I'm twenty-six, and an adult, I've made the decision to get a boob job."

Blink. Blink.

My sixty-year-old father sat across from me last weekend and stared at me as if I'd just told him that I'd eloped with my twice-my-age boyfriend at the Little Chapel in the Woods at Graceland, and by the way, I'm having his love child and can we stay with you for awhile? Then he proceeded to unload on me all of his fatherly "wisdom"; and by "wisdom" I mean, "I'm your father and I know everything about everything and there is no way in hell I'm supportive of the fact that you're making a huge mistake that you'll regret for the rest of your life."

Suffice it to say, breaking my big news to my dad did not go well.

But for the rest of you, I hope that breaking my big news goes much better.That, my friends, is a preview of the "After" result of my boob job which is happening...IN ONE WEEK! Yes, really. And everyone is invited to a "Bon Voyage Bone Junior's Boobies" dinner this Saturday night.

So if I don't blog much for the next little bit, it's probably due to a combination of the following reasons:

- My stomach is in knots as the surgery gets closer;

- I'm working on a eulogy for my sad little boobies;

- I'm shopping for all my post-op necessities: a large bra, lots of water, crackers, Benadryl, Step Up 2: The Streets on DVD, and lots of Percocet;

- I'm recovering from the pure exhilaration of seeing the midnight showing of The Dark Knight this Thursday;

- I'm so freaking excited to finally get ginormous bazoombas.

Where Do These People Come From and How Do They Always Find Me?

You know what I don't understand? I don't understand why some people think its okay to go up to a stranger and just blurt out whatever they're thinking.

Like when I was waiting for my two-hours-delayed flight at the Philadelphia Airport on Monday, quietly enjoying a peanut butter cup blizzard thingy from TCBY, and an older black businessman comes right up to me and says, "You know you shouldn't be eating that."

Blink. Blink.

Bone Junior: Are you saying that I'm fat?

Businessman: Um, no, ahem, no no no, I'm just saying it's bad for you.

Bone Junior: (shoving another spoonful into my mouth) Right, well thanks for the heads up, but its frozen yogurt, so it's not that bad, and I'm going to keep eating it disirregardless of your opinion.

At this point, any normal person would take the hint that they've already crossed the line with me and would go away. Not this guy. He continued to stand there and tried to engage me in conversation to the point of calling me a Phoenician from ancient Mesopotamia because of my skin coloring. Other topics touched upon include Barack Obama, my nose, my birth order, my age, him asking me to guess his age, and his opinion that if he had lived during the times of slavery that he would have been an ideal candidate for breeding. Yes, really.

The conversation ended when he told me that he believed we were kindred spirits and that he could see it in my eyes.

Buh-bye.

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.