I generally reject any form of self control, which is why I never get through a Lenten season without bum rushing whatever it was I moronically decided to try and withhold from myself for more than a month. I like to start by saying I’m giving up something held in high esteem, like:

• green vegetables
• yoga
• Scotch
• professional wrestling
• Wednesdays

But then I guilt myself into taking it seriously. Next thing I know, I’m riding around on my high horse, denouncing my only hobbies:

• profanity
• booze
• fried foods
• laziness*

And that only lasts about two days. So this year, I gave up arugula. Then I punched myself in the eye and gave up refined sugar. I couldn’t say for sure if this is what Christ had in mind after 40 days and nights of temptation in the desert, but it sure does feel like how it’s supposed to go.

I think it’s working out pretty well. I’ve had six Cokes this week.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

*the trifecta of effing around on the Internet, not working out and sleeping in

• Foremost, it’s distracting. Not in a good way.
• I know it’s weird, but you ARE the only one who can hear the music through those ear buds.
• I’m trying to enjoy my mid-morning beverage, lunch, rare silence, Internet browsing, but I can’t. BECAUSE ALL I HEAR IS YOUR VOICE.
• This is an OFFICE. We do work here. Sort of. Anyway, this is NOT a playground. Go sit by yourself outside if you want to hum/ yodel/ throat growl.
• Let’s pretend I’m Simon Cowell. It’s definitely a no for me. You aren’t getting that yellow piece of paper. Go home. Sorry. But not really.
• Somewhere, Emily Post is rolling over in her grave. Vicious rolling. Angry rolling.
• I can’t even understand you… is that Farsi? ARE YOU SINGING IN FARSI? Jesus.
• The walls in this place are like papyrus. I can basically see through them… so I can hear you right down the hall, NO PROBLEM.
• Did someone tell you you sound nice? Pretty? That you could be the next Taylor Swift? Ok. Well, they lied.
• We all hear it, but no one wants to be the asshole that crushes your spirit. So that’s where I come in.

If this hurts you, toughen up. You’ll need thick skin with a voice like that.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

I am terrible at secrets. And I’m the world’s worst liar. I literally lack the ability to tell a lie - big or small - and have any single soul believe it. Lying comes so unnaturally to me that when I’m forced to fake it I contort my face, spit when I talk and bite my lower lip until it swells. Which only makes me look like Micky Rourke’s daughter. So, last week, I was more than proud of myself that I never spilled the beans that my cousins were throwing my aunt and uncle a surprise dinner for their 50th wedding anniversary where mom, dad and I were making an out-of-town appearance.

Oh, sure, I had ample opportunity to really fudge the whole deal. But, 50 years is a long time and I wanted it to be special. Plus, I was something like 89.7 percent certain my cousin Ashely would toss my ass into the Gulf. at night. if I blew it. And I knew that would be unpleasant and the water would probably be cold. So I worked hard all week, stretching my storytelling, tall tale muscles, telling little white lies. Because success is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent perspiration. It was time to trim the fat.

I told my boss I liked his tie. Wrong!

I said yes when my mother asked if I was eating enough fruits and vegetables. False!

I said I was at the gym when I got called out for not returning a phone call. Untruth!

And it payed off. On Friday, we celebrated their 18,250 days of marriage. Of being a family. And they were surprised.

Family is a funny thing. I can’t say for sure what makes a family, but maybe they all start the same way. Maybe you become a family the moment you decide to love each other. The moment you realize your story has a beginning, and soon it will have a middle, but that it may never actually come to an end. And theirs is a funny little story with humble beginnings: Catholic boy meets Baptist girl. Girl’s mother forbids their relationship. They run away to Georgia and secretly marry. Boy joins the Army. They write to each other for months. Girl’s mother finds their secret letters. Boy and girl are outed but finally able to be a real family. They marry and have two lovely children. A boy and a girl. And live happily ever after.

No? *That’s not how it went? Are you sure? You can’t be. I’m a liar, and I’ve been practicing.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

*That’s absolutely how it went. I told you I suck at this.

AGAIN?! Again.

That’s it. I’m about sick and tired of this.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

“Poison & Wine” - The Civil Wars [Live at Eddie’s Attic, Atlanta, Ga.]

Oh, hello, I thought you might like to slit your wrists tonight. No?

Sincerely,

Sally B.

Just a reminder: Today is stupid.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

“Love is the thing, you know.”

I guess I got a pretty good thing going with those two baby girls that just showed up out of nowhere right after me.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

Good news: I still have my ovaries.

Bad news: We ate all the s’mores.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

freezinmaovariesoff.com

Sincerely,

Sally B.

I’ve been talking about this week a lot. But it’s finally here. On Thursday, the six of us will cram ourselves into an SUV loaded down with sparkling booze, 80s music and complex carbohydrates, and promptly begin celebrating the impending nuptials of our bestest friend. And by that I mean, we’ll be drunk. A lot. And probably talking about sex like a bunch of 12-year-old boys in a tree house. This year will definitely be the best. Here’s how I know:

• I plan on eating at least 15 s’mores.
• I’m incorporating 3 champagne bottles into my “Love is a battlefield” playlist routine.
• I’m pretty sure I’ll mildly scare the hell out of the MOH, who is traveling with us for the first time, without completely traumatizing her. It’s about balance, really.
• I’m on constant high-alert for any bears or other large clawed mammal that likes to eat fleshy short girls who eat too many s’mores and then try to venture out to the car to look for their Blackberry charger.
• I won’t catch the carpet, my hair, my polar fleece, my striped Old Navy pajama bottoms, one of my traveling companions on fire.
• I won’t cry. My friend is getting married. I’ll probably shed a stupid shitty tear.
• Booze. And more booze.
• I won’t drown in the hot tub because I will not combine booze and the hot tub.
• Whether I want to or not, we’ll be laughing until I literally, almost, pee myself. Or actually pee myself.
• I’m not going to be embarrassed when we get measured for the BM dresses on Sunday back in Atlanta and Billy the dressmaker puts me down for a size 68 short (see booze and complex carb-related notes above).

Sincerely,

Sally B.

Happy Groundhog Day

This is a groundhog. And his fat furry ass will text you the weather. And THAT is why I’d like to have my own groundhog one day. Oh, and because they can drive.

Sincerely,

Sally B.

And in other news, major television networks and the entire motion picture industry announce they’ll be canceling all prime time shows and will halt production on a number of film projects currently in progress for the 15-35 year old audience due to a lack of content. Film at 11.

Sincerely,

Sally B.