One of the problems that I’ve been struggling with since I started my freelance business has been holding my cell phone to my ear with my shoulder while I talk to clients and type notes on my laptop at the same time. To free up my hands, my parents got me a blue tooth for my phone on my birthday - you know, those things that short men with leather suit jackets always have stuck in their ears at the grocery store?

Well, I know it’s a little uncool to wear when you aren’t using it, but this thing has changed my life. Although its number one use is to allow me to take detailed notes during meetings with clients, I’ve also discovered an even better application for the blue tooth: it allows me to do whatever I want during the two-hour multi-office conference calls that I often have to sit through. During these calls I often don’t have to say more than “hello” and “nice talking with you.” The majority of these calls are about web design and roughly 5% is about written content - it’s kind of like listening to a baseball game on the radio but only having to pay attention to one inning.

For the last two months, I’ve sat through these meetings as if I were physically present at a meeting - kind of paying attention, very bored. But now my blue tooth - which not only frees my hands but also blocks out background noise — has unshackled me from my conference call prison.

Before the blue tooth I would do regular meeting things: drink a lot of tea, try to pay attention and fail, stare at the clock, think about other things I could be doing that are also not pleasant but that I would still rather be doing, like folding the laundry. Now, though, today - I actually did get to fold my laundry. And since I get paid to sit in on these meetings, it’s like I’m getting paid to fold my laundry! I also got paid to write some thank you notes, iChat, brush the cat, and pay my phone bill - all for the same hourly rate. At the end of the meeting, I even started writing the web content that the meeting was about, both saving myself some time and saving my clients some money. What a beautiful world.

It also makes me wonder what the other three people on the line are doing, since we all work from home. Is the coordinator flossing her teeth? Is the tech guy putting the final touches on that free verse poem he’s been working on? I never thought I’d say this before I started working from home, but it might be true: there’s such a thing as a productive meeting.

Ben and I attended our first wedding since getting hitched ourselves. It was really, really nice - one of those weddings where, as I’m taking my third coconut shrimp from a gloved waiter with one hand and sipping from my ice cold vodka tonic with the other hand, I can’t help but think of African children squatting with flies on their lips. But then the guy with the mini quiches comes around and the image leaves me.

At the wedding, I had to confront one new difference in my life: that I will be, for the rest of my days or at least until the impending divorce, politely correcting people about what my name is. Since it’s never bothered me, I didn’t realize that it’s kind of a touchy point with some people, especially women who have changed their own name. And perhaps especially with women who have changed their names on that very day. I think the only thing that actually gets under my skin is when people say, “Mrs. Ben Fowlkes,” as if I have completely disappeared altogether.

I admit, I learned a lot about how not to let someone know you’re not Mrs. [husband’s full name]. For one, don’t say that you’ve kept your name because you are a writer and couldn’t change your last name due to your career - that’s kind of like saying that the other person’s identity/career didn’t really matter enough for them to keep their name. Secondly, stay away from the phrase, “I kept my name” - it sounds like you’re implying that the other person threw theirs away like a dirty tissue. Thirdly, don’t imply that you are a liberated, independent feminist, while the person who changed their name is living in the archaic past, where they might as well be wearing whalebone corsets and taking her husband’s muddy boots off when he comes home from work. I would especially stay away from the phrase, “Honestly, I think it’s a pretty retarded tradition that when a couple gets married they both take the name of the one with the penis. Seriously - go ask your husband if he’d ever change his name out of love for you. He’ll get a good laugh out of it.”

After talking with some friends, it seems like the best thing to say is, simply, “My name is still Sarah Aswell,” and to ignore all the stuff that they may or not be implying with their own comment - that I don’t respect tradition or that I’m obviously not ready for marriage or that I’m selfish or that I obviously don’t love Ben enough.

Ben thinks that whenever anyone asks me about it, I should simply explain that I married for nothing except the green card. This is why I love Ben. He doesn’t care what my last name is, as long as I continue to alienate strangers as a hobby.

In the end, I’d like to make it clear to everyone that I don’t really care whether you personally change your name at all - even if I have trouble telling you in person. It sure does seem simpler and it probably saves people a lot of time when addressing Christmas card envelopes. All I want is for people not to care what I do, either. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just stand drinking silently in groups and wait for the waiter with the scallops wrapped in bacon to come around again?

I’ll admit it: for me, the Gap exists for one reason and one reason only: each time I am required to wear a sunny, bright, and wholly uninteresting dress to a wedding, I run in on Saturday morning, buy the first sunny, bright, wholly uninteresting dress I see, wear it to the wedding, and then return it on Sunday.

I’m not sure how evil this might be on the evil-o-meter, but it makes the most sense to me - I don’t wear sunny, bright, uninteresting dresses on any other occasion and it doesn’t make sense to drop $70 each on a collection of dresses that I’ll only wear once or twice. Plus, don’t they use child labor or something?

In any case, this morning I was at the Gap buying a dress for a wedding along with a delicate and wholly uninteresting cardigan since it’s somewhat cold today. I walked in, hastily tried it on over my pants (I’m nothing but class, if you haven’t noticed) and walked my outfit over to the cashier. Usually, they don’t say anything, but this girl - she saw right through me.

“Last minute wedding outfit. Good choice. Conservative but spring-y. Nice cardigan match. This dress was also popular the day before Easter.”

It was so refreshing. I was stunned. I decided to be refreshing back.

“Yeah, now I just have to make sure to drink $120 worth of drinks at the open bar to make up for it.”

And she took it a step further!

“I recommend martinis. They’re expensive and even if you spill, you can still return the dress without anyone noticing the stains.”

I don’t know how this girl has possibly held down her job at the Gap, but I’ve never been happier about a purchase. I pray that she is also working tomorrow when I return the dress so that I can ask her if I’m fat and get a straight answer.

In fact, it made me envision a world where the customer service everywhere was just as honest - like if for once I was in a restaurant and when I asked what was good there, the waitress didn’t say, ” I think everything’s good here!”

And maybe the new Gap commercial could just come out and say it: “At the Gap, you can fill all of your one-event needs for conservative but youthful attire. Looking to buy some khakis just for the weekend because you’re meeting your boyfriend’s republican parents for the first time? Need a dress for a wedding that won’t upstage the bride and that hides your tattoo? Need the perfect business casual linen button-down for your much-dreaded company picnic? Come on down! It’s like rummaging through the closet of someone just like you, except without the offensive personality!”

I have a feeling that perhaps only I enjoy this website, but let’s give it a try: Truck Spills.

It is what it says it is: a collection of images of trucks that have turned over, letting loose their precious and mostly weird cargo. To put it more simply, it may be the only non-porno website perfectly tailored for 12-year-old boys: it’s about big trucks crashing with hilarious and gross consequences.

As I flipped through the pictures of jell-o spills, live alligator spills, and squash avalanches, I tried to put my finger on what was just so great about seeing a lot of one thing strewn all over a highway. I’m still not sure, although I am sure that eight tons of rabbits is way more interesting to look at than just a few rabbits. I also think that it is totally amazing that we don’t package things more — did they really think it was a smart move to transport Sunny-D or horse guts all in one giant container? And did they really think it was a good idea to transport a decomposing whale like that?

It’s also fun to look at the poor highway workers trying to recollect hundreds of spilled live chickens or clean up hundreds of active bee hives.

Okay, I admit this is juvenile. But what else are you going to do on Friday afternoon? Work?

It’s official: Ben is the new (and first ever) mixed martial arts columnist for Sports Illustrated. His first column published today. I can’t tell you how proud I am or how quickly I will spend his paycheck. From here on out, it should publish every Thursday until he is inevitably fired.

You can read it here.

Even if you’re not an MMA fan, please click the link to give his stats a nudge.

Today was also his first day working fulltime for another MMA website, CagePotato, which is a bit more casual, to say the least. On that site, he posts four times a day, although he only has a byline for his longer opinion pieces.

Me: Hi, my name is Sarah Aswell, and I’m trying to reach [generic lawyer name]. He contacted me this week about writing web content for his firm.
Assistant: Is he expecting your call, Barah?
Me: It’s actually Sarah. With an S. Yes, he told me to call at one.
Assistant: I don’t see your name in the appointment book.
Me: That’s strange, since he emailed me the meeting time yesterday and said he would put it in his Outlook calendar.
Assistant: Let me check with him. Hold on.

I hold. She returns.

Assistant: Hi, Barah?
Me: Hi. My name’s Sarah. Not Barah. I don’t really think Barah is even a name. I’m guessing that this ongoing issue might be why you can’t find my name in your appointment book.
Assistant: He’s in the middle of something. Can he call you back?
Me: Sure.
Assistant: Can I have your number, Barah?
Me: Are you serious?

…and then I gave her my number as slowly and clearly as I could, as if I were talking to an old person from the 1800s holding one of those huge gramophone horn hearing aids. I am sure this law firm will never call me back, although if a person named Barah actually exists on the planet (which I doubt) I wouldn’t be surprised if she got a call from the dumbest secretary that there has ever been.

I was watching some makeover show last night (I know, I know) and the activity that the makeover woman chose to help her loose weight was cardio stripping.

Now, before I become completely enraged, let me say that I’d heard of cardio stripping before and thought that it made at least a little sense. The first time I saw it, there was a pole that the class utilized to promote upper body strength. But in this women’s class, there was no pole! As far as I could see, everyone in the class stood in one place, swung their hips around a little, and pretended to unbutton imaginary shirts. I read online later that this is par for the course - there is no real, actual stripping in cardio stripping (that might make people uncomfortable) just as there seems to be no real cardio in cardio stripping (that also might make people uncomfortable).

In my mind, then, cardio stripping lets women live two fantasies at one time: 1) that they are sexy women who are edgy enough to strip and 2) that they enjoy going to the gym and exercising. Cardio stripping allows them to strip without actually stripping and take an exercise class without breaking into a sweat.

Let’s talk about stripping first: stripping is something that you traditionally get paid to do and not the other way around. Why is this so? Because as much as we all enjoyed that scene from True Lies, we all understand that stripping is not fun. In fact, it’s kind of icky, which is why it pays well and why your dad doesn’t want you to do it. Sure, stripping can be fun and empowering if a long-term partner was involved and if it took place the privacy of your own home, but could it possibly be fun in a Lucille Roberts with 20 strangers? Do you really think that any real, actual strippers would ever take a cardio stripping class for fun? Of course not. They are too busy crying softly, dating the wrong men, and doing coke.

And if stripping really were a fun activity, why are they not really, actually stripping during the class instead of miming it? If you were really edgy, wouldn’t you be doing the real thing?

What’s next on the cardio [blank] trend of women’s fantasies? Cardio two firefighters in love with you at once? Cardio kidnapped baby that is eventually returned to you after a blitz of media attention? Cardio eat the whole gallon of ice cream? (Don’t worry, you don’t actually eat the whole carton of ice cream, you just pretend to.)

The second part of the problem seems to be that we as a country are trying way too hard to make going to the gym really fun. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love going to the gym - it improves my mood, it motivates me, it relaxes me, it empowers me, it energizes me, and it gives me an awesome sense of accomplishment. Even with all of these positive feelings, though, I wouldn’t call going to the gym fun, just as I wouldn’t call my job fun even though I love it.

But it seems that, mostly due to advertising and the media, that people are demanding that their gym experience be nothing but good times - like a Friday night or a birthday party. They don’t seem to realize the sad fact that really fun things usually aren’t good for you, and that the most rewarding things that you can accomplish aren’t as simple as a cakewalk or a series of hip gyrations. Pushing yourself at the gym can be fun, but it will never be fun in the same way that the fantasy of stripping will be.

Cardio stripping has given me a great idea for a business, though. It will make DOUBLE the money of any gym or strip club because it will be both. Women pay me to come in and cardio strip and men pay me to come in to leer at them! Everybody wins! I’m taking suggestions for names.