Sarah Bellum’s Tales of Wit and Charm

There’s nothing I hate more than tax time. Well except for going to the post office. I fucking hate the post office.

Oh, and I hate grocery shopping.

And the doctor’s office waiting room.

So, yeah, I HATE STUFF.

Anyway. Taxes suck. Luckily an old co-worker of mine is an accountant. Every year I have to track her down. I suspect she changes her phone number and email just to keep me from bugging her about finances. Or I just suck at organization and lose the info. Good think I have trusty AK to keep track of people for me. He’s way better than any iPhone assistant app.

“Hey, what’s Angie’s email address? I need to see if she can do my taxes. Not DO as in have sex. I do not want Angie having sex with my taxes.”

He laughs… jerk.

“Can you imagine how awkward that would be? Ohh, Angie, sorry that my taxes gave you the paper-cuts. And what if you can’t treat vaginal paper-cuts?”

“Sarah, I’m trying not to imagine this.”

“No need. I’m currently sketching a picture of it now. I’ll take a photo and send it over.”

And to think he didn’t even appreciate the drawing. Jerk. People need visuals.

“Sarah, I found the new love of my life.”

“Oh, you got a new pug?”

“No, it’s a Swiffer WetJet.”

“You’re in love with a mop?”

“Sarah it’s not JUST a mop. It’s a mop and broom combo.”

“What did you name her?”

“I didn’t.”

“Benjamin, if you don’t know the name of your true love, then it’s not love. That’s called a one-night stand. You’re having a one-night stand with a freaking mop.”

“I told you, it’s not JUST a mop. Why can’t you just support my choices?”

“Um, because you’re a weirdo.”

There’s been some major excitement in my mailbox over the past few days. No really, my MAILBOX. This is not a euphemism.

Saturday I received my college diploma (Can I get a hell yeah?).

Monday was also pretty eventful. I received a whopping 13 credit card offers. I’m practically rich.

Yesterday’s trip to the mailbox was heart stopping exciting. I opened my front door, stepped into the dark and was startled when two strange men were standing there. Once my heart began beating again I tried to figure out why these men were here.

They were too old to be Mormon missionaries. Ah-hah, they must be my graduation parade!

The University is fired. Two old dudes in pleated khaki pants weren’t what I had in mind. I wanted a float, a jazz band and someone throwing candy at kids. Not to kids, at kids. What? Kids always ruin parades.

Stranger dudes weren’t a two-man parade, nope. They were welcoming me to the neighborhood. You know the neighborhood I moved into MONTHS AGO. I asked which neighboring houses they lived in, but found they lived blocks away. There was something suspicious about this late welcome.

This welcome screamed Mormon, so I nonchalantly asked…

“Are you with the neighborhood watch? Or did the church send you? Are you my home teachers? Where are my baked goods? Who turned me in? Was it my mom? It’s always the mothers. Though it could have been my grandma. Or maybe one of my brothers as a prank. Is this a prank? OH MY GOD, are you really here to sell me a vacuum?”

I was met with a moment of confused silence. My line of bombarding questions usually has that effect on people.

Once composure was regained—theirs not mine…OBVIOUSLY—they confessed to being from the “ward” and were just informed of my neighborhood arrival. I appreciate them making me sound like royalty, but in my world royalty should be awarded with baked goods. They already provided heart damage by scaring me, so they may as well obstruct my arteries with deliciously fatty food.

Is that really too much to ask?

I THINK NOT.

This week’s “That’s What She Said” talks about my love of J.D. Salinger, and also killing him.

For the past few weeks I have been kidnapping small children on Sunday afternoons.

Without school to occupy ever second of every day I have spare time. IT’S SO WEIRD! I can’t commit to a new hobby quite yet, so instead I decided to help my cousin out by taking her seven-year-old and nine-year-old daughters for afternoon adventures.

Two weeks ago we compared belly fat and shopped for tween clothes at Justice.

Last week we saw “New Moon.” Yeah, I know, but kids love vampire porn. I don’t understand it either.

Yesterday they asked to go to the planetarium. I was concerned about the side effects of acid trips in small children, but apparently the planetarium has more than just Pink Floyd laser shows. Who knew?

There was, however, a giant display of acid trip rocks and a well-stocked concession stand. It’s like Disneyland for stoners.

I can’t wait to go back. I just need to develop a Betty Ford size drug habit, a dealer and a really big purse.

I think by now you’re starting to understand the awesome/weird that is my nerds. They make me laugh, and occasionally scream.

You would scream, too, if this is what you found waiting for you every morning: