Tales of Wit and Charm…

Dear Carter and Hannah,

Happy fourth birthday! The last four years have flown by–you’re growing up too fast. I wish you didn’t live in Utah County, so I could see you more. Twice a month isn’t nearly enough. I feel badly that the only time I see you are when your parents are gone. Remember I’m there because I want to be.

Carter, I’m so happy I didn’t throw you out the window the first time I babysat you. Trust me, I was tempted. You cried so much, more than any baby ever, but my friend Alecia was with me and she talked me out of doing it. You owe Leash your life.

I love you Buddy. More than I ever imagined I could love a small child who likes to play big trucks and wear animals on his clothing. You’ll always be my buddy.

Hannah, you’re everything a little girl should be: cute, pink-loving and spunky. You never stop making me laugh, especially when you attempt to have an adult conversation with me. You use vocabulary just slightly beyond your comprehension, much like your Uncle Ben.

I love you Hannah Gatanna more than the color pink. And you, of all people, will understand that’s a hell of a lot.

I have a Starbucks gift card for both of you in my purse. I couldn’t bother giving it to you on your birthday because Grandma Myrna might have been angry. And I don’t want to anger her. She calls pregnant people fat, so can you imagine what she would do to me if provoked. I’m sure you understand.

I love you two more every single day. You’ve brought our family together in a way that I never expected. I would do anything in the world for you, and would do whatever it took to protect you. You’re the closest things to true love I’ve ever known. Thank you for letting me be your Auntie.

Love, Aunt Sarah

I received a letter in the mail yesterday from the Utah Department of Health. This shouldn’t be a huge deal, but with my imagination and anxiety it was.

I walked into the house and sat on my couch just staring at the ominous white envelope, imagining the very worst. I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Once that letter was open whatever bad news it had to offer would be real.

Was this about the flu shot I stole last year? Some co-workers and I went to the offices next to ours and pretended to be employees, when they were offering flu shots free. I talked myself out of thinking it was wrong when my very Mormon friend, Kirk, didn’t seem bothered by it. If there was a place in Mormon heaven for him, then surely I wasn’t going to end up in hell over this one little thing.

There was that sketchy boyfriend with all the tattoos from my early 20s. With that much body art it’s entirely possible he contracted some fatal disease from a tainted needle. I haven’t heard from him in years—he could be dead for all I knew. At this point I felt numb all over.

Numb extremities are never a good sign. After a quick online consult with WebMD I decided I was dying. Diabetes was the number one search result. My father is a diabetic, and somehow the health department was able to diagnose me before any doctor had. I jumped up and ran into the kitchen. I was bound and determined to eat every last drop of sugar in my apartment before finding out I was indeed a diabetic, and that I was forever banned from sugar.

One zillion calories later I knew it had to be done. Whatever was inside that envelope was something I could deal with. Something I had to deal with. I was ready.

I opened the envelope and found a copy of my birth certificate. That’s riiii-ght, I ordered it online last weekend when I couldn’t find the original.

Now, I have a birth certificate, enough calories to double the size of my ass, and lastly an understanding that while the health department can’t diagnose your insanity, they can certainly be the cause of it.

I drove to the country for the day to help celebrate my grandpa’s 80th birthday. Of course, I had to drive by my old stomping grounds. I saw this and couldn’t help but laugh. I wonder how much the prom dates are being sold for. I’d love to get Arlo one for his birthday.

Valentine’s Day dinner looked beautiful on the plate, however, later that night it didn’t look so pretty coming back up. It’s interesting that no one else got sick from the meal. And by “interesting” I mean ARLO IS TRYING TO KILL ME!

He’s got plenty of justifiable reasons to want me dead. In fact, the whole thing is rather ironic. Just yesterday, some friends and I were talking about how much grief I give Arlo. We agreed that if he did indeed kill me, no jury in the world would convict him. I’d like to think the reason he attempted to poison me wasn’t necessarily due to the fact I force him to watch bad reality TV with me, or the fact I tease him mercilessly, but because I burned the one portion of the dinner I was in charge of:

1) Sleeping in ten extra minutes, because there is no need to shave my legs.

2) My panties and bra don’t have to match.

3) I have a reason to listen to the Eels “Love of the Loveless” over, and over all day long.

4) The only flowers in my house are ones I’ve purchased myself, so there will be no sneezing due to allergies this year.

5) I don’t have to wear perfume, unless I want to.

6) No one is going to drag me to a steak house thinking I’ll be impressed, and then remember ten minutes into the meal I don’t eat steak.

7) The only gifts purchased for the holiday are those for myself.

I don’t have to try and have dainty girl eating habits at dinner tonight. I can pig out on Valentine’s Day candy and no one will care.

10) And best of all, I get to spend the evening with friends watching “Rock of Love” on Tivo. Though, if Arlo meets someone and falls in love within the next eight hours my evening is ruined.

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

Over the years I’ve watched many friends get breast augmentation and breast reduction surgeries. Friends that didn’t need any work done in the first place were having their breasts done just because everyone else was.

I’ve always been less than confident with the size of my breasts. Having small breasts in a world where bigger is always better can be a struggle at times. I go back and forth on the idea of having surgery, but in the end always opting to remain silicone free.

I’ve always had small breasts. Always. I was teased throughout junior high school and high school because of the small size. On a daily basis, I heard that I was a carpenters dream– flat as a board and never been nailed. Every single variation of the phrase and many others has been engrained in my head forever.

As a teenager, I tried everything to increase bust size, from bust increasing exercises to spreading an opened can of green beans on my bare chest. Yes, really. I overheard two girls in the junior high school locker room discussing how that had helped fill their bras out. I had nothing to lose, so I tried it. It did, however, screw up my mother’s dinner plans when she noticed a key ingredient to her casserole was missing. I lied and told her one of my brothers had eaten them. To this day she thinks my brother Ben loves green beans.

I survived those formative years and somehow managed to come out relatively unscathed. So what if my breasts aren’t a double d cup. Isn’t there some truth to the saying, “more than a handful is a waste?”

And as per usual just when I start feel good about myself things have a way of going awry.

I found myself dating a breast man–One who enjoyed women who have more to offer in that department than I do… a lot more. Over the following year subtle hints were dropped that made me consider having a breast augmentation surgery. I tossed the idea around for months before mentioning it to him. Needless to say, he was ecstatic. He even offered to pay for half. Which, still to this day, seems odd; I don’t feel comfortable with someone else owning one of my breasts. After researching the technique and choices for implants I chickened out. I think part of it was that I realized I would be having the surgery for him, not me. And I’ve never been the type of girl who makes life changes for someone else. Especially a man I’m dating.

If someone doesn’t love my body the way it is, they shouldn’t be dating me. Later when we ended our relationship I was very happy I didn’t have the surgery.

At the end of the day, it’s about being comfortable with the skin you’re in. And though, I’m not always comfortable with my body, I’m getting there. One padded bra at a time.