Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

A good night of rest is key to my survival, and mostly the survival of others. I get grumpy, FINE grumpier, when I’m tired.

I got shit for sleep last night, and that bitch I live with is to blame. My dog somehow found a way to open my lower kitchen cabinet without opposable thumbs. Here she found a giant Costco sized bag of dried cheese tortellini pasta, and proceeded to eat half the bag. When I got home at midnight I found the mess. Too tired to yell, I just cleaned up, let her out and went to bed.

Around 2:00 a.m. she woke me up and needed to be let out. In a zombie state I stumbled down the stairs and let her outside. She took care of business and I went back to bed.

Then again around 3:30 a.m. we made the same trip. And then again at 4:45 a.m.! Finally at 5:30 a.m. when she woke me up for the last time I lost it. I yelled at her, and then cried because I was simply exhausted, proving I should never, ever be a parent. Or a dog owner.

In fact, I decided I was a cat person. I can overlook my extreme allergy. Who cares if I can’t breathe and 90% of my body will be covered in hives? Not me. I want an animal trained to use a litter box.

Now I just have to go home and tell this cute face I’m breaking up with her. Luckily for her my follow through is total crap.

I got a few emails after my last post telling me what a crappy sister I am, which is funny because that’s not really mean. I’ve done worse things to my brothers. Far worse.

I’m an older sister, if I’m not going to make them tough, who will?

Ben had it easy, compared to my brother Jeff–who, by the way, totally deserved it 94% of the time. Well he probably didn’t deserve the bruises Matt and I left, but we were smart kids and knew what a pain in the ass he would end up being for us.

I was five when my parents brought Jeff home from the hospital, and Matt was four. The world as we knew it ended that warm July day. This new baby got all the attention. Suddenly my mom didn’t have time to listen to my tales of witches living inside my bedroom walls, or the extra time to make sure every single grain of Rice Krispies cereal in my bowl matched. Off-colored pieces were certainly going to be the death of me.

All her spare time was devoted to the care of this baby. This baby who did nothing but eat and shit, which was totally boring.

I convinced Matt that our parents would take Jeff back to the hospital if he were defective. I knew this because she did it with my favorite hula-hoop. Who cares if the pink sparkles rubbed off on the furniture—it just make the couch prettier.

Our plan was to make Jeff cry all the time. I heard my dad complain about crying babies once so I knew he hated it. Over the next three weeks Matt and I pinched Jeff every chance we got. He had bruises everywhere and howled constantly.

Sadly, the plan backfired when my parents spent more time with him than before. Trying to soothe a miserable baby is apparently quite time consuming. It also required taking him to the doctor more often to determine the cause of the bruising.

In the end my parents kept Jeff, and I spent the rest of our childhood finding other ways to torture him. Though now, I can’t help but wonder if my constant bruising is the universe’s way of telling me I was a shitty sister.

As a child I was absolutely terrified of drifters jumping off the train that ran through our small country town. I was convinced they would climb through my window and murder me in my sleep. I’m not entirely sure where this fear came from, either a babysitter let me watch scary movies, or my parents put LSD in my bedtime snacks. The jury is still out on that one.

After weeks of forcing myself to stay awake into the wee hours of the night, I finally came up with a solution: my baby brother Ben. Every night when it was time for bed I begged my mom to let Ben sleep in my room. She thought I was being nurturing and wanted to spend time with my baby brother. She was dead wrong. I was seven years old—I didn’t care about anything, but my own survival.

Once baby Ben fell asleep I scooted him over to the very edge of my bed, where he was closest to the window. I thought the sound of Ben being murdered first would wake me up, therefore giving me enough time to escape.

Now, occasionally when I hear the sounds of a train I’m thankful Ben was not murdered in cold blood on my bed. I still sleep with the same Care Bear pillowcase, and would really hate to have bloodstains on it. In addition, sometimes I like having him around–you know for fixing my car and hanging shelves.

The Yuppie invited me to an Easter party last night. (Un)fortunately I had plans and couldn’t attend. The party was a bunny hunt where the women were requested to dress like bunnies. I figured this is why he invited me; I am, after all, a Delta Rabbit. Then I got a second look at the invitation:

“Everyone, in the spirit of a good hunt please bring a single friend or friends… it is a hunt after all.”

Oh. My. God. He wasn’t inviting me because he wanted my company. He was inviting me to get rid of me! There’s something a tad disturbing when the man you used to date is trying to hook you up with other people. I’ve seen the episode of “Sex in the City” where Samantha takes the guy she’s trying to get rid of to a similar party, so I know what he’s up to. The Yuppie is so fired. If he wants back into my life he’s going to have to persuade me with a LOT of chocolate, cheese and wine.

Letting Daisy out this morning I was stopped by two sweet looking old lakes. Except they weren’t sweet, they were Jehovah’s Witnesses, which is damn near devil status. My dog is absolutely worthless. She barks when people she knows come into the house, but outside when approached by strangers she is completely well behaved. Bitch!

She walked up to them and waited to be pet, because she is a worthless traitor dog. It was too late, I couldn’t get away at this point. Daisy was sniffing their giant old lady purses hoping to find one full of bacon treats.

Devil Woman: “We’d like to invite you to a event we’re holding tonight in honor of Jesus.”

Me: “No thanks, I’m not a big fan of Jesus.”

DW: “That’s OK. Come tonight and I guarantee you you’ll leave with a better understanding of our Lord, Jesus.”

Me: “No really, Jesus and I broke up years ago when I prayed for a sister and got a brother instead. Me and Jesus are soooo over.”

Silence.

Me: “And then there was the time I prayed to Jesus for a pony. Instead I got a stupid kitten, that I was allergic to.”

DW: “Here’s the flier, we hope to see you tonight.”

As the women walked away I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of Jesus expects single women to give up Saturday nights. I like the Mormon Jesus better; he only asks you give him Sunday afternoons.