Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

My brother and I went to see Body Worlds 3 at The Leonardo last Sunday.  If I was going to look at dead bodies of course I was going to drag Ben along with me.  Nothing says family bonding like skinless bodies, right?  That last sentence was far creepier than anything in the exhibit, except maybe the guy behind me in line that kept brushing up against me inappropriately.  I’d like to have him skinned and tossed into the exhibit, but I wasn’t entirely sure how to go about that.  OK, I’m creeping myself out here.  Just go read the damn column.

Being the good friend that she is Kelli thinks she has found a solution for my financial woes.  She has decided I should move to San Diego, go to school there on student loans, and commit to teaching school long enough for the government to pay off the loans.  Not a bad idea, but I think she just wants a scooter buddy.  Which is completely selfish given the fact I’m not near ready for year round swimsuit season.

Since RLO is my closest girlfriend these days, I discussed the idea with him.

“Sarah, you realize kids are shits, right?”

“All people are shits.  I think age is irrelevant. You know this would all be so much easier if you’d a) be my sugar daddy, or b) let me sell your flower to the Internet.”

“Well you’re getting closer to being a born-again virgin. You can sell your own flower.”

“RLO, I think yours would yield a higher profit than a slightly used flower.”

“I just looked born-again virgin up and Urban Dictionary says 6 months. You are good to go. And I think your flower is in higher demand than mine.”

“I’ll sell both flowers and of course take all the profit, but at least you’ll be left with a satisfied wiener.”

He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t veto the idea, which is pretty much a green light.  It wasn’t until later, I realized it was odd RLO knew the exact timing of my last sexual escapade.  Needless to say, I’m going to find that hidden camera tonight and I’m going to give him a show to remember.

Last night I popped RLO’s cherry.  No, not that cherry, you perverts!  RLO has lived in Utah for years and not once has he been to the Training Table Restaurant,  which to me is a far worse sin than any word of wisdom infractions.

I’ve always loved Training Table. Years ago, when Tim was still alive we’d all go there for lunch. AK and I quoting the old school television commercials, while Tim just shook his head embarrassed to be seen with us. After Tim died, it took a while before any of us went back, but eventually we did.

We had to assemble a new lunch group.  We added JB and PMK to the mix, which I realized was a huge mistake when AK and JB fought over the proper way to mix the dipping sauce.  Who knew a fork and/or butter knife could cause such a controversy among nerds.

I was thrilled when RLO mixed the dipping sauce with a fork and didn’t feel the need to discuss his method.  RLO was just thrilled with the food.  So much, in fact, I had to photo shop the above picture to remove his hard nipples.  Internet, you owe me.

For the past week I’ve had a headache I just can’t get rid of.  Saturday night when it reached the point of nausea I called my mom, the nurse, for advice.

“Honey, it sounds like a tension headache.  Do you have someone who can massage your neck?”

“Yeah, let me ask Daisy if she has some free time.”

“Sarah, I meant a date.”

“I’m not in the habit of calling men over to rub my neck while I barf in their lap.”

“Well, do you have a vibrator you can put on your neck?”

“Are you seriously suggesting I put a sex toy on my neck?”

“Sarah, some people have vibrators specifically for muscle aches.”

“Mom those are called massagers.  We’ve been over this before.  Please, stop calling them vibrators.”

“Fine.  Do you have a massager?”

“No, but I have a vibrator I could substitute.”

I was outside, yesterday afternoon, letting Daisy out when I noticed something black hanging in the tree outside of my house.  I moved in for a closer work and found something I didn’t expect to see… my panties.

I have no idea how this could have happened. I’d like to think crazy drunken debauchery is to blame for the wild pantie tossing, but I have a feeling laundry day is to blame.  There is a coin operated washer and dryer in the basement of the house I live in.  I have to go outside and around back to use them, which can easily explain the panties being dropped outside.  The tree part, however, I’m still having trouble explaining.

I carefully picked the panties out of the tree and took them back upstairs.  I won’t be harvesting them into jam or pies.  The lace is as hard to pick out of your teeth as strawberry seeds.