Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

My family is usually very tolerant of my crazy. I think it has something to do with earning double points in order to access heaven.

Please note that getting into heaven may be a tad more complex than a reward card system. I’m not current on all things Jesus, but I imagine there’s a bit more to Christianity than double point day.

Anyway.

My brother, Ben, is probably the most tolerant of my crazy, because he shares a similar quality. This is the kid who removed the front, passenger seat of his car so people wouldn’t get in his space. Um, yeah. We’re totally related.

Ben knows a lot about cars. He’s been fixing my countless car issues for years. And until now he’s been happy to help. My car, much like me, is getting older. It desperately needs replacing, which I plan to do in the spring. Until then, however, I worry about all the small noises coming from the engine area. Each time I hear a weird noise I call and leave Ben a voicemail. This frequently occurs right after I listen to Car Talk on NPR. The program is my crack, and my brother’s biggest pet peeve.

Last weekend they featured a girl who lost a pregnant Madagascar Hissing Cockroach in her family’s car. It’s true! You can listen to the clip here.

After hearing this, I was convinced my car had a pregnant Mormon cricket hiding under a seat. I called and left my brother a very detailed message. He didn’t return that call, or the next call about my broken steering wheel. He also didn’t return the call from the previous week about… actually, I don’t even remember, but whatever it was IT WAS BROKEN.

This is all very upsetting and I’m considering having his reward card revoked as punishment. If that doesn’t work I’m going to refuse to replace my car.

That’ll teach him.

“Sarah, I’m soooo going to mate you.”

“Um.. I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“With absolute fear would be the correct response.”

“Well that’s obvious.”

“You do realize I’m talking about chess, right?”

“No.”

“Eww.”

This conversation is exactly why nerds shouldn’t be allowed to talk to real people. I think I’m going to have to run for public office and enforce nerd/non-nerd segregation in the work place.

What a powerful statement, right? I WISH.

My underwear are cotton boy-shorts from Target and hold zero sex appeal. So while the statement may not be powerful or sexy, it’s still ALMOST true.

Friday night I stayed home and did my laundry. That’s what happens without the power of pretty panties; no one wants to date me. Instead I watched “Dollhouse” while wearing said underwear and my Vanilla Ice concert shirt.

During a commercial break I walked upstairs to grab something and noticed this:

Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that a house fire? I completely panicked.

I ran downstairs, grabbed Daisy and headed outside. Once we got out there I realized, um, it’s winter, cold as balls and I don’t have any pants on. I also noticed that nothing smelled like smoke. The air smelled warm and cuddly, kinda like the load of white shirts, socks and underwear in the dryer.

Oh.

Yeah.

That’s right… the dryer is vented outside. My house wasn’t burning down after all. Thank god, because I really wanted to watch the end of “Dollhouse.’

A few times a year I give up refined sugar and alcohol. It’s like a do-it-yourself trip to The Betty, only there’s no pool or celebrities to talk shit on.

Pretty much it’s the longest two weeks of my life. I’m thirsty, my memory sucks and I’m craving chocolate something mad.

Last night I was commiserating with my friend Brittany about my inability to remember anyone’s name.

Me: It’s so hard for me to keep track of people unless there’s a burrito or potato chips stapled to their shirt.

Brittany: Or they smell like wine.

Me: Or if they have a TV hooked to their chests playing porn. Those are the people I always remember.

I think I found a new career path: I should be a tutor for kids. It might be tricky to get parents on-board with the whole porn thing, but I’m convinced once they realize that children will remember the most tragic part of their childhood they will have no trouble committing.

I’m gonna be filthy rich. Get it? Filthy… porn.

Ahhh, forget it. I don’t need you to understand my puns. Once my business is a success I’ll buy new readers who do.

This week’s column for In Utah This Week. PLEASE Don’t tell my mom I’m homesick. Otherwise she’ll make me come home and clean my room, which I’ve successfully avoided since 1994.