Tales of Wit and Charm…

The minute I get home I shed my pants. I’m not alone in this; you guys do too, right? If not, now is the time to lie.

Last night, after an especially shitty day, I went home, ditched the pants and poured myself a glass of wine. So you’ll understand how annoyed I was when someone knocked on my door. For a brief second I considered answering the door pants free. It wasn’t like I was naked, just in boy short undies. I looked down, saw my chunky thighs and opted for the Old Navy pajama pants on my floor.

I open the door and much to my dismay found a pimple-faced teenage girl, who had knocked on the wrong door. Without thinking I said, “Do you realize I put pants on for you?” She was speechless. And can you blame her? What do you say to some crazy, half-drunk woman bitching about pants? Nothing. You blush, remain silent and fear for your life.

I wish the story ended there, but it doesn’t.

Before retiring for the night I let Daisy out one last time. As I was standing there waiting for her to pee I did the unthinkable: I reached down the back of my pants and started scratching my ass. Thinking I was alone I muttered under my breath, “Yeahhh, that’s the spot.” I heard someone behind me and with my hand still down my pants, I turned to find the same teenage girl.

Mortified, I grabbed Daisy and retreated upstairs. I immediately grabbed all the different kinds of lotion I could find, and slathered my entire body with a concoction of all five in hopes to prevent any further embarrassing public displays of scratching.

I’m second-guessing my decision to move in with my brother Ben. I called him last night to go over some small details and was very displeased with the results.

“Hey, Ben, can my shoes live in your bedroom since it’s bigger and there are so many of them?”

“No.”

“OK, well can I paint the bathrooms pink?”

“No.”

“Even though it’s my favorite color?”

“No.”

“Can I put Daisy’s name on the mailbox? As you know she’s way more human than dog.”

“No.”

I just don’t feel like he’s being supportive of my needs as a shoe whore/pink obsessed/crazy dog lady.

I was on my way to pick up my brother, Ben, and his girlfriend for the Ben Folds/Ben Lee concert when he called me.

Ben: “Hey, Sarah, quick question for you.  Do my hips swivel when I walk?”

Sarah: “Yup.  It’s like some crazy hip phenomenon.  I’m sure that’s why you’re always complaining about hip pain.”

Ben: “Hmm… no matter what, when my girlfriend asks you say no.”

His girlfriend didn’t ask, and I really don’t want to know why they were discussing my brother’s hips, just like he really didn’t want to read about my vibrator on the Internet.

For the past four years I’ve lived in a cute little apartment in the down town area. As much as I’ve loved having a bedroom loft it’s time to let go. I’ve decided to move in with my brother, Ben, in an effort to save some money. I want to buy my own place soon, and I can’t do that without first saving some money.

I should have bought years ago, but in the back of my mind I always assumed I’d get married and we’d buy a house together. I’m now disgusted with myself for waiting. I am independent enough I can do this alone. I hope…

Ben and I lived together a few years ago and the entertainment value was priceless. If you do a quick search for “Ben” on this site, you’ll see why. The kid has a strange fixation with banjos–read here and here. Living alone has been a tad lonely lately, and truthfully I’m excited to have someone human around to talk to–especially since Ben is so weird and always makes me laugh. Read here and here if you don’t believe me.

Ben made me promise I wouldn’t try and run his life, or call him Benjaminoballbaby in front of his friends. I happily agreed because calling him Ben-jina in public is much funnier. For being a straight guy, he sure hates hearing the word vagina.

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.

I’m sick, and it’s all Ben’s fault. I’ve not had a cold or flu all winter. With the small exception of food poisoning inflicted by Arlo, I’ve been completely healthy.

Like a good sister I picked Ben up from the airport Sunday and gave him a ride home. He coughed the entire time and spewed his disgusting boy germs all over my car.

I started feeling gross yesterday, and then woke up this morning with a fever and coughing so hard I puked. Awesome. It was obvious I was Instacare bound. Ben called to see which one I was going to so we could meet there. The jerk is still sick. I told him where to go, but he never showed. Is he OK? Who cares. Part of me was hoping he had overdosed on NyQuil. Not because I don’t love him, but because he totally deserves it.

After waiting an hour in the lobby, my name was finally called–music to my insanely clogged ears. Another wait in the room and finally a doctor arrives. And by doctor I mean Doogie Fucking Howser, MD. Young doctors before have seen me but this was ridiculous—he looked like he was in high school.

“Bad news, Sarah. Looks like you don’t have strep throat.”

“Um, why would that be bad news? I didn’t really want it.”

“Strep we could have treated. This particular funk you’ve got can’t be treated. I can, however, give you a prescription of codeine pills to ease the pain a bit.”

“Pills? Can’t I just get some cough syrup? I think with my throat this swollen I won’t be able to swallow pills.”

“Unfortunately there’s a shortage on codeine syrup, so pills will have to do. Try crushing them in ice cream.”

“Ohhhh, is that what your mom does, too?”

He glared at me. I’m guessing he gets wisecracks about his age all the time. Quite honestly, I was just excited at the prospect of ice cream. I swore off ice cream a few months ago and was very much looking forward to having a reason to buy some.

“Go home, load up and get as much sleep as possible. You should feel better in a few days.”

Maybe having a young doctor isn’t all that bad. Loading up sounds just like what I need. And who am I to defy a doctor’s orders? Exactly.