Tales of Wit and Charm…

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.

My brother, Matt, called me yesterday. He rarely calls me, typically his wife is the one who calls. Despite being out to dinner with my other brother, Ben, I took the call thinking it may be an emergency.

Matt: “Thought I better call and inform you that your nephew is now a NASCAR fan, and he really wants to go deer hunting.”

Me: “That kid is fired! I need a replacement nephew. I liked it much better when Carter liked Dancing with the Stars. Seriously, you and Holli better get knocked up ASAP and give me a different nephew. Or else.”

Matt laughed, but little does he know I am not kidding. NASCAR? Unacceptable. I’m not too worried about the deer hunting bit. Carter is such a sweet, sensitive little tyke there’s no way he’ll grow up and kill animals. He’s terrified of my dog, and she’s tiny. It would be difficult for him to get close enough to an animal to kill. But this NASCAR thing, is very serious. I HATE IT! His obsession with cars is understandable, he’s a boy kid. However, I think the love of cars needs to stop at his race car bed.

Also, spending time with his uncle Ben needs to be limited, and with adult supervision. Otherwise Carter will grow up with a mullet and drink beer in cans. I can’t think of anything worse.

If your driver license has expired and you’ve been too busy to renew it, bar hopping is a bad idea.

Carpet burns are better on your elbows then face.

Broken toes hurt.

Men from Holland bounce their heads way too much.

When you talk shit on someone and then make your girlfriend stick up for you, you are the one who should be kicked in the baby. Even if you are my brother.

Lemonade and Southern Comfort doesn’t make me barf.

Sarah: “Are you avoiding my calls because you don’t want to hear me lecture you in the importance of voting today?”

Ben: “No. I already listened to your messages.”

Sarah: “Good. Go vote. Also, you should know I emailed your girlfriend today and broke up with her.”

Ben: “What?! Why?”

Sarah: “Her Obama shirt… I told her she had a vagina and should use it to vote.”

Ben: “Oh man…”

Sarah: “Don’t be mad. She’s the one that said she was torn between Hillary and Obama. She had to either vote for her vagina, or vote for her ‘brown’ vagina.”

Ben: “SARAH!! I really didn’t need to hear that the girl I’m dating and my sister are discussing vagina together. I’m never letting you meet anyone again. I mean it.”