Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

“Sarah, I found the new love of my life.”

“Oh, you got a new pug?”

“No, it’s a Swiffer WetJet.”

“You’re in love with a mop?”

“Sarah it’s not JUST a mop. It’s a mop and broom combo.”

“What did you name her?”

“I didn’t.”

“Benjamin, if you don’t know the name of your true love, then it’s not love. That’s called a one-night stand. You’re having a one-night stand with a freaking mop.”

“I told you, it’s not JUST a mop. Why can’t you just support my choices?”

“Um, because you’re a weirdo.”

For the past few weeks I have been kidnapping small children on Sunday afternoons.

Without school to occupy ever second of every day I have spare time. IT’S SO WEIRD! I can’t commit to a new hobby quite yet, so instead I decided to help my cousin out by taking her seven-year-old and nine-year-old daughters for afternoon adventures.

Two weeks ago we compared belly fat and shopped for tween clothes at Justice.

Last week we saw “New Moon.” Yeah, I know, but kids love vampire porn. I don’t understand it either.

Yesterday they asked to go to the planetarium. I was concerned about the side effects of acid trips in small children, but apparently the planetarium has more than just Pink Floyd laser shows. Who knew?

There was, however, a giant display of acid trip rocks and a well-stocked concession stand. It’s like Disneyland for stoners.

I can’t wait to go back. I just need to develop a Betty Ford size drug habit, a dealer and a really big purse.

“Ben I have two questions. Did you know that 62% of bankruptcies in the U.S. are due to medical bills?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then you don’t even want to know how many of those people had private medical insurance. It’s totally screwed up. Also, do you think a raccoon could get through my dog door?”

“I have no idea. Why are you asking me? You have a raccoon expert on your speed dial.”

“I know, but Carl won’t answer the phone. What good is having an expert if you end up using Wikipedia as your source?”

“True.”

“I had a dream that a raccoon got through the dog door and Daisy wrote about it on Twitter while I was at work.”

“Sarah, I’d be more concerned your dog was using Twitter. Shut off her phone service, and your problem is solved.”

“No, it’s not! There’s still a fucking raccoon in the house killing my dog. I just won’t know about it.”

“Maybe Daisy will leave a note.”

“Ben, that’s ridiculous. If I find a note and a dead dog how will I know she left the note, and the raccoon didn’t coerce her into writing it? The raccoon could easily get away with murder by making me think it was a suicide.”

“I’ll tell you what… if Daisy dies a violent death we’ll do a thorough investigation into her death.”

“OK, cool. Thanks Ben. I’ll talk to you later.”

I had dinner last night with my mom and aunt to celebrate my mom’s birthday. I love my family, but have decided never, EVER to eat with them in public again.

My mom is a nurse, so at least 90% of our conversations disgust me. I don’t need to know about someone’s post pregnancy blood clot over a Cobb salad. She’s forever trying to ruin good food with her gross-out stories. It’s like freaking “Fear Factor” for my mouth.

Fettuccini Alfredo is forever ruined my talk of a colonoscopy.

Egg salad and Salmonella talk don’t mix.

The smell of a Club sandwich will forever remind me of butt boils.

Bran muffins remind me of chopped off fingers.

The list is so long I’m considering developing the “Dinners with Kathy” diet plan and selling it for millions. Of course I’ll give my mom a sizeable cut of the action. The remainder of the money will be used for therapy. I’m gonna need it.

My baby brother stopped by to show me how to start the lawnmower (MUCH more on that later this week). After performing his brotherly duties he walked into my house and announced he needed to use the bathroom.

“Chady don’t you dare poop in my house.”

“I am. Get over it.”

“NOOOO! Poop in the garage bathroom. I don’t want boy poop in my house.”

He headed to the upstairs bathroom and closed the door. I immediately called my mother.

“Mom, Chady is pooping in the house. Please make him stop.”

“Honey, is he pooping in the bathroom?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Oh good. At least he’s pooping in the bathroom, right?”

The conversation sort of ended there. I mean what do you say to that? Leave it to my mom to make me grateful that my brother poops in a toilet.

My friend Ryan and I were at dinner last week when I did the unthinkable: I invited him to spend the evening with my mother and brother. I was smart about it though, and made him eat a hamburger first. Protein makes you stronger and increases your chances of survival.

I’ve known Ryan for a few years, but this was the first time he’s ever met my family. He’s a good guy and I know multiple Nielsons can be intimidating. I absolutely adore my family. I really do, but we are bat shit crazy.

After an hour of NORMAL FAMILY CONVERSATION Ryan looked at Ben and I and then told my mom she was so patient. Like piranhas my brother and I immediately attacked him.

“What do you mean patient? Are you saying we are difficult to handle?”

“Oh my God, did you just infer that our Mother doesn’t love us?”

“Did you just call my sister horrible?”

“Did you just call us miserable human beings that should be locked up and never released?”

Ryan said nothing. It was all he could do from rocking himself from the corner straight into a mental institution. We have that effect on people.

He was very polite about the evening, but I think hearing about my Mom’s beard fetish left him a little skittish. I can’t imagine why.