Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

April Fool’s Day is the weirdest day. A day where we are encouraged to lie to one another? Um, no thanks. I already have that in my life.

It’s called dating.

Isn’t that enough of a joke? Apparently not enough for everyone, so the tradition continues. As does my confusion.

Every year I wait for a press conference where someone of authority stands up and announces–with jazz hands–what items of interest were an April Fool’s Day joke all along.

Ahem, Sarah Palin

Harem pants

Decaf coffee

Heidi Montag’s career

Low-fat ice cream

The pursuit of happiness

“American Idol”

MSN Bing

Mazda Miatas

These have to be jokes. I mean who really thinks happiness and Heidi Montag’s career are real. No one is that gullible, right?

The best Valentine’s Day gift I ever received was a porn coffee table book from my then boyfriend. The book had an excellent essay by Lou Reed, and as a bonus made my little brother, who lived with me at the time, VERY uncomfortable.

It was a win/win gift.

Yesterday the second best present made its way to my doorstep:

My hula dancing niece made me a Valentine, which in itself is adorable. Throw in the fact she wants me to have a God day, well that’s just bonus awesome.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided it would be a good idea to make a needlepoint as a gift for a friend. I should know better.

So far, so good:

At this point I decided I was a master at this shit:

How quickly the conceited fall:

The lesson here? Always buy gifts. Homemade is crap.

If you insist on DIY gifts, buy a pattern and don’t make it up as you go. Otherwise you end up with a funky looking ‘c’ and framed swear words.

I can’t fit into my jeans, but other than that today was a complete success. I was in charge of the potatoes again, thank God because there’s something freaky about fisting a dead bird. I love eating the stuffing, but not enough to stick my hand up there. No way.

The highlights of the day included AK looking up the bird’s ass, and Mrs. AK’s pornographic cranberries.

It was a damn good day, well maybe not for Arnold the Turkey, but the rest of us sure enjoyed it. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

I think I accidentally celebrated Halloween. I had every intention of ignoring the stupid holiday and going about my regular business.

Regular business: drinking wine out of a coffee cup. Shut up. It’s not trashy because it’s a super nice coffee cup… leather and everything. See, it’s totally classy.

Rather than stay home and pass out candy to kids I don’t know, I made plans with my friend Susan to get dinner and see a movie. I see you shaking your head in disgust, which if you really think about it, you should be thanking me for saving your kids from diabetes. YOU’RE WELCOME!

Now that I’ve saved your children I can get back to the point of this post: accidental Halloween costume.

When Susan picked me up she was wearing exactly the same thing I was. This isn’t the first time we’ve ended up in similar clothes. However, this time it looked way less douchey because we could claim that we were dressed up like twins. I’m sure no one believed us, but at least we looked better than the weird girl in the restaurant dressed up like a cave woman.

The decent into hell has officially begun. Halloween is on Saturday, yet I’ve already encountered my first Trick-or-Treater.

Imagine my surprise when a teenager–dressed up as a ghost–shows up at my door begging for candy. I gave him a dollar to get the hell off my porch. Did he really think if I had candy I was going to share? Pff.

Yeah, yeah… I’m a spoilsport. I’ve already written about why I hate Halloween, so I’ll spare you a repeat rant. Instead I’ll offer up a bit of advice.

1) Teach your teens how to use a calendar.

2) Halloween has a way of bringing out the whore in women. If you want to dress like a prostitute you don’t need a holiday. Just change jobs, or go dancing in Ogden on a Saturday night.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to move my extreme Monday bitchiness offline and to the college campus. You’re welcome.

P.S. HA! I’m not the only one who doesn’t understand the slut level of Halloween. Maybe it’s because we are both country kids and miss the good old days where Trick-or-Treaters were adorable neighbor kids dressed in cute hand-sewn costumes that resembled baby farm animals.