Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

I’m sure you’re as sick of hearing about my move as I am planning for it.

Well, TOO DAMN BAD.

This moves has consumed my life… and my mothers, WHO IS A FREAKING SAINT! Knowing her daughter freaks out over the slightest bit of change she drove two hours just to help me finish packing.

When I realized I didn’t have any newspaper or bubble wrap to pack the Pyrex I ran to the closest IN Utah This Week stand and stole a few papers. I write for them so it’s OK to steal.

Though, in hindsight, I probably should have grabbed a different newspaper. This week’s issue was the adult issue, so now my sweet, Mormon mother thinks I write for a trashy, porn magazine. Awesome. I cannot wait to hear how she spins this for the family newsletter.

Saturday morning I was rushing to leave the house to pick Kelli up for brunch. In my haste I knocked a mug off the counter and it shattered.

MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE MUG!

The mug my mother gave me when I graduated high school and moved away. I’ve used it almost every single day since.

I picked up the pieces and gently placed them back on the counter where they sat for two days. Partly because I’m lazy, and partly because I’m sentimental as shit when it comes to anything my mom give me… with the exclusion of guilt trips.

Tonight I realized there was no way to fix the mug, so I sucked it up and threw it away. I felt sick afterward. SICK over a silly, little coffee cup.

The point? I’m not freaking dead inside after all. But I am really damn thirsty.

“Your brother read me the blog about the dead cat, and then he buried it for a second time.”

“MOM! I don’t want to know this.”

“Fine, I won’t talk about it, but just know that it’s not on the front lawn anymore. Also, honey, don’t write about this on your blog tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want people thinking we are weird.”

“Mom, I think it’s a little late for that. We are weird. And adorable, so it’s OK.”

“Sarah, I think there’s a dead cat in the front yard.”

“Gross, Mom, why did you call to tell me this?”

“Because I just saw it.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to hear about it! Besides, I’m two hours away from you. I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

“I think maybe the dog did it, but I’m not positive.”

“Is there hard evidence it was the dog?”

“No, so it could have been the neighbor’s dog.”

“Mom, this is starting to sound like a country Clue board game and is sort of freaking me out.”

I still don’t understand the need for a dead cat phone call, but I’m grateful for every phone conversation I have with my mom.

I absolutely adore her.

So much that I would drive the two hours to her house just to clean up an animal carcass from her lawn. Actually I’d take it a step further: I love my mom enough that I’d call one of my brothers and have them take care of it. True love means loving my mom enough to not emotionally scar her only daughter.

“Sarah, are you coming down here for the 4th of July?”

“I will try, but I’m super stressed out and can’t think straight so I may end up in the wrong small town.”

“Bring your brother. Between the two of you perhaps you can make one functioning person.”

My little apartment has a balcony that I rarely use. I don’t grill food or own patio furniture. The area sits empty except for a stray dog bone and a formerly empty cheap, plastic planter. I grew weeds in the planter all by myself. I’m basically a gardener at this point.

I was on the phone with a friend when I saw the weeds and in my excitement said, “I grew my own weed.” My friend was silent for a moment and then asked, “I didn’t know you smoked weed, and aren’t you worried about getting arrested?”

The gardening excitement faded as I realized the misunderstanding. I quickly corrected the mistake and assured her that I don’t smoke weed and that my incredibly skilled green thumb was not going to be carted off to jail. Thank god, because I think she was about to ask if she could have custody of my shoes while I served time.

The mix-up was extra comical to me because my mom once requested that I buy her pot for Christmas. She meant a kitchen pot, but having your Mormon mother ask you for pot is one of those memories I’ll always cherish.

Mom, if you’re reading, this weed’s for you: