Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

My baby brother, Chady-bear, is currently serving an LDS mission in Japan. When he decided to go on a mission my first thought was that he would try and force Mormonism onto me. My second thought was who the hell would wash and vacuum my car once he left?

My car is filthy, and luckily so is my soul. I haven’t received any preachy letters with scripture quotes and guilt trips. Instead he tells me stories about his experiences in Japan, which I find far more interesting than gospel stories.

He’s due home this summer. And just when I started getting excited to have my baby brother back he had to go and do the unthinkable. His last letter had a religious themed message to it, well not so much the letter as the enclosed picture.

In this case, a pictures really isn’t worth a thousand words–just one word, and a bossy one at that:

When he gets home I’m going to have to sit him down to discuss his poor choice of facial hair, just as soon as my car is clean.

Not everyone is well versed in the Mormon faith. I grew up in a Mormon family, and I’ve discovered there’s a multitude of doctrine and church history I don’t even know.

I assume that has something to do with me ditching church to go skinny dipping in the river with boys.

One of the things I do know is that I’m not allowed into the Mormon Temples. It’s a sacred place for active members. I have no idea what goes on in there, but I’m guessing it’s something religious and not just a bunch of people in white watching the newest episode of “Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels.”

When I found out I could take a tour of the newest temple before they dedicate it I wanted to go. And who better to take me than my Jesus-loving BFF RLO.

“RLO, are you busy Friday night?”

“I am. What’s happening?”

“DAMMIT. I want to go to the temple.”

“Ha!”

“Don’t laugh. I’m serious RLO.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever written ‘dammit I want to go to the temple’ before.”

“What did you want to go for?”

“I really, really, REALLY want to go. And think about it, when else am I ever going to get into a Mormon temple?”

“Oh, so you want to see the Draper temple before it’s dedicated. I’m sorry, but I can’t on Friday.”

“So it’s your fault I can’t go to the temple. That’s just mean.”

I begged RLO to change his plans and take me to the temple, but it didn’t happen. RLO doesn’t love me enough to take me to the temple. I’ve made a point to say that very loudly to him each time we are in public. I’ll shame that jerk into taking me to the temple eventually. I don’t know why he won’t agree, I already promised him I would behave and not take a flask.

I hate grocery shopping. It’s not so bad when I’m only there to fetch vanilla soy milk and cold cereal, but when I’m forced to find out of the ordinary items and can’t, I lose all patience.  It doesn’t help that I don’t like asking strangers for help.  Thankfully, though, I have RLO on speed dial.

“RLO, I’m at Albertsons. Where is the molasses?”

“Next to the maple syrup.”

“Um, RLO where is the maple syrup?”

I think it would be far less work for him to just do all grocery shopping for me.  Wouldn’t you agree?  He’d argue that he’s far too busy for such tasks.  But since I’m such a charitable person when he’s pressed for time I’ll allow him to take a date along.  I’ll try and remember to leave tampons off the list.

As a kid I remember my mom having the most beautiful suitcase in the entire world. I never understood why she kept it in her closet and didn’t use it every single day. As I got older I learned it was her temple bag, and therefore only used when she went to the temple.

After years of coveting the suitcase, she finally parted ways with it and gave it to me last Sunday. It’s 70-licious and I can’t wait to use it! It will make an excellent booty-call bag. It’s the perfect size for a toothbrush, nightie and bottle of vodka.

As I walked to my car to put my new treasure in the trunk, I was planning all the extracurricular activities I could use it for when my mom yelled after me, “Have fun at the temple!”

So that’s where I get my sarcasm—I’ve often wondered.

Last night was BFF night at the AK household. After dinner Rlo and I put Little AK to bed. When the story was finished Rlo went back downstairs. I continued to lie next her for a few more minutes.

While rubbing my back Little AK asked, “Sarah, will you come back and play tomorrow?” “I don’t know sweetie. Keep rubbing my back while I decide.” She continued to rub and asked, “Can Rlo come too? It’s Fathers Day tomorrow… is Rlo a father?” “No, Rlo is our BFF, but he’s not a daddy,” I replied. I could see the confusion in her little eyes when she said, “But Sarah, you always say that Rlo has a Baby Jesus.”

I stifled a giggle and tried to answer her as best I could, “Rlo does have a Baby Jesus, but he’s not a real person.” She looked even more confused than before, and knowing that I’ve done enough damage with the Jesus factor lately, so I wasn’t about to try and clarify. “Honey, I’m going to give you a big hug and kiss, and then go get Rlo so he explain.”

And that’s exactly what I did. Rlo cleans up all my other life messes; why not let him take on this one?

My parents are Mormon and don’t drink alcohol. I am not, and do. Usually this really doesn’t affect our relationship, beyond the occasional you’re going to hell lecture. I love my parents, I really do. I just don’t love their chosen religion. I love a good Shiraz way more than I love Baby Jesus. That being said…

Last night Ben and I were driving to meet our parents for dinner.

Me: “I had a long day and since I can’t go home and drink wine on my couch I’m ordering it with dinner. Consider yourself warned.”

Ben: “WHAT?? You can’t do that. Mom and Dad will freak out.”

Me: “Too bad. I specifically choose Red Butte Café so I could order a glass. Having one glass of wine may cast me into outer darkness, but the world will not end.”

Ben: “ I’m not letting you drag me into this. I will take you to the bar afterwards and get you as drunk as you want, just please do not order wine with dinner. Please?”

Me: “Fine. If it’s that important to you I won’t. But I’m ordering a dietfuckingcoke then.”

Ben: “How old are you?”

Me: “12.”

Ben: “OK, I can live with that. You’ll get a dirty look from mom, but there won’t be any yelling.”

Me: “I think saying fuck is a lot more offensive to her than ordering wine. I’m willing to bet you one bar tab on it. We’ll ask her when Dad goes to pay for dinner.”

We did and she was horrified that Ben even asked her. “You know how much I hate that word, Benjamin,” she hissed at him. And for once I came out looking like the good kid!  The good kid that’s getting shit-faced on Ben’s tab all weekend long.