Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

Published for Now Salt Lake on August 2nd 2011

Dear God,

I don’t keep in touch enough, sorry. It would be so much easier to keep up if you were on Twitter and Facebook. I’m excellent at staying in touch via electronic communication — prayers and letters, however, not so much. In my defense it would be much easier if you took a more active role in my life. Right now the only time I think about you is when I see one of your divine creations: a gorgeous sunset, a well-behaved pug or an especially sexy photo of Anderson Cooper. If we’re going to be close I need to think about you more, and you need to pay more attention to me. Aren’t you supposed to be watching over me and protecting me from harm? In the span of one month I’ve had quite a bit of bad luck; if you were truly paying attention to me the following wouldn’t have happened:

• My asshole puppy Rosie Finlinson has escaped 27 times, chewed two new bras, a picture frame and half of a coffee table.

• What started as a routine doctor appointment turned into an all day visit to the emergency room.

• The bill from above emergency room adventure.

• I can’t manage to keep my lawn green in spite of the summer rainstorms.

• I have a boyfriend who buys fireworks in Evanston, not wine.

• I almost rolled my Jeep.

• A backyard full of wasps.

• I heard two Mariah Carey songs in the elevator in one day.

• My best friend, Midge, is moving to North Dakota.

• Someone, ahem FSB(f), sat on my favorite pink aviator sunglasses.

• I’ve had 13 paper cuts, yes really. Maybe this one is on me. I guess I could buy a letter opener.

Every time I have something unfortunate happen my dad likes to point out that if I were closer to you I’d not have such life drama. Each time something unfortunate happens in my life my dad says, “Sarah, if you were closer to God your life would be much calmer.” I’ve always thought he was just being an overbearing, Mormon parent, but perhaps there’s some truth to his words. If you and I were besties would I have better luck? It’s time to test this theory, so here’s what needs to happen: I’m going to spend more time thinking about you, but in return you need to think about me. This means keeping me safe, healthy, drunk and happy. Together we can do this.

Love, Sarah

P.S. This letter is a result of a lazy Sunday afternoon and three glasses of wine. Please don’t take this as any indication that I will be attending church soon … unless, of course, you are willing to hold church at Brewvies or Red Butte Garden.

Last night I did what all sisters do at some point: I looked through my brother’s wallet to make sure he had pictures of me.

Luckily he did, but I don’t hold the prominent place in his wallet. The only person allowed to rank above me in the wallet is my mother.

The picture wasn’t my mother.

It was Jesus.

JESUS! IN MY BROTHER’S WALLET!

I’ve always said Mormon Jesus is way hotter than any other Jesus. He’s tan, fit and incredibly healthy looking. It’s like he’s been playing tennis doubles, not dying on a cross. Jesus is dreamy, but he’s still not allowed to be more beloved than I am.

NO WAY.

He already has all the Catholics… does he really need my baby brother, too? Jesus isn’t perfect; he’s selfish.

He thinks just because he died for my brother’s sins means he gets top billing. It’s not like I wouldn’t die for my brother. Sure, there’d have to be a parade and a giant prize at the end, but I’d still do it. This selfless act deserves some recognition, right? RIGHT. I’m waiting until Chady-bear is asleep tonight and I’m stealing Jesus. That dude is going down. I’ll show him.

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.