Tales of Wit and Charm…

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.

My brother was out of town yesterday so I picked up his four-year-old twins from daycare.  I knew it was going to be a good night when I walked in and Hannah started jumping up and down and told her teacher, “That’s my aunt Sarah, she’s a total rockstar.”

As per usual, the ride home consisted of Jesus talk.  These kids are just as obsessed with him as I am.  So much for the Jesus talk dying  (Puntastic, no?) down after Easter.

“Aunt Sarah, we have to take a different road home.”

“Why, buddy?”

“Because Jesus brought a big, yellow pipe and left it on our street.”

“Um… why would Jesus leave a pipe in your street?”

“Aunt Sarah, the road is broken.  Some big tractors came and dug it up, and then Jesus left a big, yellow pipe to fix it with.”

“Did this Jesus guy have a hard hat on?”

“Yes.”

“Buddy, I’m pretty sure that was a construction worker, not Jesus.”

“NOOO, it was Jesus… I just know it.”

“Seriously, buddy, I know for a fact Jesus is not a construction worker.  Grandma told me he was a carpenter.”

Silence.  Oh heavenly silence.

And then… in an amazed tone he asks, “Grandma knows Jesus?!”

Fuck.

I wanted to tell him that his grandma is obsessed with Jesus.  And not in the fun/blasphemous way I am, but in the “Jesus is the Savior” kind of way.  I’ll let him figure that one out on his own.

Summer is here.  Which means I finally have an excuse to strip down the minute I walk into my apartment.  It’s hot as hell in my little princess pad.  Last night my bedroom was 95 degrees, and nothing justifies being naked more than 95 degrees.

I love soaking up the sun.  Nothing makes me happier than roasting myself tan.  However, I’ve learned my lesson.  Two summers ago I had to have some spots on my back removed that were direct results of a lifetime spent in the sun.  Listen up: WEAR SUNSCREEN BITCHES!  Now, I look around at all the tanned bodies and find myself envious.  Saturday I finally broke down and tried the sunless spray tanning at a local salon.

OH MY GOD! For the life of me I cannot figure out why I waited so long to try it.  It looks as close to real as my cancer fearing self will allow.

There was only one small incident…  the very Mormon looking girl who showed me how the machine worked forgot to warn me how cold the spray would be when it hit me.  I screeched so loudly I think they thought the Second Coming had arrived.  And oddly enough, I was totally fine with the thought of Jesus walking through the doors to the tanning salon.  If there is a Jesus, and he comes to earth I want to look my very best.  Perhaps if I look hot enough, he can overlook all that sinning I’ve been busy with.

I was Mormon once, and now I’m not. But for that brief time that I was, my parents forced me to attend Primary. I hated it. Everything single thing about it, but mostly I dreaded sitting in those ugly, orange plastic chairs. They didn’t match my pink dress, and at six I was very into things matching. But my OCD inspired neurosis isn’t the topic of this post. Hookers are. No really, they are.

My primary teacher was obsessed with talking about what kids wanted to be when they grew up. She liked filling our heads with silly things like a future career as an Avon lady, or better yet a mother, which I guess is an acceptable career for me with the right amount of prescription drugs and wine.

I didn’t want to be an Avon lady when I grew up. In fact, I was terrified of the woman who came to our house trying to peddle makeup to my mother. She smelled bad, like 18 kinds of perfume and peppermint gum. To this day the smell of peppermint gum makes me want to curl up into a fetal position and cry.

I sat and listened to each kid explain what they wanted to be when they grew up and why. “I want to be a doctor because I like to help people.” “I want to be a fireman because I like red trucks.”

When it was my turn I looked at the teacher, smiled and said, “I want to be a prostitute when I grow up because they get lots of presents and play with boys all day long.”

My teacher gasped. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I was six and certainly didn’t know what a prostitute actually was. To this day my parents can’t explain where I came up with such an idea. Although one can’t help but suspect one my four uncles was somehow responsible for this knowledge. Kudus to whichever one it was.

And while I didn’t grow up to be a prostitute, I still adore receiving presents, and would much rather spend my day among a group of men than women.