Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

I spent the Fourth of July just like every other American: chasing the neighborhood ice cream truck around the block, which totally counts as exercise. Just so you know.

I didn’t see any non-dairy options and figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask…

“Do you have any soy ice cream?”

“No.”

“What about coconut milk ice cream?”

“No.”

“What about Nut Rolls?”

“Um, no.”

“Well what good are you? Some adults don’t want dairy.”

“I bring ice cream to children and you’re not a child.”

“Good observation but I may have a kid hidden in the backyard waiting for a treat.”

“In that case I may call the police.”

WHAT THE HELL? I thought those creepy dudes were in charge of molesting children, not protecting them.

Obviously I didn’t have a kid in my backyard, otherwise I would have sent the kid to fetch my treat. Everyone knows kids are just short slaves.

Sheesh.

Last Friday as I left the office my favorite nerd asked me what I was doing over the weekend. “I’m cutting my hair off on Saturday and going to Pride Festival on Sunday.”

“Uh, why would you do that?”

“Do what? Drink wine coolers in public to support all things gay?”

“Not that, the hair part. You’re really cutting it off? I almost told you earlier how great it looked after our scooter ride. It really does flow nicely.”

“Thanks, but it’s fuzzy and I hate it so I’m cutting it off and giving it to the cancer kids.”

“Ohh, those poor little kids. Cancer is bad enough, why punish them with your hair?”

“What the hell? You just said how pretty it was. Can’t you see what a good thing I’m doing? I’m giving my beautiful, golden locks to kids who need hair.”

“Sarah, you just said you hated your hair!”

“Hated hair is better than no hair. Why do you ALWAYS have to ruin everything for me?”

As I made my dramatic exit I couldn’t help but wonder if I was, indeed, making a huge mistake. It’s silly, I know, but long hair makes me feel prettier and skinnier. Short hair, not so much. I ignored my fear and stuck with my plan.

My short hair has been surprisingly more work than before. Sure there’s less blow-drying time, but then I’m faced with trying to find clothes that match my new style. Boho country girl clothes don’t really work without the long waves. So for now I just wear jeans and wife-beaters.

Those cancer kids had better appreciate my hair, because when it grows back I’m keeping it.

I’m legitimately concerned about the well-being of my lady parts. “Sex and the City 2″ opened and I haven’t made plans to see it yet.

Or made plans to sneak booze into the theater, which is completely out of character for me. I love boozy movies with my girlfriends. It’s like therapy, but with more calories and antioxidants.

Obviously my vagina is broken.

I left a voicemail for my doctor (which, in hindsight probably sounded creepy and may get me arrested) and then turned to the internet.

WebMD was no help. There were 31 results for broken vagina, but none of them applied to my dilemma. Instead I learned about breech births and foreign objects placed in the vagina. I decided I’m never having kids, or sticking hot dogs up there. I’m a vegan, after all.

I moved to Google. Also not a lot of help. The predictive search for “symptoms of a broken vagina” was “symptoms of a broken valve spring.”

Is that what the kids are calling vag today? I’m way too upset to understand slang. The internet doesn’t care about the health of my vagina! This hardly seems fair since the damn internet is full of advice on male anatomy, and thus proves my theory that the internet is, indeed, a man.

Jerk.

Some people leave themselves daily affirmations on their bathroom mirrors.

Not me.

I leave myself reminder notes on the shower tile with rejected lip liner colors.

Since I don’t have anyone else to do it, I also leave myself love notes around the house. This is not as sad as it sounds. I just really love notes.

And lists.

And obviously reminder notes. Without them how would I ever remember to do things?

Um, I wouldn’t.

“You know how I’m obsessed with making lists and Google docs?”

“Yeah, Sarah, I know.”

“Well, I created a Google doc for all of your good and bad qualities.”

“You did? I want to read it.”

“No. What if it hurts your feelings?”

“Sarah, it won’t. I promise.”

“Oh riiiight, because you don’t have any feelings… that’s already on the list.”

I detest grocery shopping.

I hate thinking about the calories sitting in my cart. I hate trying to find food I can actually eat. And I especially hate handing over my bank card.

It’s all bullshit.

Last night when faced with starvation I ignored the hatred and headed to Harmons.

While trying to find the perfect apple I heard someone behind me.

“Ma’am I think you dropped your shopping list.”

I ignored the shit out of him.

“Excuse me… ma’am you dropped something.”

I wasn’t about to let someone get away with calling me ma’am, so I continued to ignore the shit out of him.

“MA’AM DID YOU HEAR ME? I think you dropped your shopping list.”

“Of course I heard you. I’m just ignoring you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said I was ignoring you. I don’t respond when people call me names.”

“I’m sorry ma’am, you must have heard me wrong. I didn’t call you a name.”

“THERE YOU GO AGAIN. Stop calling me that!”

I placed the apples in my cart and in a dramatic huff turned and walked away.  Just as I was about to leave the produce section I hear a booming voice.

“MISS, I THINK YOU FORGOT YOUR KEGEL EXERCISE INSTRUCTIONS.”

Fuck. My. Life.

This:

was written on the back of this:

I thought I was all ‘Miss Green Party Hero’ for recycling the homework from my gynecologist. Instead, I was ‘Asshole of the Day’ for being a dick to someone trying to help.

I’d like to say I learned my lesson, but that would be a lie. And I don’t have time to worry what the karmic reaction is for lying. I’m going to be very busy trying to figure out how to punch karma in the balls.