Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

Now that I’m 34-years-old, I’ve finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

I want to be this lady:

I’m not kidding around here. Think about it… she gets to wear a pink cowgirl hat AND a motherfucking tiara.

How cool is that?

Um, it’s cool. Trust me. Plus I bet someone else washes her hair and bathes her, which is pretty much my new life goal.

I’ve been struggling with my age lately. When I look in the mirror I see my face starting to age, and that is hard to come to terms with.

Hearing this woman roar with laughter over something the cashier said put everything into perspective. Who gives a shit if my laugh lines are getting deeper? At least I’m still laughing.

1. Pants are bullshit.
2. Yellow Tail Shiraz-Cabernet is my lifeblood.
3. There is nothing sexier than an attentive and well-mannered date. NOTHING.
4. Vodka tonics glow in the dark.
5. Burlesque shows bring all the creepy men to the yard. And some of those men are awesome dancers.
6. Snow is not made of glitter, no matter how much you want it to be.
7. Cookie dough makes a delicious dinner, but will also be the reason your pants are too tight.
8. Knowing there’s a light at the end of the tunnel is soooo cliche, but damn it feels good.
9. Wearing boots over slipper socks can really be quite fashionable.
10. Hookers are not appropriate holiday gifts.

When I got home yesterday I found a box from Nordstrom sitting on my porch.

Fuck.

Guess who has been online shopping after taking Ambien again?

The shirt is a cute, and I would have most certainly picked it out in a non-Ambien state. That’s not the problem. Breaking my budget is the real issue.

Why can’t my Ambien spending sprees be limited to paying bills? Clearly my subconscious doesn’t understand that I’m going to need to replace my car soon. Oh, and buy groceries, UNLESS my subconscious is telling me to go on a diet. In which case, my subconscious is a total dickface and I demand a new one immediately. Can you imagine being able to custom order your subconscious? I would have a smaller ass, perfect skin, a great rack and much longer legs.

So I guess I need to train my subconscious to think I’m a Victoria’s Secret model. Great.

Congratulations to Misty Fowler and Laura for winning the Sorry Clementine giveaway. You bitches are going to look hot! I expect to see pictures of the shirts Suzanne makes for you.

“I can’t sell you this Sudafed.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have a barcode on your driver’s license.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’m sorry; there’s nothing I can do. People make drugs out of this stuff.”

“Um, it already is a drug. One I need.”

“I can’t sell you full strength without proper state identification. You’re going to have to buy the regular strength.”

“Would it help if I cried?”

“No.”

“What if I tell you the elevator/airplane/vertigo diagnosis the Internet gave me. Would that help?”

“You’ve already told me twice and no, it won’t help.”

“Would it help if my panties fell out of my purse? It happened before you know.”

“Miss, I really need to help the other customers now.”

“Fine, but I really don’t think this is what they meant by crack ruins lives you know.”

I hate having my picture taken. I’m not naturally photogenic like some people. My eyes are always closed, or my mouth is hanging open. And sometimes? It’s both.

There’s nothing worse than stumbling across a horrid picture of yourself that should have been burned, or at least given to an ex-boyfriend so when his new girlfriend finds the photo she always feels hotter. Yeah, I live in a dream world where any future boyfriend will only have pictures of his ex-girlfriend that make me look even better. I’m shallow and insecure like that. I think it partly comes along with having a vagina.

Sure, I’ve had some great photos taken, but it’s a process AND by very talented photographers (@Calanan @Cottonsox I’m looking at you guys!).  For the most part, however, my experiences haven’t been good.

Whenever I’m out doing something and someone pulls out a camera I turn my head and avoid the shot. I try to be discreet about it, but there’s always someone that calls me out on it and I end up looking like a giant jerk. Which I’m totally used to, but it still sucks.

Last night at a get-together for In Utah a local photographer was taking pictures of everyone at the bar. Wanna guess what I did? Yup. I turned away and, of course, looked like a bitch. In fact a friend even called me one. I shook it off and changed the subject.

I think having my photo taken is  just going to be one of those things I always hate, like chicken. Don’t ask. It’s just gross.