Tales of Wit and Charm…

“Aunt Sarah, do you want to see my new Hello Kitty shirt?”

“Only if I can wear it.”

“It won’t fit you silly Sarah.”

“Wanna bet?”

When Tim died I inherited his books.  I’m a book lover so it make the most sense for me to take them.  Last weekend I pulled his Allen Ginsberg book from the shelf to read.  A picture fell from the book into my lap.  It was a picture of Tim holding AK’s baby.  As I gently picked the picture up I was overwhelmed with emotion.  I tried to fight the tears, but finally gave up and allowed myself to cry.

Why do my tears always have Tim’s name on them?  As I think about it 80% of the tears shed over the past four years have been Tim tears.  He’d be so pissed at me for that.  I can just hear him lecturing me that crying only dehydrates you.  He was such an emotional bad ass.  Nothing affected him.  Or so we thought, and then he took his own life.

Death is funny.  Not funny ha-ha, but peculiar.  I’ve cried more over Tim’s death than I have over my own grandmother dying.  It was her time; she had lived a full life.  Tim hadn’t, but he could have.  He just chose not to.  Idiot.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Tim the remainder of the weekend.  So many Tim stories were running through my mind.  I jotted as much down as I could so I’d remember to write about them later.  It wasn’t until Monday morning when I noticed the date that I realized why Tim had been so prevalent the last few days. August 11th is Tim’s birthday. After seeing the date I panicked.  I couldn’t remember how old he was, and then it hit me: Tim doesn’t get older.  Tim is gone.  And guess what… it’s really hard to have birthday cake with the dead.

Happy birthday Motherfucker, I miss you.

Dad: “Am I in trouble with you?”

Sarah: “Not that I know of, why?”

Dad: “Well I gave your number out.”

Sarah: “Bathroom stall again, or someone I actually know this time.”

Dad: “A guy that you worked with the summer you graduated high school called looking for you.”

Sarah: “Well that would explain a random text message I got from your area code that used numbers for words.  Do me a favor and don’t give my number out to people who speak twelve-year-old girl, and are unable spell simple words.”

Dad: “I thought you liked that text messaging stuff.”

Sarah: “ I do with friends and people who can type real words.  Dad, just don’t give my number out to anyone please.”

Dad: “Well I guess I’m lucky your mom has the number on the fridge since you don’t give it out.”

Sarah: “Anyone involved in my conception can have my number, at least for now.”

Dad: “Noted.”

The text message in question was:

Whatthe hell u been up 2 good looken?

I didn’t reply for obvious reasons, yet he felt the need to follow up with:

Hello r u ther?

Seriously?  I’ll be calling my dad back tomorrow to let him know he is indeed in trouble, and the only way to make it up to me is to buy the guy a dictionary.  For adults.

“Sarah, honey, I’m going to come pick you up for lunch.  I’ll be at your house in twenty minutes.”

Shit.  My mom hasn’t been to my apartment in ages.  We usually meet at my brother’s house or elsewhere.  I panicked imagining all the things that may bother her.  Yes I’m an adult, but no matter what age I am I will always be her little girl.

First things first, I opened all the windows in an attempt to cool my little sauna apartment down.  I can hear her now, “It’s so hot in here sweetie.  How can you stand it?  You really need to move.  Maybe buy a house…  your younger brothers all have.”

I hit the bathroom next.  Every Saturday of my childhood consisted of chores.  I was in charge of cleaning the bathrooms in our house—with four brothers none of whom could manage to aim a stream of urine, this was quite the task.  I’ve hated cleaning bathrooms ever since.  Needless to say, my bathroom is always a disaster. Knowing her need for a clean, germ-free bathroom I scoured every surface.

After racing around for exactly twenty-two minutes the phone rang. “Sarah, dear, I’m two minutes from your house.  Meet me outside.  See you in a second.”

Fuck.  Seriously?  All that and she wasn’t even coming upstairs.  As I walked outside to meet her I sighed a deep breath of relief.  Luckily she hadn’t come upstairs because guess who forgot to make her bed and put away her unmentionables?  Again.

Last Thursday RLO and I went to the Twilight Concert Series.  Thankfully, the last couple of concerts have been much better than the overcrowded first one.

Since Thursday night is kickball night I haven’t been able to see many of my friends there.  Silly Hannah and Chelsea for picking kickball madness over drunken debauchery in a public venue.  I love my girls, but obviously they are insane.  I’ll have to change their minds over cupcakes soon.

Five minutes into the set RLO and I decided Nada Surf is the love child of Modest Mouse and Primus with a mad case of fetal alcohol syndrome.  Maybe it’s being old, or maybe it’s missing my girlfriends, whatever the case I needed some nourishment that didn’t come in the form of fermented grapes in a plastic cup, so we left before seeing the next band in lieu of dinner at Red Rock.

Next week, however, I’m staying the entire night even if I have to take a cot and nap between set!

**Edit**

Thanks to RockandCookies and Theorris for pointing out that we did not in fact see Nada Surf, but the opening band.  I already forgot the name and I just barely read the comments, because I’m too busy feeling bad I didn’t see Little Bit again.  Didn’t think it sounded right but went ahead and believed the website to be correct.  Gallivan FAILS!