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Seeing mom-and-pop shops close are always a little difficult to see, but this particular instance is downright heartbreaking for me. Take Five was my grandma’s favorite place to take her grandchildren.

As a child I spend two weeks out of every summer in Murray with my grandma. No brothers, no parents, just grandmother and granddaughter bonding time. These two weeks were my favorite time of the year. Twelve of those fourteen days were exactly the same: each morning my grandma and I would drive to Take Five for her morning Coke and a milkshake for me. I ordered vanilla every single time. My grandma, bless her heart, tried time and time again to talk me into ordering something more exciting than vanilla, but I always refused. I liked the comfortable feeling of the exact same taste day after day. Vanilla was my safety net.

Since her death I’ve learned that the reassuring flavor vanilla is still great, but sometimes you need to spice things up with another flavor. Last weekend my brother Ben and I went to Take Five for the last time. I ordered my milkshake and this time, just for my grandma, I ordered chocolate, and you know she was right. It was the best fucking milkshake I’ve ever tasted.

My friend Matt is ruining my life. Seriously. I probably see that little man bitch three times a year. I have no idea what he’s doing with his life, yet he knows all about my life since he reads my blog. He’s so familiar with my blog he pointed out which friends I’d forgotten to include in my character section.

To shut Matt up here’s his bio:

I’ve known Matt since 1997. The first time we met he introduced himself and my response was something like, “Why the fuck do I care?” He’s hated me ever since. And by hate I mean he secretly likes me, but insists on giving me shit every time he sees me to retain street credit. His hobbies include biking, wearing chain wallets, and reminding me of every crappy guy I’ve ever dated.

I made the mistake of letting Matt taking our friend Awna for a ride on my scooter last night. He purposely broke it because my night ended like this:

Driving home my scooter just stopped. I called my brother, Ben, and RLO to rescue me. Realizing it was too late, and too dark to fix it properly they loaded up my baby and drove her away.

Obviously I’m blaming this all on Matt. I think it’s the right thing to do, don’t you?

RLO is the most amazing person ever. Well maybe not ever, I mean ever is a long time. Let’s just stick to RLO is the most amazing person right now.

Last night he came over to help me study for my math final I’m flunking taking later today. I’m proud to announce there was no yelling, no crying and no freaking out. Wait. There was a little freaking out, but it was on his part for once. He nearly lost it when I touched him after touching Daisy without washing my hands first, because OH MY GOD who knows where that dog has been!  Sometimes I like to piss him off so he’ll appreciate all the other times when I’m so very sweet to him.

After our tutoring session he took me for frozen yogurt because I was so well-behaved.  And because he was so nice, and didn’t smack me over the head with my algebra book when I asked stupid questions, I let him drive me around on the scooter.

As we were eating our yogurt I mentioned Ben hadn’t gone with me to purchase a helmet yet.  “Sarah,” he said, “because they probably won’t prosecute Ben for killing you when you wreck and die, I want you to know I’ll take him to civil court for you.”

RLO is seriously the sweetest guy.  He’d sue my brother for wrongful death once I’m gone. I did make him promise to take the money and get a tattoo that reads: I miss my BFF Sarah.  He wholeheartedly agreed.

I’m having the design made up, just in case.

My entire weekend can be summed up in the below two pictures.

A lecture:

From my fake gays:

Seriously, that was my weekend. Throw in a couple bottles of wine, a raging heat-induced headache and that’s it folks.

When I got out of class last night I noticed someone had left a voice mail on my phone. It was from my brother Ben. Weird. Ben never, ever leaves messages. Suddenly I was overcome with anxiety–worried that something may have happened to him or another member of my family.

“Sarah, there’s something really important I need to tell you…”

OHMYGOD! Insert total panic attack here. During his brief pause I imagined every single one of my loved ones dying a horrible, tragic death. His pause was very short, but my crazy, overactive imagination is very fast.

“…..I’ve decided I’m going to grow a mullet again. I just thought you should know. Talk to you later.”

Yes, again. Stupid Ben. I don’t know which is worse: a dead family member, or a brother with a mullet.  But I do know if I had sisters, rather than four brothers this type of message would never happen.  Instead it would be a joyous messaging reminding me about the sale at Nordstrom or about the cute shoes on sale at Aldo.

Dear Ben,

Happy Birthday!  I know I don’t tell you this enough but I love you Ben.  You’ve always been an extraordinary brother to me.  I don’t deserve you, but I’m sure as hell happy I got you anyway.

You have so many great qualities, but luckily for me one of your best traits is forgiveness.  I don’t think most people know that about you.  I do, however, because despite the below list you still love me.

I’m sorry I made you wear a pink shirt when you got home from your mission.
I’m sorry for constantly trying to get you killed when you were a child.
I’m sorry I made you peanut butter and spicy salsa sandwiches every time I was forced to babysit you.
I’m sorry for swearing in your mission farewell talk.
I’m sorry I told everyone we know you always cry in the movie “The Land Before Time.”
I’m sorry I just told the Internet that you cry in the movie “The Land Before Time.”
I’m sorry I called you Benjaminoballbaby when you were a kid.
I’m sorry I called you Benjaminoball-less when you were a kid.
I’m sorry for calling you Ben-gina when you were a kid…. and last week.
I’m sorry for teaching the twins to call you Uncle Mean.
I’m sorry for teaching the twins, just yesterday, to call you Auntie Uncle Ben.

You’re an incredible person, Ben.  I’m so proud to be able to call you my brother.  You grew up from the cutest little dimple-faced boy into the amazing man you are now.  I love you baby brother.

Love,

Sissy

Fathers Day this year wasn’t quite as happy as years past. The only home life my beloved niece and nephew have known ended over the weekend when their mommy moved out.

Our family met at Matt’s house for a BBQ.  Ben and I walked in to find my nephew, Carter, laying on the floor where the couch once was with his baby blanket.  My dad had warned me it was going to be a rough day for everyone, and he has never been so right.

Carter was pretty upset by the ordeal. He’s such a tender little guy and seeing him so sad, and knowing I couldn’t help him broke my heart. Ben, on the other hand, was thrilled. Not because he’s a horrible person and enjoys family pain, but because Carter was so upset he let Ben hold him. This is a very rare occurrence.

Hannah, was her cheerful self and informed me she is way luckier than I am because she has two houses and I don’t have any. I didn’t pour my Diet Coke on her head, and instead gave her a new shirt from Mrs. AK and Little AK. She was ecstatic when I told her they had bought one for me as well. “Aunt Sarah, I want to help throw Uncle Mean (Ben) away.”

When the divorce is final I think I’ll throw my brother a fresh meat themed party. I plan to only serve bacon and invite hookers. He wasn’t keen on the hookers, but agreed on strippers. “You know for Ben’s enjoyment.”

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.

Yesterday Ben, Kiesha and I went to the cemetery to leave flowers on my grandparent’s grave. We were walking around when I looked down and noticed which tee-shirt I’d put on that morning. Talk about poor planning. Who picks a shirt with a girl shooting herself in the head to wear to the cemetery? Me. That’s who. I’m an idiot. I have got to start paying closer attention to the little details in life.

The minute I get home I shed my pants. I’m not alone in this; you guys do too, right? If not, now is the time to lie.

Last night, after an especially shitty day, I went home, ditched the pants and poured myself a glass of wine. So you’ll understand how annoyed I was when someone knocked on my door. For a brief second I considered answering the door pants free. It wasn’t like I was naked, just in boy short undies. I looked down, saw my chunky thighs and opted for the Old Navy pajama pants on my floor.

I open the door and much to my dismay found a pimple-faced teenage girl, who had knocked on the wrong door. Without thinking I said, “Do you realize I put pants on for you?” She was speechless. And can you blame her? What do you say to some crazy, half-drunk woman bitching about pants? Nothing. You blush, remain silent and fear for your life.

I wish the story ended there, but it doesn’t.

Before retiring for the night I let Daisy out one last time. As I was standing there waiting for her to pee I did the unthinkable: I reached down the back of my pants and started scratching my ass. Thinking I was alone I muttered under my breath, “Yeahhh, that’s the spot.” I heard someone behind me and with my hand still down my pants, I turned to find the same teenage girl.

Mortified, I grabbed Daisy and retreated upstairs. I immediately grabbed all the different kinds of lotion I could find, and slathered my entire body with a concoction of all five in hopes to prevent any further embarrassing public displays of scratching.