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I’m sure you’re as sick of hearing about my move as I am planning for it.

Well, TOO DAMN BAD.

This moves has consumed my life… and my mothers, WHO IS A FREAKING SAINT! Knowing her daughter freaks out over the slightest bit of change she drove two hours just to help me finish packing.

When I realized I didn’t have any newspaper or bubble wrap to pack the Pyrex I ran to the closest IN Utah This Week stand and stole a few papers. I write for them so it’s OK to steal.

Though, in hindsight, I probably should have grabbed a different newspaper. This week’s issue was the adult issue, so now my sweet, Mormon mother thinks I write for a trashy, porn magazine. Awesome. I cannot wait to hear how she spins this for the family newsletter.

Saturday morning I was rushing to leave the house to pick Kelli up for brunch. In my haste I knocked a mug off the counter and it shattered.

MY ALL-TIME FAVORITE MUG!

The mug my mother gave me when I graduated high school and moved away. I’ve used it almost every single day since.

I picked up the pieces and gently placed them back on the counter where they sat for two days. Partly because I’m lazy, and partly because I’m sentimental as shit when it comes to anything my mom give me… with the exclusion of guilt trips.

Tonight I realized there was no way to fix the mug, so I sucked it up and threw it away. I felt sick afterward. SICK over a silly, little coffee cup.

The point? I’m not freaking dead inside after all. But I am really damn thirsty.

“Your brother read me the blog about the dead cat, and then he buried it for a second time.”

“MOM! I don’t want to know this.”

“Fine, I won’t talk about it, but just know that it’s not on the front lawn anymore. Also, honey, don’t write about this on your blog tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want people thinking we are weird.”

“Mom, I think it’s a little late for that. We are weird. And adorable, so it’s OK.”

“Sarah, I think there’s a dead cat in the front yard.”

“Gross, Mom, why did you call to tell me this?”

“Because I just saw it.”

“That doesn’t mean I need to hear about it! Besides, I’m two hours away from you. I’m not sure what I can do to help.”

“I think maybe the dog did it, but I’m not positive.”

“Is there hard evidence it was the dog?”

“No, so it could have been the neighbor’s dog.”

“Mom, this is starting to sound like a country Clue board game and is sort of freaking me out.”

I still don’t understand the need for a dead cat phone call, but I’m grateful for every phone conversation I have with my mom.

I absolutely adore her.

So much that I would drive the two hours to her house just to clean up an animal carcass from her lawn. Actually I’d take it a step further: I love my mom enough that I’d call one of my brothers and have them take care of it. True love means loving my mom enough to not emotionally scar her only daughter.

“Sarah, are you coming down here for the 4th of July?”

“I will try, but I’m super stressed out and can’t think straight so I may end up in the wrong small town.”

“Bring your brother. Between the two of you perhaps you can make one functioning person.”

My little apartment has a balcony that I rarely use. I don’t grill food or own patio furniture. The area sits empty except for a stray dog bone and a formerly empty cheap, plastic planter. I grew weeds in the planter all by myself. I’m basically a gardener at this point.

I was on the phone with a friend when I saw the weeds and in my excitement said, “I grew my own weed.” My friend was silent for a moment and then asked, “I didn’t know you smoked weed, and aren’t you worried about getting arrested?”

The gardening excitement faded as I realized the misunderstanding. I quickly corrected the mistake and assured her that I don’t smoke weed and that my incredibly skilled green thumb was not going to be carted off to jail. Thank god, because I think she was about to ask if she could have custody of my shoes while I served time.

The mix-up was extra comical to me because my mom once requested that I buy her pot for Christmas. She meant a kitchen pot, but having your Mormon mother ask you for pot is one of those memories I’ll always cherish.

Mom, if you’re reading, this weed’s for you:

My family had a BBQ to celebrate Mother’s Day yesterday. Nothing says thanks for creating me like fat, juicy hamburgers and homemade cinnamon rolls.

I should have helped in the kitchen, or at least pretended to help; however someone had to jump on the trampoline with the kids and look like a jackass.

I’m that jackass… anything to get out of kitchen duty.

ANYTHING.

Here’s the video to prove it:

I edited out the part where I explain to my niece that we can no longer jump high because it makes Aunt Sarah pee her pants. That part is OK on film, but what’s not OK is when I explain to a child that I have an old lady bladder and that she’s going to totally have to change my diapers when I’m old because I changed hers. In exchange for diaper duty I had to agree to poop pink glitter. I think that’s more than fair.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mommies out there, especially mine! I love her enough to change her diapers when she’s old even if her poop isn’t pink glitter. I love you Mommy!

I’m headed to the country this weekend to spend Easter with my parents!

My friend Kelli is visiting her parents so I’m excited to see her and the Easter Bunny both. I hope she has the good sense to also give me presents. She’s competitive enough I can totally picture her trying to beat the Easter Bunny.

Speaking of which, I sent the below email to my Mother in an attempt to trick her into doing my grocery shopping. I have a sneaking suspicion she’ll see right through my facade. I also suspect she’ll do it anyway, because she’s just that amazing.

Dear Mom,

I’m coming home for Easter this year. I probably won’t go to church with you on Sunday, but I’d still like to celebrate. So if you’ll kindly place the following items in a pink Easter basket:

A bottle of vitamins
A bottle of melatonin
Mascara
Toilet paper
Diet tonic water
Green grapes
Cheddar cheese
Zit cream
Cauliflower
Yogurt
Baked tofu
Wheat Thins
Peach Fresca

These items won’t seem very Easter-ish to you, so if you want to throw in Easter candy I wouldn’t be opposed. I love you, and can’t wait to see you!!

Love,
Sarah

I am worthless at communicating.  I leave important facts out, or over-communicate by telling long stories that have nothing to do with the topic at hand.  Today, when I called my mom, I discovered my poor communication skills are genetic and come from her.

“Mom what are you doing?”

“Your dad is going to the gun show.”

“Um.. I said what are YOU doing.”

“Nothing.”

“Well where are you?”

“I’m almost to Bangerter Highway.”

“Oh, where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Your dad is going to the gun show remember?”

“So then you are going to the gun show with dad?”

“No.”

“Mom, you’re in the car with dad who is going to the gun show, but you’re not going. That doesn’t make sense.”

“Your dad is going to the gun show. I’m going to sit in the car and read a book.”

I usually feel like the loony one in my family, but not today. Sitting in a car, reading a book in the dead of winter sounds way crazier than anything I’m doing today. Which is nothing. So I’d better shower and go rescue my mother from a four hour wait in the car. Because, that dear Internet, is what good daughters do–they save lives. I imagine I’ll win a medal for such a brave, selfless act.

“Mom, who is on the phone?”

“Ben. He’s leaving Salt Lake to drive down here.”

“Ohhh, tell him to bring vodka.”

She, of course, didn’t. When she hung up the phone I asked, “So now I don’t have vodka or coffee? How am I supposed to survive?”

“There’s coffee. I bought some for you. It’s in the freezer.”

“Thanks. Did you buy a coffee maker too?”

“Oh, no. Did you need that?”

Instead of trying to explain the complexities of making coffee we drove to the grocery store and purchased a box of coffee singles.

That’s right, nothing says I love you like Western Family brand.