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One childhood memory stands above all others. I remember crying over something absolutely ridiculous as a kid, you know, because that’s what kids do.

My dad looked at me and said, “Sarah what’s your last name?”

I managed to stop the sobbing long enough to whisper, “Nielson.”

“That’s right. You’re a Nielson. We are strong and don’t cry.”

I’m sure he was trying to get me to shut the hell up because we were in public. What he didn’t know, at the time, was that moment and phrase would forever be ingrained into my memory.

Refusing to cry is not a healthy behavior, I know. I cry on occasion, but usually at home over a tub of ice cream, never in public, and especially never in a movie. Obviously I’m broken, so there’s no need to point that out. I get it. I also get that I need to fix this behavior. Probably with therapy and vodka. Until that happens I found a solution.

Last night I saw “The Blind Side” with my friend Susan. The movie melted my heart repeatedly. Enter solution: Every time I felt like crying I looked at Susan and demanded her to cry. She did, because that’s what good friends do.

The only problem with this temporary fix is the convenience factor. I’m going to have to arrange all emotion around Susan’s schedule. This will be incredibly difficult around the holidays, so no one is allowed to get hurt, die or invite me to a wedding until January. Capish?

My love of books dates back to childhood where I spent a good chunk of my childhood either at the city library, or the county bookmobile. Man I miss the smell of that old bus full of books. Bookmobile night was the highlight of my week.

Each time I visit the country I find myself driving to the library. Old habits die hard I suppose. On this last trip I noticed something new:

A ‘NO CAMPING’ sign at the city library! Every sign is posted for a reason, so I can’t help but wonder who was camping out at the library. I’m hoping it was some semi-nerdy little blond girl who wanted first dibs on new books. Because THAT, that would be fucking adorable.

I was Mormon once, and now I’m not. But for that brief time that I was, my parents forced me to attend Primary. I hated it. Everything single thing about it, but mostly I dreaded sitting in those ugly, orange plastic chairs. They didn’t match my pink dress, and at six I was very into things matching. But my OCD inspired neurosis isn’t the topic of this post. Hookers are. No really, they are.

My primary teacher was obsessed with talking about what kids wanted to be when they grew up. She liked filling our heads with silly things like a future career as an Avon lady, or better yet a mother, which I guess is an acceptable career for me with the right amount of prescription drugs and wine.

I didn’t want to be an Avon lady when I grew up. In fact, I was terrified of the woman who came to our house trying to peddle makeup to my mother. She smelled bad, like 18 kinds of perfume and peppermint gum. To this day the smell of peppermint gum makes me want to curl up into a fetal position and cry.

I sat and listened to each kid explain what they wanted to be when they grew up and why. “I want to be a doctor because I like to help people.” “I want to be a fireman because I like red trucks.”

When it was my turn I looked at the teacher, smiled and said, “I want to be a prostitute when I grow up because they get lots of presents and play with boys all day long.”

My teacher gasped. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I was six and certainly didn’t know what a prostitute actually was. To this day my parents can’t explain where I came up with such an idea. Although one can’t help but suspect one my four uncles was somehow responsible for this knowledge. Kudus to whichever one it was.

And while I didn’t grow up to be a prostitute, I still adore receiving presents, and would much rather spend my day among a group of men than women.

I got a few emails after my last post telling me what a crappy sister I am, which is funny because that’s not really mean. I’ve done worse things to my brothers. Far worse.

I’m an older sister, if I’m not going to make them tough, who will?

Ben had it easy, compared to my brother Jeff–who, by the way, totally deserved it 94% of the time. Well he probably didn’t deserve the bruises Matt and I left, but we were smart kids and knew what a pain in the ass he would end up being for us.

I was five when my parents brought Jeff home from the hospital, and Matt was four. The world as we knew it ended that warm July day. This new baby got all the attention. Suddenly my mom didn’t have time to listen to my tales of witches living inside my bedroom walls, or the extra time to make sure every single grain of Rice Krispies cereal in my bowl matched. Off-colored pieces were certainly going to be the death of me.

All her spare time was devoted to the care of this baby. This baby who did nothing but eat and shit, which was totally boring.

I convinced Matt that our parents would take Jeff back to the hospital if he were defective. I knew this because she did it with my favorite hula-hoop. Who cares if the pink sparkles rubbed off on the furniture—it just make the couch prettier.

Our plan was to make Jeff cry all the time. I heard my dad complain about crying babies once so I knew he hated it. Over the next three weeks Matt and I pinched Jeff every chance we got. He had bruises everywhere and howled constantly.

Sadly, the plan backfired when my parents spent more time with him than before. Trying to soothe a miserable baby is apparently quite time consuming. It also required taking him to the doctor more often to determine the cause of the bruising.

In the end my parents kept Jeff, and I spent the rest of our childhood finding other ways to torture him. Though now, I can’t help but wonder if my constant bruising is the universe’s way of telling me I was a shitty sister.

As a child I was absolutely terrified of drifters jumping off the train that ran through our small country town. I was convinced they would climb through my window and murder me in my sleep. I’m not entirely sure where this fear came from, either a babysitter let me watch scary movies, or my parents put LSD in my bedtime snacks. The jury is still out on that one.

After weeks of forcing myself to stay awake into the wee hours of the night, I finally came up with a solution: my baby brother Ben. Every night when it was time for bed I begged my mom to let Ben sleep in my room. She thought I was being nurturing and wanted to spend time with my baby brother. She was dead wrong. I was seven years old—I didn’t care about anything, but my own survival.

Once baby Ben fell asleep I scooted him over to the very edge of my bed, where he was closest to the window. I thought the sound of Ben being murdered first would wake me up, therefore giving me enough time to escape.

Now, occasionally when I hear the sounds of a train I’m thankful Ben was not murdered in cold blood on my bed. I still sleep with the same Care Bear pillowcase, and would really hate to have bloodstains on it. In addition, sometimes I like having him around–you know for fixing my car and hanging shelves.

Today marks the beginning of Willie Nelson week. A week devoted entirely to Willie & weed. Since I don’t actually smoke weed, I’ll just add extra basil to my food this week and consider it good enough. You may be asking why devote this particular week. Simple. Ben and I will be taking a trip to St. George on Tuesday to see the great WN in concert.

We have a small obsession with him. When we were kids my grandparents purchased the Willie Nelson ranch located near Spanish Fork, Utah. I requested my parents change the spelling of my last name from Nielson to Nelson. As usual they marked it up as my “crazy imagination” and the spelling stayed.

The obsession reached its height when I was 12. I hated all things country, with the exception of Willie, Johnny Cash and my beloved grandfather. I fondly remember riding the 4-wheelers around his ranch while trying to keep my hair from being blown out of my side ponytail. I just knew that Willie couldn’t just walk away from the ranch, and that he must secretly fly to Utah every few weeks just to check on things. My family always thought it was odd that I primped before going out on the ranch, but I was convinced Willie was watching me. I had to look good!

I found an old plaid snap shirt in the barn that I still own. I’m convinced it was Willie’s shirt, and hangs proudly at the back of my closet. I may even wear it to the concert, since I probably won’t have time to find pink cowgirl boots in time.