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My friend Jeremiah called me fat. Can you believe that shit?

He will likely pretend he didn’t say that, but he invited me to go hiking yesterday. Um, hello, that’s exactly the same thing as telling a girl she needs to exercise more. Why else would he invite me? I’m not exactly an outdoorsy chick and I’m super whiny when the conditions aren’t to my liking. This is code for sober.

Jeremiah coaxed me up Neff’s Canyon with a bottle of wine. He knows me well. The two things that motivate me most are wine and fear. He managed to use both in one day. I should explain the fear thing…

I’m not scared of him, not at all. He’s a hippie and everyone knows they wouldn’t hurt anyone or anything. And if he did I’d threaten to rip his favorite tie-dyed shirt. The fear stemmed from the storm that threatened our perfect hiking conditions. Getting hit by lightning is not my death of choice. Speaking of which, I’d rather drown in a wine vat. Also, I’m not an alcoholic. Yet.

We didn’t die, but at the point of destination I checked my iPhone and got this:

I was pretty sure, by this point, that Jeremiah had invited me because he intended to kill me. I can’t blame him. I do question his manhood a lot, and tease him about his love of Hugh Grant and jorts.

I prepared the best way I could: I drank. I’ve seen enough movies to know you always get a last meal before you die.

Wine is and will always be my meal of choice.

P.S. I wasn’t murdered.

P.P.S. I’m not as much of a wino as this post implies, but only because I forgot to wear my wine rack hiking–also known as the best invention in the universe! It’s like a Camelbak, but obviously so much better.

P.P.P.S. The rest of the photos can be seen here.

My jort loving friend Jeremiah picked up some Two Buck Chuck for me when he was in Las Vegas over the weekend. I thought the favor was an act of kindness, but as it turns out it’s just another way for him to torture me.

Dick.

I suspect the “willing to negotiate” is code for a Hugh Grant movie marathon with a wine infused Sarah. I can live with that.

This week’s “That’s What She Said” is about the Ben Folds concert at Deer Valley.

All drunken shenanigans can be viewed here… until my mom calls and begs me to take them down.

A big thanks to the Utah Jesus for saving us seats!

“Summer, change of plans. I can’t make the gym tonight. I’m going to be busy killing myself.”

“Umm… that’s not OK! How about I just kill you at the gym?”

“I don’t think you understand the severity of my situation. I just did the math and had I gotten knocked up in high school I could have an 18-year-old right now.”

“Wow.”

“I’m the oldest, single, childless woman I know. I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE, so I think I’ll just go ahead and get it over with now. I’m going to leave you my womb. Please clear out the cobwebs and put the little fucker to good use.”

“Sarah, it’s time to shut the hell up. You’re not going to die alone.”

“Yes I am! I just heard it on NPR.”

“Well I guess if NPR said it, it must be true.”

“I KNOW, Liberal media never lies.”

I had my first polygamy date last weekend. I know what you’re thinking… I live in Utah why have I waited so long?

It was sort of forced on me, just like that entire box of vegan fake Oreo cookies I had for lunch.

Summer and I were minding our own business at the gym Saturday afternoon when her trainer boyfriend came over to say hello. I suspect his hello isn’t so much a greeting as it is a form check. I think that’s what it’s called when you’re lifting weights. I don’t speak trainer. I speak profanity.

The two lovebirds started planning their Saturday night date and before I knew it, I was part of the plan.

“Summer, polygamy is sooooo not my thing.”

“The only time I see you is at the gym and Trainer Boyfriend never gets to see you.”

“Well I can see how that’s sort of problematic. I’d miss me too.”

“Sarah, you guys can talk about the country and stuff.”

The girl knows how to manipulate me. I love country talking with fellow country kids.

Saturday night came and went. We had a lovely threesome, err, night out. It was just like how I imagine polygamy to be.. we drank lots of wine, watched a movie about a washed up country singer–ahem.. my column— and I didn’t even have to drive. It was a dream come true.

I could really get into polygamy. Who doesn’t want a husband AND a wife. Best of both worlds, right?

My excitement didn’t last long.

Monday when I met Summer at the gym for our arm workout, she explained the new leg routine Trainer Boyfriend had planned for us later. Just hearing about the workout made me want to punch wet kittens. Trainer Boyfriend is a jerk. I’m never going to polygamy date him again–no matter how hot his girlfriend is.

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?

After a weekend in dirty Las Vegas I made it back to SLC just in time to meet my friend Sandi’s new baby.

Sailor is perfect. She is beautiful, sweet and content to let a perfect stranger hold her. It was love at first sight. I wanted to toss her in my purse and take her home, but I was worried that Sandi would kill me, and her feeding tube might get caught in the zipper of my purse.

I promise, I’m not usually the kidnapping type, but oh my God I fell in love with this little girl. The minute I saw her my ovaries did a perfectly choreographed tap dance up and down my womb.

I took the batteries out of my biological clock years ago, but holding Sailor close enough to feel her heartbeat started that damn clock. I don’t know how that thing is running without batteries, but it is. And, man, is it loud.

Internet, I think I’m in big trouble. Let’s just hope a pug puppy this spring will fill the void, because a baby daddy is just like the perfect red lipstick. Impossible for me to find.

My friend Ryan and I were at dinner last week when I did the unthinkable: I invited him to spend the evening with my mother and brother. I was smart about it though, and made him eat a hamburger first. Protein makes you stronger and increases your chances of survival.

I’ve known Ryan for a few years, but this was the first time he’s ever met my family. He’s a good guy and I know multiple Nielsons can be intimidating. I absolutely adore my family. I really do, but we are bat shit crazy.

After an hour of NORMAL FAMILY CONVERSATION Ryan looked at Ben and I and then told my mom she was so patient. Like piranhas my brother and I immediately attacked him.

“What do you mean patient? Are you saying we are difficult to handle?”

“Oh my God, did you just infer that our Mother doesn’t love us?”

“Did you just call my sister horrible?”

“Did you just call us miserable human beings that should be locked up and never released?”

Ryan said nothing. It was all he could do from rocking himself from the corner straight into a mental institution. We have that effect on people.

He was very polite about the evening, but I think hearing about my Mom’s beard fetish left him a little skittish. I can’t imagine why.

Before you watch this video you should know he totally deserved to be yelled at. He broke our pinky promise that he’d not tell Susan I don’t think cats should exist, which is sad because her cat is really quite lovely.

In another life if her cat was a Canadian I think we’d be great friends. I bet a previous cat, newly Canadian friend would NEVER break a pinky promise, or get me in trouble with Susan and then laugh about it.