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Just when I thought I was done writing about dating, the most significant heartbreak of my life occurs.

One of my longtime favorite bands, The Mother Hips, played at The Urban Lounge last weekend.  A man I dated in 2002 first introduced me to this alt-country band when he played me the song “Sarah Bellum.” I’ve been obsessed with them ever since.

I hadn’t seen them play in a couple of years, so when I noticed the band was coming to town I knew I had to go.  I talked two friends into going, promising they would be attending the concert of a lifetime.  Apparently, I’m a big fat liar.  How was I to know my once beloved band had lost their mojo?

The highlight of my evening came before the concert even began.  I was hurrying out of the bathroom when I ran smack into the back of the lead singer Tim Bluhm. I nearly fell over and he kindly helped me back on my feet.  I was too tongue-tied and embarrassed at my klutz-like behavior to thank him, and before I knew it he was on his way to the stage to ruin my life.

I miss the old days—where my rock star idols were still rock stars and not middle-aged men with salt and pepper hair, rocking out to a twelve-minute guitar solo.  I only slightly exaggerate.  It’s entirely possible the solo was only ten minutes.  Either way I felt like I was attending a Phish concert, not the high-energy concerts I remember The Mother Hips once playing.  I’m finally OK with my own aging, but I shouldn’t be expected to watch my idols age as well.  Isn’t music supposed to be timeless?

They did play some old favorites: “Red Tandy” and “Magazine,” but the songs sounded nothing like they did at previous concerts. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a band discovering a new sound, but typically I like the new sound not to suck.

The crowd was full of loyal fans—a few that I recognized from the days where I attended every single concert the band played at the dearly departed Zephyr Club.  I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were as dissatisfied with the performance as I was.

As we slipped out before an encore I ran into an old friend. When he asked why I was leaving, I mentioned something about the band being the biggest disappointment of my life; he assured me they were much better the night before.  Leave it to me to pick the worst night to attend.  I wanted to hear alt-country, not alt-crappy.

Determined to prove to friends, and myself the band really was good, I went home and made a Mother Hips play list to die for.  I burned each friend a copy, hoping to show the band really was a talented one–just one having an off night.

I think with the demise of The Zephyr Club came the demise of The Mother Hips.  Earlier that day my four-year-old niece, Hannah, told me that sometimes your heart just breaks.  And you know what?  She was right.

My new column is out.

I ended up going with one of the titles they suggested: “That’s What She Said.” I appreciate all the suggestions sent, and my favorite was “Tune IN” suggested by Beaches369. Rather than send her a gift card she asked I send the money to the local homeless shelter, which I thought was an excellent idea. Consider it done.

That’s What She Said
By Sarah Nielson
After reading the title are you picturing Michael Scott from The Office?  Don’t worry, me too.  His famous “that’s what she said” double entendre line seems to be in nearly every episode.
When my editor suggested naming this column “That’s What She Said” I cringed, stopped, took a deep breath and then cringed again.  Who wants a column name that reminds readers of sophomoric humor?  Not me.  That is until I found myself watching reruns of Gilmore Girls over the weekend.  In one of my favorite episodes the line was repeated so much I couldn’t help but laugh. While I’m not the type of person who calls a coincidence a sign, I am the type of person who happily gives in to a bit of crass humor on occasion. If it’s good enough for my beloved Gilmores it’s certainly good enough for me.  And hopefully you.

Really, who am I to scoff at immature humor?  I’m just as guilty when it comes to telling a dirty joke as any twelve-year-old boy. I loved writing about my dating life, but after a couple of years I was bored silly of my dating life and I assumed my readers were as well.  It was definitely time for a change.   

IN Utah This Week hasn’t had an entertainment/pop culture column since Dan Nailen left the newspaper.  Moving into that role made perfect sense.  I can still write about my life, but leave the dating where it belongs: in my bedroom. 
This column will be chocked full of useless pop culture references, local entertainment, concerts, nightlife, and of course, bits and pieces of my life.  I’m thrilled at the prospects.  Finally I can justify all the gossip magazines that I subscribe to and the many gossip blogs found on my RSS reader.  My friends will also be relieved that I have a formal outlet to discuss pop culture.  I fear they are really tired of hearing about Brittney Spears’   latest episodes of insanity, or what trash TV show I’m addicted to this week. 

I plan on writing a few columns about spending time in the life of some of our local scenesters, as well as the occasional focus on self-improvement.  I will also include fun stuff, like crazy new exercise routines and other random and often odd crazes.  As always, I welcome ideas from readers.  Also, my lovely lady editor, Amy, has a few surprises under her sleeve– stay tuned for what’s to come.

This column is brought to you exclusively by half a bottle of cheap Australian Shiraz.  Note to self: never buy marginal wine on sale– spend the extra two bucks.  

So I still haven’t come up with a name for my column, and it goes to layout on Monday. I’m stuck and begging you all for help.

Here’s the deal. Comment or email me any ideas and if there’s one I end up using I’ll shower you with caffeine… a Starbucks gift card. Fair enough?

The column will be about local pop culture, entertainment and me of course. The names the “IN” kids have tossed around are “In Her Words” and “That’s What She Said.” So I’m stuck using one of those if you guys can’t come up with something better. Please, oh please come up with something better.

Arlo already suggested “Tramp Rant.” While I appreciate the fact one of my best male girlfriends is calling me a tramp I don’t think the folks at the newspaper would go for it.

Ready? Set? GO!

Here is the final column of “The Dating Years.” Yup, my reign of Salt Lake’s Tragic Dater is now over. Whew. It’s been fun, but I’m really happy to be done. Now I can date because I want to and not because I’m getting paid to. Yippee!

As the adage says, all good things must come to an end. Last weekend I found myself ending two significant things in my life: this column, and deep-seated hatred of winter sports and snow.

First things first… this will be the last installment of “The Dating Years”. In the past year and a half I’ve regaled you with stories of my dating adventures. And adventures they have been. I’ve met some amazing men during this time, and have repeatedly made the same mistakes over and over with them ruining any hopes of a long-term relationship, all while humiliating the men and myself in public forum. Complaining aside, it’s been a remarkable year and a half. I only hope you had as much fun reading this column as I had writing it. With that said, I am not leaving IN. I will be writing a new column with an emphasis in entertainment. This new column will debut next week and I’m extremely excited about it. Watch for it! Read it! Love it! Please?

Moving on…

After years of avoiding all winter sports, I finally decided it was high time to stop making lousy excuses and give it a try. In my 32 years I’ve not skied or snowboarded once. I’ve always hated being cold and refused to take any part of it, until Sunday, when I found myself in the mountains with a board strapped to my feet. It was absolutely terrifying and yet somehow I survived in one piece—bruised, but in one piece.

Snowboarding, while incredibly hard, was surprisingly fun. Had I only known this, perhaps I wouldn’t have spent the last ten years finding any way to avoid going. My best mate Cathy, an ex-snowboard instructor, gave me a one-on-one lesson all day. Her incredible patience and ability to look past my klutziness made the day so much better than I’d expected. Sure, I still fell trying to get off the lift every single time, as well as making the way down the mountain on my ass rather than feet. Luckily I had my best mate there to pick me up, brush off the snow and pump my ego each time. Telling me it was OK if I needed to cry. She knows me well.

Walking around I couldn’t help but notice all the cute guys on the mountain–cute, athletic guys, my second favorite kind. This made me wish I’d showered before heading out that morning, or at least washed off the previous night’s eye makeup. It’s difficult to have the nerve to walk up and flirt with good-looking guys when limping and looking like I’d just made my way home from a wild party.

Apparently the resorts are where many of the attractive men in Salt Lake City hang out. If only I had the skills to look good on a board they may have wanted to flirt with me. Instead they were likely busy feeling sorry for me as I fell down the hill repeatedly. Maybe after a few more lessons I’ll have enough confidence to glide over and talk to them without the fear of getting tangled in my board. And now that I won’t be writing publicly about the men I meet, they may actually be interested in dating me. Here’s to hoping!

It’s Tuesday and my body is still sore as hell. Sports are hard.

I made The Kid go to lunch with me today. He hated it 43% of the time. Hate is good for you, like protein.

Wondering if the bruises all over my legs will fade so I can wear a skirt to the symphony with The Yuppie. If not he has an excellent back up plan: I will be Kristen and he will be Client #9. His profession may be the epitome of boring,but he is not.

My iPhone is no longer the bane of my existence. It may lock up occasionally but if that’s the price I must pay to have Hello Kitty on it, so be it.

I’ve been with my new company for three months and I only remember the names of ten people. Much like sports, names are hard.

I have a new column debuting next week with In Utah This Week and have yet to come up with a proper name. This stresses me out. I told you, names are hard!

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

A Spoonful of Cute Boy Helps the Medicine Go Down

It’s difficult to date when you’re couch ridden due to a horrendous cross between SARS and Bird Flu.

Being sick is always miserable. Although, if I had caught the sickness from a wild night of hot sex, the reflection period would have at least somewhat lessened the misery. Sadly, I don’t have that luxury–there was no hot night involved.

After a day of being sick I called my doctor and when he wasn’t able to see me that day, I headed to the InstaCare in hopes of finding some sort of medical relief. When I walked in I realized I was in for quite a wait. Half the city had taken up residence in the waiting room. I found a spot, grabbed a book out of my bag, and settled in for the long wait. Twenty minutes in, a very hot, male newcomer took the empty blue cushioned seat across from me.

The InstaCare waiting room isn’t exactly the best environment for flirting. For me anyway, sex appeal isn’t at its prime when accompanied with mucus filled symphony of throat hacking. I made eye contact, smiled and said, “Welcome to Hell.” He laughed and we both went back to our respective reading materials. He got cuter as the wait went on. Before I had a chance to make another attempt at conversation his name was called and he went back to see a doctor. I vowed to talk to him if we had the chance again.

Before long, my name was called and I made my way back to a somewhat sterile room. I was handed a robe and told to take my top off so the doctor could listen to my lungs. I peeled off my shirt and sweater, donned the robe, and waited.

After the doctor made his two-minute appearance, I was getting dressed when I heard the cute boy’s voice at the nurses’ station. I threw on my shirt and sweater, grabbed my bag and hurried out. He was still at the nurse’s station waiting for his paperwork. Score! I started walking towards him when I head someone calling my name behind me. I turned in time to see the nurse waving my rattiest bright pink bra. “Sarah, you forgot something.” The cute boy looked up in time just to see the spectacle. He giggled as I turned bright red. I grabbed my bra, shoved it into my purse, and rushed out. Forget talking to the boy, what was the point? I was entirely too embarrassed.

Apparently cute boys are a dime a dozen at the local InstaCare. The last time I visited also resulted in a cute boy sighting. With the Petri dish valley of ours, another trip to the InstaCare is most definitely in my future.

I guess the cute boy factors into the silver lining somehow, making getting sick not quite as bad. Next time I will remember to wear a sexy, lacey, black bra to the InstaCare. Perhaps next time my results will differ.

This week’s installment of “The Dating Years.”

The theme of this week’s issue is dancing, in a roundabout way.. I’ve been trying to come up with a way to discuss dancing in a dating column. This has been rather difficult given I’ve already written about my short-lived pole-dancing career.

The only retained memory of my other short-lived dancing career, ballet, was timing. My dance teacher used to repeat to me over and over, “Sarah, timing is everything.” My timing has always been a bit off–in dancing and dating alike.

Last summer when I should have taken some time off dating to heal a past relationship, I chose to instead date The Yuppie. Consequently, ruining any possibility of maintaining a healthy and loving relationship with him. But, I just couldn’t help myself. You’d understand if you spent five minutes with him. He’s incredibly handsome, intelligent and witty, with the perfect blend of sarcasm.

I’ve always had a difficult time forming a loving attachment. For me, it’s a matter of trust. I’ve had enough negative dating experiences in my life, that it takes me a little longer than most to gain an element of trust. While dating The Yuppie, I didn’t give myself enough time to form that trust and attachment. I was too caught up in my past relationship baggage to realize that.

When we ended our relationship last summer there were some hard feelings on both our parts. Fortunately after a fair amount of time, we both moved on and were able to establish a healthy friendship.

We don’t see one another as often as I’d like; life is busy with work, friends and other relationships–ones we tend to vent to one another about.

Saturday night we got together for dinner and some above-mentioned venting. Sitting across from him at dinner I couldn’t help but remember why I was so attracted to him in the first place. He is one of the few people in my life who really understands me. I know how cliché that sounds, but it’s entirely true. When talking to him about my love life I never feel the need to justify my decisions to stop dating someone. He understands my snobbery, as he has been accused of the exact same thing.

As he spoke I felt a wave of sadness hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t help but question our relationship. What if our timing had been different? What if we’d met now, rather than a year prior? With a giant lump in my chest I quickly changed the subject to something a tad less emotional: the band playing. Unknown to me, my favorite brunch spot, Caffé Niche, has live music on Friday and Saturday nights. The Yuppie had noticed a sign out front and invited me to go check it out with him. The band was incredible. I have no idea who they were, but the singer was astonishing. I for one, will most definitely being going back to hear her sing. Plus they serve wine.

The evening ended and once I got home I couldn’t shake the feeling that my poor timing had ruined something with him… something that could have been extraordinary. It was extremely difficult to make sense of my emotions, but I finally did. What I wasn’t able to achieve when dating The Yuppie I was able to achieve now. In my friendship, I finally found that much needed element of trust, and with that I have been able to form an attachment. Proving once again, my timing it complete crap.

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

I met the perfect guy for my brother. That is, if my brother weren’t adamantly straight and currently dating a woman that I actually like.

I recently met a man who, despite being fantastic, is as far from my type as possible. This is causing me more stress than it should. I need to learn to relax and go with the flow. Keeping a running count of our differences is not only time consuming at this point, but also keeping me up at night.

First off, he drives an SUV. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with driving an SUV, I just don’t. I can’t seem to justify the cost of filling one with gasoline. I keep my cars economical, but can appreciate those who don’t. Mostly I appreciate them on snowy days when my great gas mileage car can’t make it out of the driveway. My brother, on the other hand, not only appreciates an SUV but has the knowledge to discuss things like lift kids and tire size. Things I know nothing about, and probably never will.

In this above-mentioned SUV his radio presets are rock, KBER to be specific. I only recognized the call letters because the same station happens to be one of my brother’s favorites. My car radio is either on a local NPR station, or on a music station that is more likely to produce bad 80’s pop music. Not necessarily because I like that music, but generally hearing Paula Abdul on the radio makes me giggle.

Last weekend, after dinner, we made our way to the dive bar Ex-Wives Place. I love dive bars, but for some reason haven’t spent a lot of time at this particular one. My brother, of course, has on a weekly basis.

And if that weren’t enough, the new guy invited me to a NASAR party he was hosting. I hate NASCAR with a passion. The “sport” makes no sense to me. I don’t understand why watching cars drive really fast round and round in a circle is entertaining. I can barely tolerate watching real sports, like football, on TV let alone four hour car races. My brother digs NASCAR. So much that he’ll often lie and tell me he has to work on Sundays only to find he’s really sitting home on his couch glued to the TV watching these dumb races. (Un)fortunately I had other plans for the big party and wasn’t able to attend. I considered sending my brother as a surrogate, but thought better of it. My brother teases me non-stop and so far so does this guy. I don’t want them spending quality time together finding more reasons to mock me.

So if/when I let the new guy and my brother meet, I imagine they will have loads to talk about. Lots and lots of stuff that makes me want to stab my eyeballs out with a fork. But since this guy isn’t too hard on the eyes, and a lot of fun to be around I’ll probably keep him around. At least long enough to fine one thing we have in common, besides my brother.

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

Over the years I’ve watched many friends get breast augmentation and breast reduction surgeries. Friends that didn’t need any work done in the first place were having their breasts done just because everyone else was.

I’ve always been less than confident with the size of my breasts. Having small breasts in a world where bigger is always better can be a struggle at times. I go back and forth on the idea of having surgery, but in the end always opting to remain silicone free.

I’ve always had small breasts. Always. I was teased throughout junior high school and high school because of the small size. On a daily basis, I heard that I was a carpenters dream– flat as a board and never been nailed. Every single variation of the phrase and many others has been engrained in my head forever.

As a teenager, I tried everything to increase bust size, from bust increasing exercises to spreading an opened can of green beans on my bare chest. Yes, really. I overheard two girls in the junior high school locker room discussing how that had helped fill their bras out. I had nothing to lose, so I tried it. It did, however, screw up my mother’s dinner plans when she noticed a key ingredient to her casserole was missing. I lied and told her one of my brothers had eaten them. To this day she thinks my brother Ben loves green beans.

I survived those formative years and somehow managed to come out relatively unscathed. So what if my breasts aren’t a double d cup. Isn’t there some truth to the saying, “more than a handful is a waste?”

And as per usual just when I start feel good about myself things have a way of going awry.

I found myself dating a breast man–One who enjoyed women who have more to offer in that department than I do… a lot more. Over the following year subtle hints were dropped that made me consider having a breast augmentation surgery. I tossed the idea around for months before mentioning it to him. Needless to say, he was ecstatic. He even offered to pay for half. Which, still to this day, seems odd; I don’t feel comfortable with someone else owning one of my breasts. After researching the technique and choices for implants I chickened out. I think part of it was that I realized I would be having the surgery for him, not me. And I’ve never been the type of girl who makes life changes for someone else. Especially a man I’m dating.

If someone doesn’t love my body the way it is, they shouldn’t be dating me. Later when we ended our relationship I was very happy I didn’t have the surgery.

At the end of the day, it’s about being comfortable with the skin you’re in. And though, I’m not always comfortable with my body, I’m getting there. One padded bra at a time.

It’s February, which means time for anyone who is single to scramble in hopes of securing a Valentine’s Day date. The stress is enough to turn me into the typical bitter anti-Valentine’s Day spinster.
If I didn’t love the holiday shopping so much I’d have booted the holiday years ago. Valentine’s Day and Breast Cancer Awareness month are by far my favorite color oriented times of the year. It’s no secret I love pink. Growing up with four brothers left me grasping anything girly I could get my hands on– thus developing my lifetime love of the color.

I’d considered having a single girl party, but all my girlfriends have found relationships over the past few months putting a kink into that plan. Perhaps the best thing to do, in this case, is boycott the holiday altogether. I certainly can’t ignore it. I love the conversation heart candy too much. So boycotting the date portion of the evening will have to do.

I’ve come up with four ‘alternative to a date’ plans to choose from for my evening:

1. Staying home and watching Lost. This isn’t any different than most Thursday nights, but to spice it up a bit I’ll crank the heat in my apartment to 85 degrees, wear tattered island clothes and only eat fruit for dinner. Watching the lives of this cast will make me suddenly appreciate my own boyfriend or not.

2. Force Ask, my friend, Arlo to bake me a heat-shaped chocolate cake. I’ll certainly need the anti-depressive qualities of the chocolate while I spend the evening reading old love letters, eating cake, and wondering where my love life went wrong.

3. Go out to dinner alone for the sole purpose of people watching. I would entertain myself during dinner by creating an internal dialogue making fun of the cheesy couples in hopes of making myself feel better about not being apart of one. Of all the plans, I see this one backfiring and resulting with me going home in tears wishing I had a boyfriend.

4. Take a road trip to Hardup, Utah. I would search for some sort of gift shop with a clothing line containing pithy sayings using the word ‘hardup’, or at least postcards bearing the town name to mail my girlfriends. After hearing about this alleged town for years, it’s time to find out if it really exists. What better day than Valentine’s Day?

However I end up spending my evening, I’ll try and add a little humor to a night that makes so many of us feel badly about our single status. I don’t need one specific day to make me feel badly for not having a boyfriend; I have a mother who makes me feel badly about that nearly every single day.