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Published for Now Salt Lake on September 15th 2011

This week’s theme is drinking in SLC. As a SLC resident and an EXPERT on drinking, I feel a duty to contribute. OK, that’s not entirely true. I’m allergic to beer and outside of vodka tonics, I rarely drink mixed drinks.

I guess that makes me a local wino. My contribution will be a guide to SLC’s wine bars. Except I don’t frequent wine bars. I’m a wino who enjoys dive bars, the seedier the better. However, seedy bars don’t typically serve wine. And the few that do, well, the wine isn’t exactly good. I’m not a wine snob, but even I don’t like my wine to taste like vinegar. With that said, here are my favorite bars that serve non-vinegary wine:

The Spot is my happy place. That sounds like such a euphemism, but I promise you this spot is almost as good as THAT spot. All wine is served chilled, which is a little odd, but I find that endearing. The heavy pour is another endearing quality, as well as the female bartender who calls me sweetie.

The Sugarhouse VFW is another favorite of mine. I’ve written about the bar before and likely will again. Ben, the bartender, is the most comical and friendly bartender in SLC. I get funny looks from fellow patrons when I order a box of wine and straw. Of course I only get a glass, but it’s worth a try. I have faith that one day Ben will come through and honor my request.

When I’m not feeling the dive-bar scene, here are my favorite restaurants to grab drinks at:Desert Edge Pub is my home away from home. I’ve been frequenting this restaurant as long as I can remember. I’m almost positive the wine selection is from a box, but it doesn’t bother me one little bit. As long as my wine is red and doesn’t taste like vinegar I’m happy.

Wine at the Frida Bistro is excellent. My friend Scott Cunningham introduced me to their wine list and since he’s a wine broker I trust every recommendation he makes, even if he does discourage my Yellow Tail addiction.

Gracie’s is a perfect spot for happy hour and dinner, with one exception. I leave the minute I see an Ed Hardy or Affliction shirt. I’m allergic to rhinestone-wearing douchebags. This crowd typically arrives in the 9 to 10 p.m. hour. Leave immediately, unless you’re the one wearing above-mentioned “designers” in which case you should also leave immediately and head straight to Banana Republic.

I’m saving the best for last. My all-time favorite watering hole is my house, more specifically, my couch. Most nights you can find me there with a glass of Yellow Tail Cabernet Sauvignon … sans pants. For me, home is the best (and safest) bar of all.

Published for Now Salt Lake on September 7th 2011

Dear Mother Nature & Father Time,

Monday was Labor Day, which symbolizes the end of summer. Consider this my formal request to reschedule fall. I’m not asking to skip fall altogether, just push it back 2-3 months. I know, it’s highly unorthodox but I have reasons. Good reasons.

• I didn’t attend one Twilight concert at Pioneer Park. (The horror!)

• I didn’t buy patio furniture for my backyard. (I saved money, but still … )

• I didn’t lay sod in my backyard. (My brothers are more than OK with this one.)

• I didn’t host a BBQ and I only attended two. (Unacceptable!)

• I didn’t spend nearly enough time wearing jorts. (My friend Jeremiah is OK with this; I’m not.)

• I only used my new hiking shoes twice. (I need to get my money’s worth.)

• I didn’t once use my Wine Rack sports bra to smuggle wine into concert venues. (Tragic, I know.)

• I didn’t wear my white jeans enough. (I grew up in the peak of white-jean fashion, therefore this is a valid reason.)

• I didn’t once lay out by the pool or float down the river. (My pale white skin is proof I need additional time in the sun.)

May, June and July passed in what felt like a two-week span. I neglected summer and I know I only have myself to blame, but I was busy basking in the happiness of a new relationship. So you’ll understand that laying out by the pool wasn’t at the top of my to do list. I’m not accustomed to summer passing so quickly. When I was a kid summer had a way of dragging on. Living in the country meant there was only a handful of activities and it didn’t take long before I was ready to go back to school. The thought of not enjoying summer sickens me now, but as a kid I was a book nerd and my happiness was limited during the summer to a weekly trip to the bookmobile whereas in fall and winter I had daily access to a library. My love of books still exists. For example, I always take a book and issue of Newsweek to the pool.

I’m positive there are a handful of Salt Lake City residents who agree with me. Do me a favor though, and don’t talk to the ski nerds. The last thing I need is the two of you being talked into skipping fall and moving straight to winter. That would be the final straw and I would pack up my belongings and move to a warmer climate, in which case my mother will come after you. She complains she doesn’t see me enough as it is. If I moved to a warmer state she’s be pissed. Trust me, an angry Mormon mother will turn your world upside down. No one can tolerate that much guilt. Save us all and give me two months to catch up on summer.

Sincerely,

Sarah

Published for Now Salt Lake on September 2nd 2011

Published for Now Salt Lake on August 26th 2011

1 • No longer knowing the person staring back at you in the mirror. (Oh my god yes. I hardly recognize this new version of myself.)

2 • Worry about where your life is going. (Who doesn’t?)

3 • Feeling frustrated with just about everything. (Hell yes.)

4 • Experiencing feelings of regret. (I live in a state of constant regret. Right now, for example, I regret not buying that extra bottle of wine while I was at the wine store.)

5 • Focusing on what you are losing. (Don’t we all focus on what we are losing? In this case I focus on losing skin elasticity.)

For the past month, I have been feeling like I’m morphing into a different person. Not to worry, nothing too crazy. I have yet to purchase any animal-print clothing and if I do, please have me put down. I have, however, been doing something that others may consider even worse … I’ve been listening to country music. I KNOW, RIGHT?

This could be attributed to my numerous trips to the country this summer, or maybe FSB(f)’s collection of snap shirts is to blame. Whatever the case, I’m hoping it ends before I do something crazy. I don’t think my relationship would survive square dancing lessons or worse, an Alan Jackson concert. My boyfriend is from New Mexico and that’s way too much gangsta for a cowgirl.

This all started innocently enough. I’ve always loved listening to Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson, but suddenly I found myself craving more. Soon I’d moved onto Merle Haggard, and before I knew it there was a country radio station programmed in my Jeep and I was downloading Dan Seals greatest hits.

It gets worse.

I know every damn word to a Garth Brooks album, four George Straight songs and more Reba McEntire songs than I’m willing to admit in print. Oh and “Way Down Yonder on the Chattahoochee” … yeah, I can recite the lyrics by heart.

I need help ASAP. My ears need an intervention and someone needs to delete “8 seconds” from my Tivo. I just hope I can be saved before it’s too late. Not in a Jesus sense, but in the “please save me before I buy a pair of Wranglers and purchase a farm truck” sense.

Published for Now Salt Lake on August 18th 2011

My second camping trip with FSB(f) went swimmingly compared to the first trip. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but there’s no such thing as a perfect camping trip. Wait, I guess there could be a perfect camping trip … if George Clooney were in my sleeping bag or if there were a bar, Starbucks and hotel within 100 feet of our campsite.

I was far more prepared this time around, however I did neglect a few things:

• I forgot to bring food for breakfast. You know, the MOST important meal of the day. Oops. Luckily we were only 30 minutes from one of my favorite country diners, where we had coffee and breakfast.

• I should have packed extra water. I realized this when I found my brother brushing his teeth with beer — now that I think about it, this may actually have been his preference. After I dry heaved for a few minutes, I ran to brush my own teeth with the water I had hidden the night before.

• We bought new batteries for the portable iPod speakers, but didn’t pack extras. When the music died, not even the sound of chirping crickets could cover the mooing cows in the background.

Yes, as a matter of fact, we were sharing a campground with stray cattle. We arrived to find cows wandering through our campsite. Not sure what to do, I let Rosie Finlinson out of the Jeep. Pugs aren’t exactly herding dogs, but she got the job done.

Once the cows had been chased away, we started unpacking. My brother, Ben, and a few of his friends camped with us, which was great because they kept FSB(f) amused while I kept my dog from wandering off. It turns out that bitch of mine is more of a country dog than I ever expected. She guarded the food coolers from cows and kept other wildlife away, drank from the creek and entertained everyone with her antics.

Ben’s friends had most of the items I forgot: hand wipes, games, cups, etc. My mother was kind enough to make sure we were all fed. She sent us off with dutch oven dinners, chocolate cake and firewood. I suspect she’s spoiling FSB(f) in an attempt to keep him in my life, which is really quite thoughtful on her part. Parents would do practically anything to guarantee future grandchildren, a fact I plan to exploit in the future.

There must be a way to trick her into doing the post camping laundry, and delivering coffee and bagels to the campsite each morning. It’s not manipulation when it’s family!

*You can see additional photos here.

Published for Now Salt Lake on August 2nd 2011

Dear God,

I don’t keep in touch enough, sorry. It would be so much easier to keep up if you were on Twitter and Facebook. I’m excellent at staying in touch via electronic communication — prayers and letters, however, not so much. In my defense it would be much easier if you took a more active role in my life. Right now the only time I think about you is when I see one of your divine creations: a gorgeous sunset, a well-behaved pug or an especially sexy photo of Anderson Cooper. If we’re going to be close I need to think about you more, and you need to pay more attention to me. Aren’t you supposed to be watching over me and protecting me from harm? In the span of one month I’ve had quite a bit of bad luck; if you were truly paying attention to me the following wouldn’t have happened:

• My asshole puppy Rosie Finlinson has escaped 27 times, chewed two new bras, a picture frame and half of a coffee table.

• What started as a routine doctor appointment turned into an all day visit to the emergency room.

• The bill from above emergency room adventure.

• I can’t manage to keep my lawn green in spite of the summer rainstorms.

• I have a boyfriend who buys fireworks in Evanston, not wine.

• I almost rolled my Jeep.

• A backyard full of wasps.

• I heard two Mariah Carey songs in the elevator in one day.

• My best friend, Midge, is moving to North Dakota.

• Someone, ahem FSB(f), sat on my favorite pink aviator sunglasses.

• I’ve had 13 paper cuts, yes really. Maybe this one is on me. I guess I could buy a letter opener.

Every time I have something unfortunate happen my dad likes to point out that if I were closer to you I’d not have such life drama. Each time something unfortunate happens in my life my dad says, “Sarah, if you were closer to God your life would be much calmer.” I’ve always thought he was just being an overbearing, Mormon parent, but perhaps there’s some truth to his words. If you and I were besties would I have better luck? It’s time to test this theory, so here’s what needs to happen: I’m going to spend more time thinking about you, but in return you need to think about me. This means keeping me safe, healthy, drunk and happy. Together we can do this.

Love, Sarah

P.S. This letter is a result of a lazy Sunday afternoon and three glasses of wine. Please don’t take this as any indication that I will be attending church soon … unless, of course, you are willing to hold church at Brewvies or Red Butte Garden.

Published in Now Salt Lake on July 18th 2011

I’ve done regular Pilates but knew nothing about the reformer classes. I spent more time than I’d like to admit watching videos on YouTube. I was intrigued and 100 percent intimidated. My friend suggested 9th & 9th Pilates. After checking out their website, I decided if I was going to make it through a class without major embarrassment, I would need to take a private lesson first. There is a $10 reformer orientation class, but I’m horrible with fitness instructions and benefit from personal attention. A private class is $65 and worth every cent. Without the one-on-one instruction I would have never made it through a class.

I walked into the studio, took one look at the reformer machine and considered bolting. In fact, had the owner not spotted me I would have. Those damn machines are terrifying. It’s a cross between an ancient torture device and an exam table at the gynecologist’s office.

My private class was with Verena, who was fantastic and incredibly patient. She took the time to really explain the fundamentals to me and didn’t mind my constant barrage of questions. I left feeling a little more confident about attending a real class. I decided to start with the beginner class, which was perfect for me. The class was slow enough I could keep up without being too overwhelmed.

There were a few moves I wasn’t able to master. Tucking my hips seems to be a trouble spot for me. I swear my hips are fused differently than everyone else in the world.
Luckily I was able to avoid any highly embarrassing mistakes. There was a close call as I stupidly applied tons of lotion to my feet before the class. Slippery feet in a reformer class are not ideal. My feet slipped from the bar a few times and each time the instructor adjusted my positioning I was worried she would think my feet were sweaty. I didn’t want to be remembered as a gross, sweaty girl. In spite of that, I enjoyed the class enough to sign up for additional classes. I still need to find a cardio workout I like, but the Pilates class is a definite keeper. Any workout I don’t need to wear shoes is my kind of workout.

For real, non-Sarah info please visit: 9thand9thpilates.com or email them at info@9thand9thpilates.com. Don’t tell them I sent you; otherwise they may check your feet for excessive sweating.

Published for Now Salt Lake on July 26th 2011

I decided it was time to take the next step in my relationship with Fancy Shirt Boy(friend), which means taking him to the country for the first time. This includes meeting my parents and grandparents. Poor guy had no idea what he had agreed to. I’m 35 years old and single, so of course my family is going to approve of any man I bring home; it’s the bonding I worry about. The last thing I need is my family liking my boyfriend more than they like me.

Weighing all the options, I decided taking him home for the Fourth of July weekend would be the most enjoyable. After all, there’s nothing more American than a small town celebration. Whoever came up with the idiom “more American than apple pie” was obviously a city kid. Pff. I hyped up the trip with promises of camping with my brothers, floating down the river on tractor tire tubes, getting up early for the Fourth of July parade and finally ending the day with the demolition derby and firework show.

My perfect plan was foiled by my goddamn allergies. As it turns out I’m allergic to everything but red wine and sarcasm. Sure, I’ve always had allergies but this year has been especially miserable and I knew there was no way I could survive an entire weekend in the country. Instead, we opted for taking a day trip to the country. While he didn’t get to experience country kid camping, he was able to spend a fair amount of time in the desert when we got lost looking for my brother’s camping spot so we could ride four-wheelers. I don’t think he was much impressed with my country girl skills, but I immediately made up for my indiscretion by taking him to lunch at my favorite country caf? and shopping. We don’t have a Nordstrom or even a Target. We do, however, have a killer clothing selection at the IFA. FSB(f) picked up a killer pearl snap shirt and probably a strain of Bovine virus, or whatever infectious disease you can pick up from farm animals. I am, of course, immune to all country diseases. We followed up with a T-shirt purchase at the grocery store and flip-flops from the Phillips 66 station.

My parents seemed to approve, as did my grandparents. They all fired questions at him left and right and my beloved grandmother let him know just how special to her I was. I would have melted with happiness, had I not been texting my younger brother to let him know I really was the favorite grandchild just as I had suspected.

It was a perfect day. FSB(f) not only survived, but he also had a great time. Or at least he had the good sense to pretend he did.

*To see a few pictures from the trip go here.

This week’s “That’s What She Said” talks about reverting back to my single girl behavior…. and while I’m at it, go ahead and read last week’s column about summer concerts.

This week’s “That’s What She Said” is a guide to help you buy gifts for the men in your life. However, I refuse to be held responsible if your (grand)father takes you out of the will or your boyfriend breaks up with you.