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Dear Chady-Bear,

STOP SENDING BEN LETTERS TO MY HOUSE! (Please read that as many times as necessary.) Seriously, I’m not a postal carrier—I don’t have the legs for it, though I doubt all postal carriers are as hot as the girl that delivers my mail. I bet most people have men or women who look like they moonlight at the Maverick. Remember that creepy lady that worked at the Mav by my house and I refused to go in when she was working because I was convinced her face moles were separate people? Sorry, I digress… I just don’t want to be bothered with having to deliver Ben his mail. You have his address. I’ve given it to you, Mom’s given it to you and from what I understand so has Ben. STOP.

How are you?

I’m out of wine. The case of two-buck chuck you gave me before leaving is long gone. Maybe I’m drinking to cope with the loss of my baby brother?

I’m accidentally addicted to the Justin Timberlake Bringing Sexy Back song. I have no idea what happened, but I am 100% obsessed. Also obsessed with” Big Love.” The first time I watched it I hated it and didn’t get past the opening credits. I gave it a second chance and it’s like crack—totally addicting. I know Ben watches it, but did you pre-mission? It could be the common religious link all the siblings share! I bet Matt & Holli would watch it. Jeff and what’s her face probably do, since they live pretty much in Herriman (which is probably home to many polygamists).

Summer semester end this week, which will be nice. I’ll have time to optimize my procrastination skills. I promised myself I’d organize and clean that little office nook I have upstairs. I was going to ask if you missed being in classes, but remembered Mom said you were in class non-stop in the MTC.

Things are going pretty well despite my silly rants. I miss seeing my geeks everyday but I don’t miss that sick feeling in my stomach I got each day walking into the office. Freedom is aweome and totally worth pinching pennies over. That iPhone can wait, and the trip to Italy with Silvia will be there next year. She’s moving back. I can’t wait to have my Italian mother back. Daisy still scratches on her door thinking she and Rog still live there.

Carmen is moving to San Diego at the end of the month. It hit me pretty hard. He’s been a constant in my life for ten years. It’ll be weird not being able to just drive over to his house. I can’t think about it too long without getting emotional.

I’ll let you get back to whatever you do there, but consider yourself updated on my life as requested.

Love you Bear!

Love,
Sissy

Dear Men of SLC,

I’m thrilled that you don’t have the body issues we women tend to have, but please for the love of god cover up your man fur! I know it’s hot as hell outside, yet I still wear clothing and would appreciate it if you could.

I can see your reasoning that the back hair provides a protective layer for your sensitive skin while riding your bike. BUT, what about the protective layer for the rest of us? If you don’t have a shirt, I’d be more than happy to raid Ben’s closet and steal you one. Seriously, whatever it takes.

If you could rectify this situation immediately that would be great. I thank you. Young children thank you. The city thanks you.

Regards,
Sarah

Last night’s Clemson night was spent drinking at The Twilight Lounge. It was there I discovered I’m awesome at pinball. I mean, I’ve always suspected but with the help of a much younger version of Mel Gibson I beat Jon hands down. Though Jon may not agree with that last statement, he felt we ended in a tie. I agreed on a tie, but with me secretly winning.

Aimee and her daughter, Lo, met Ben and I at the Farmer’s Market this morning. Ben and Lo are like siblings these days. One day they hate each other and the next they are inseparable. Today was an on day. I think it had something to do with Ben teaching her how to blow bubbles with her gum last week.

My favorite part was the cupcake stand. Aimee’s favorite part was leaving and not having a parking ticket. Lo’s favorite part were the snow cones and Ben’s favorite part was comparing SLC Mayoral Candidates to Dick Cheney.

I think he’s considering a move downtown so he can vote in the race, based solely on looks. This is the brother who refuses to acknowledge the fact I pick favorite sports teams based on uniform colors. Hmm…

I started going grocery shopping with Marky. For two reasons: 1) He always drives, and 2) I don’t have to talk to people, therefore keeping the name calling to a minimum.

So yesterday when the following conversation took place:

Click here to read this week’s column. Suddenly my aversion to grocery stores will make sense.

Twilight Concerts at the Gallivan Center are one of my favorite summertime activities–well that and retreating to anywhere with air conditioning.

Apparently I’m not the only one who loves spending Thursday evenings at the concerts.  Last Thursday I think the entire city showed up; including everyone I’ve ever dated—this may or may not be an exaggeration. It’s an odd feeling looking into the sea of faces realizing you’ve kissed, at one time or another, a lot of those faces.  More faces than I’d be willing to admit to my mother. 

I’ve never considered myself a slut.  I’m 31 and single, so I’ve dated a lot.  To me this seems quite normal, but to others it may not.  For example a woman approached me at the grocery store a few weeks ago and felt the need to call me a “slut” and “bad example for her teenaged daughters.”  I smiled nicely and thanked her for her feedback.  I wish I had the guts to say what was on my mind.  No, not “screw off” but rather that I’ve never considered myself a good example for anyone– other than what not to do.  I should have pointed out that my column is not intended for children but for 20 something hipsters in the city.  Perhaps there is some neglectful or bad parenting on her part by letting her 13-year-old daughter read the dating escapades of an adult.  Whatever.

I thought I’d moved past this horrid women’s words, but standing at the concert seeing so many men that I’ve dated over the years brought her words to the front of my mind.

Am I a slut?  I’ve been dating for 15 years now.  What if I hadn’t come from a Mormon household where my parents didn’t allow me to date until I was 16, then what?  I’d have reached whore status by now?

Urban Dictionary defines slut as “a woman with morals of a man.”  When I read it, I couldn’t help but laugh, but then a sobering thought came over me: it’s true.  Had my brother looked into the crowd at the concert and pointed out to a friend all the women he’d dated, his friend would most likely congratulate him.  I’d even be willing to bet the grocery store lady would write it off as a young kid sowing his wild oats assuming it was just a stage he’d outgrow. So why are my dating practices being frowned upon?

I can’t help but wonder if this happens to women outside of Utah.  I doubt they’re held to such high standards. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to meet a nice man and settle down if I’m not out there dating.  See the conundrum?

It’s a lot to think about.  I tried my best to ignore my newly found dating insecurities, and enjoy the rest of my night.  Waiting in line for a drink I couldn’t help but cross my fingers hoping not to run into anyone wanting to accuse me of being a poor role model. 

Had I not been on the lookout for Mrs. Grocery Store I’d probably not have noticed The Yuppie going out of his way to avoid me.  Yep, he took the long way around the plaza.  It wouldn’t be an evening out without some sort of drama.
 

My singing & dancing Bill Clinton doll lives atop my fridge, next to Daisy’s treat jar. The only time Bill dances these days is when I’m getting Daisy a treat and bump him.

The other day someone was over and pushed the button to see the song & dance routine. Daisy, who was asleep upstairs, nearly tumbled down the stairs rushing to get down. She sat in the kitchen and begged and begged until she was rewarded with a treat. My democrat minded pug doesn’t need a bell to stimulate conditioned response. She needs a Clinton –preferably Bill, as Hillary doesn’t seem like much of a dancer.

Obviously Chady-Bear isn’t praying like I suggested he do. First my hometown is near the Salt Creek Fire, now the town has a flash flood warning? Will my easy bake oven ever be safe?

If only the MTC allowed news Chady would know Leamington needed him.

In my screwed up world a new gal pal is usually more exciting then a new boyfriend. No, I’m not a lesbian. Sad that I have to write that, but I know I’m going to get at least two emails asking just that. I repeat, NO LESBIAN HERE–unless you count my girl crush on Gwen Stefani.

Anyway.

I have few lifelong girlfriends. The ones I have mean the world to me, but as the years go by we have less and less in common. This doesn’t mean for a second I love them less, it just means I need to find partners-in-crime for my daily activities.

Enter the new gal pals. Each time I meet one I’m thrilled at the prospect of a new friend, and instantly force a connection with them. And each time it quickly fades, just like with new boyfriends. We find we have less in common or I find I don’t trust them at all.

So in the end I feel like I’m dating men and women, and that’s just exhausting. Am I?

When my Uncle Cabbage Patch says jump, I jump, or blog as the case may be. He’s requested I blog the ten stupidest things I’ve done in my life. In my typical self-deprecating manor I’ve decided to comply. I’m sure there are far more stupid actions on my part, but these are the first that come to mind:

1. Not finishing college the first time around.
2. Not finishing college the second time around.
3. Giving my cheating boyfriend a second chance–“be ye not so stupid.”
4. Getting a checking account at 20. Little did I know what bouncing a check would do to the rest of my life.
5. Staying in a dead end job longer than I should have.
6. Letting my temper (Nielson Charm) get the best of me. For example, throwing a drink at one of my best friends in anger.
7. Not taking advice from my parents.
8. Attempting an adult relationship at 21. Enough said.
9. Perms.
10. Not spending enough time with Tim, therefore resulting in way too much guilt when he died.

**Now remember Uncle CP, the above is my version of stupid, not my dad’s version. I imagine he wouldn’t be able to narrow it down to 100 let alone 10. Also, you’re still reading this thing? Why not call and invite me out to dinner to hear about my life in person. Just a thought…