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Every family dynamic is different and while I can respect that, it’s my strong belief that my family is superior. I am a Nielson, after all, and we are a stubbornly narcissistic bunch.

Perhaps it’s because I have a bunch of rowdy brothers, or maybe because we grew up in the country, whatever the reason, we are a VERY vocal family.

We yell, call each other names and curse until we are blue in the face. In spite of this I know, without a doubt, my brothers love the hell out of me, and would do anything in the world for me. I would do the same for them.

WHICH is why I can easily communicate my feelings when I’m upset with them.

My feelings usually go something like this:

“Jeff, you’re fucking pissing me off right now and if we continue talking I’ll likely punch you in the balls, or at least shave your eyebrows off the minute you fall asleep.”

This didn’t happen when we were kids.

This happened last night.

The details of the fight aren’t important. What’s important is his response:

[Insert long lecture here] followed by, “I’m sorry I pissed you off, Sarah. You’re the best sister I could ever ask for. I love you and we can hug it out later.”

The Nielson siblings don’t really hug (with the exception of illness, drunken debauchery, or a family funeral). Our definition of hugging is what others call wrestling.

We are crazy, but we are family. Thank god.

This week’s “That’s What She Said” for In Utah This Week is a country weekend lifesaver.

I know, I know… ANOTHER column about the country. Tough shit. Just read it already.

Last week I took my nephew and two nieces to see “Alice in Wonderland.” I love spending time with them, but taking three small children to a movie wasn’t my best idea.

Kids are sort of a pain in the ass. They, like, need stuff.

Popcorn

Soda

Candy

Help in the bathroom

I know, right? What six-year-old needs help in the bathroom. Um, the ones who don’t want to be molested by strangers apparently.

I think I saw about 20 minutes of the movie.

Just when I was considering ripping my uterus out and throwing it against the movie screen my niece Hannah looks at me with big eyes and said, “Aunt Sarah I am so glad today is Thursday. I’ve been excited about seeing you all week. This is probably the best day of my life.”

Kids. What assholes.

They really know how to tug the heartstrings.

“Hannah, every day with you is the best day of my life.”

“I KNOW, RIGHT?”

There’s nothing cuter than a child who mimics my annoying speech patterns.

The nerds were talking about reincarnation yesterday. It wasn’t as spiritual as you might think. They use reincarnation as an excuse to talk about what animals they would like to be.

There were a lot of wolf, tiger and ninja requests.

Go figure.

I know ninjas aren’t animals, but you try telling that to a passionate nerd who collects medieval weapons. I really don’t want a Chinese throwing star lodged into my head.

One nerd is unlike all the others. He’s some sort of nerd hybrid who doesn’t believe in playing hypothetical reincarnation games.

I KNOW, RIGHT?

“Sarah, I don’t want to be reincarnated. After 80 years of life I’ll be done.”

“But what would you do in heaven?”

“Relax, listen to music and stuff.”

“I don’t think that’s how heaven works. I’m pretty sure you have some sort of job, like answering prayers for people.”

“Fine. I’ll be a soldier and fight Satan with a big, glowing sword.”

I should have paid closer attention to church as a kid. I had no idea the Bible was written by George Lucas.

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.

Work has been incredibly busy lately. I’m not complaining… busy means profitable and working for a profitable ad agency is the key to my paycheck.

Busy is typically shadowed by stress. I work better under stress, but I have a harder time focusing than usual. Focus has always been a struggle for me. My mind is always in 20 places at once.

This isn’t schizophrenia people; this is called creativity.

Having problems focusing is bad enough in a normal situation, but when you work with nerds it’s far worse. If you follow my Twitter feed you know that nerd distractions are a constant battle, but also the best part of my day.

Last week I made a conscience effort to stay focused during a meeting. I tried to explain to an especially active nerd what I needed him NOT to do.

“OK, no pen clicking, humming, leg tapping or weird arm movements in this meeting please.”

“Sarah, you really need to work on your distraction techniques.”

“You not bugging the shit out of me IS my distraction technique.”

He looked at me like I’d just melted his favorite Star Wars action figure. The guilt was just too much.

“Fine. You can click your pen, but no more than four times.”

I’m pretty sure he clicked his pen a total of 27 times… not that was counting or anything. In related news, I’m making a trip to the store soon, you know, to find silent pens and a vat of red wine laced with Valium.

Today as I cleaned up all the dog shit in my backyard I ran across this teeny flower:

I stood still and stared at the flower for the next five minutes. Maybe I needed the visual reminder that underneath all life’s shit it’s possible to find something special.

Or maybe I was just scared of stepping in crap.

Last week Lou Reed turned 68, which means it’s only a matter of time before he’s dead.

I’m not being morbid, I’m just planning ahead. I need to steal his sperm before he dies.

I was in junior high school the first time I heard a Lou Reed song. By the first chorus I knew I wanted to make lots and lots of chubby babies with him.

It was his voice.

It’s always the voice. Some woman are attracted to a nice ass or washboard abs. Those qualities are nice, but a sexy voice gets me every single time.

Now that he’s getting older it’s time to make those babies. I’m no spring chicken myself.

I haven’t finalized my plan yet. I know, I know… I’ve had a zillion years to work on it, but I’m a procrastinator, even when it comes to man juice.

Oh. My. God. I just typed man juice and giggled. Maybe I AM a spring chicken after all.

So far my plan involves a flight to New York City and some master stalking skills. When I find him I think I’ll just be frank with him and say, “Hi, Lou, my name is Sarah and I’m here to steal your sperm.”

Just in case he’s not down with it, I’ll have a concoction of Rohypnol and Viagra ready. The plan isn’t perfect yet, but it will be. It has to be. I need those babies, because God forbid my offspring inherit my voice.

This week’s “That’s What She Said” is about my first cooking class–rephrase: my first ATTEMPTED cooking class.