That’s What She Said

Drinking Games–This shot at sports proves it’s really about the shots at the bar.

by Sarah Nielson

snielson@inthisweek.com

I’ve never been much of an athlete. In fact, I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding all sports-related activities. I suffered enough humiliation in gym classes as a kid that I’ve spent my entire adult life shunning all things sports. Especially ball sports – those childhood dodgeball bruises weren’t just physical ones.

When a friend of mine sent an e-mail about trying to find people for her kickball team, I thought, “What the hell?” It’s not like I had anything else going on Thursday nights, and maybe it was time to get over my fear of sports.

The kicker was when I found out the entire league goes to the bar together afterwards. I thought it would be a great way to meet new people. However, I overlooked one tiny detail: I have no athletic ability, and would soon be making a fool of myself in front of these people.

When I expressed this fear to my friend, she assured me that our team was there to have fun and none of the players were the competitive type. She also reminded me about the mid-season and end-of-season parties. I remembered hearing how much fun they had been the previous season, so I gave in and signed up.

I had the foresight to also sign up my younger, and much sportier, brother. It was the only way to be forgiven for any kickball blunders I would make during the season.

The first game went off without a snag, at least on my end. At the end of the game, there was a fight between the opposing team and the referee over a call, which I found more humorous than distressful.

It was the second game that made me want to give up kickball and find a sport more geared towards me. Something like synchronized drinking.

When it was my turn to kick I stood way too close to the plate. I admit I wasn’t really paying attention, but didn’t see why a woman on the opposing team felt the need to make snarky comments about it.

I’m the master of snark, but even I have my limits. I was livid. Frankly, if I thought I could have thrown the ball and hit her in the face, I would have. Instead, in a flustered state, I kicked the ball and got out at first. The second time I was up I didn’t fare any better.

I skipped the bar in lieu of a paper I needed to write for school, and immediately went home following the game. The thought of running into that woman at the bar may have had a little something to do with it as well.

I promised myself I’d play another couple of games before quitting. In life I’ve found having a plan helps me accomplish my goals. My plan is to drink enough before the game that I’m unaware of the fact I’m actually playing a sport.

It’s a well-thought-out plan and one that I hope will help. The pleasant buzz may also help with any anger issues if the next team decides to cop attitude. After all, a bottle of vodka is much cheaper than anger management classes.

To learn more about Salt Lake City’s kickball league visit www.kickball.com.

I was on my way to pick up my brother, Ben, and his girlfriend for the Ben Folds/Ben Lee concert when he called me.

Ben: “Hey, Sarah, quick question for you.  Do my hips swivel when I walk?”

Sarah: “Yup.  It’s like some crazy hip phenomenon.  I’m sure that’s why you’re always complaining about hip pain.”

Ben: “Hmm… no matter what, when my girlfriend asks you say no.”

His girlfriend didn’t ask, and I really don’t want to know why they were discussing my brother’s hips, just like he really didn’t want to read about my vibrator on the Internet.

I’m obsessed with Rlo’s balls. As I type this I’m suddenly wondering if his family members have stumbled upon this blog. Hmm…

At my last job I had a co-worker who occasionally rode his bike to work. Now, I understand bikers wear spandex, but when you arrive at the office you should change immediately. No one deserves to see co-workers in plum smugglers. NO ONE!

I don’t know if he forgot he was in spandex, or if he just got busy before changing. Whatever the case, I hated it. The first few times he tried to discuss work with me, while wearing spandex, I would politely ask him to put pants on. After a month of this I lost patience and told him I can’t work so close to his balls. I need distance! It got to the point I refused to acknowledge his presence until he changed out of his spandex. After a few months he finally broke the spandex habit. Every single one of his future co-workers owes me a bit thanks. Because of me, they will never have to be within close proximity of his balls.

What does this have to do with Rlo’s balls? He, too, is a biker. He, too, wears the dreaded spandex. Whenever Rlo and I make plans I always have to ask how many layers there will be between his balls and me. Before committing to plans, I require a promise of at least two layers. Is that really so much to ask?

Never share your music library with The Kid. He’s very judgmental over my Brittney Spears obsession.

The apartment I rent is currently being reroofed. It’s been a nightmare since day one when the roofers accidentally punched a hole in my bedroom ceiling. It’s definitely made for an interesting week.

My friend Maddie was in my living room changing her clothes when she noticed a man on my balcony. This was disconcerting for so many reasons, but number one being that he wasn’t watching her change. If there’s going to be a strange man standing on my balcony I want him there because he’s peeking in my windows and thinking to himself, “Damn that lady looks hot for 32!”

The noise level has driven my neurotic dog under my bed in an attempt to muffle the noise level. Last night, when trying to coax her out, I noticed she’s been hoarding items under my bed for safekeeping. The stuffed animals and dog bones I understood, but the roof shingles, rusty nails and gum wrappers didn’t make a whole lot of sense. I’m a tad curious to see what other objects the valley winds may blow into my bedroom before the hole is fixed. I’m hoping for a sexy man who cleans bathrooms and pours wine, but I’m worried the only man who could fit through the hole would be Dennis Kucinich. And as much as I love a Democrat in my bedroom, I’d have to pass.

For the past four years I’ve lived in a cute little apartment in the down town area. As much as I’ve loved having a bedroom loft it’s time to let go. I’ve decided to move in with my brother, Ben, in an effort to save some money. I want to buy my own place soon, and I can’t do that without first saving some money.

I should have bought years ago, but in the back of my mind I always assumed I’d get married and we’d buy a house together. I’m now disgusted with myself for waiting. I am independent enough I can do this alone. I hope…

Ben and I lived together a few years ago and the entertainment value was priceless. If you do a quick search for “Ben” on this site, you’ll see why. The kid has a strange fixation with banjos–read here and here. Living alone has been a tad lonely lately, and truthfully I’m excited to have someone human around to talk to–especially since Ben is so weird and always makes me laugh. Read here and here if you don’t believe me.

Ben made me promise I wouldn’t try and run his life, or call him Benjaminoballbaby in front of his friends. I happily agreed because calling him Ben-jina in public is much funnier. For being a straight guy, he sure hates hearing the word vagina.

Maddie and I went to dinner a few weeks ago with a friend of ours. He’s married, older than we are, and Mormon–which would explain why I refer to him as my Bishop. He hates it, which only encourages me further.

After dinner we headed back to my place for some Girl Scout cookies. I’d like to point out I am not in the habit of taking married men home with me. He invited himself, I promise.

I was busy trying to talk my neurotic one-eyed dog out of jumping off the balcony because I invited a stranger into our home, that I didn’t notice the Bishop walk upstairs into my bedroom. I never, ever walk into someone’s bedroom without asking because I know what people keep in bedrooms! I’m a single girl living alone so I’m not exactly in the habit of putting away my… ahem, “unmentionables” or the batteries that go along with them.

When I finally realized he was upstairs my face went white, my jaw dropped. Maddie knew exactly what my reaction meant. Her eyes doubled in size as she whispered, “Sarah, where is your you know what?” “Laying in the middle of my unmade bed,” I whispered back. We both remained silent hoping he would walk back down the stairs and without making his way to my bed. Suddenly a booming voice from above hollered, “Hey what’s the story behind this poem above your bed?”

It was everything I could do to not scream: get the fuck out of my bedroom! Instead I took a deep breath and rose above my humiliation and answered, “It’s a Dorothy Parker poem.”

The good Bishop has not mentioned it to me, but if I get struck by lightening anytime soon I’ll know he mentioned it to god.

I took part in a local news show called On the Record with Chris Vanocur. Also on the show were Jon and Heather Armstrong. It airs Sunday, but you can watch the video here.

When I was told the writer of Dooce was taking part I was pissed. This meant I would have to switch out my purse. I mean, sure, I thought it would be cool to meet her since we have so much in common—we both watch “The Hills” and I have a feeling she knows the super secret that I do: THE SHOW IS REAL, DAMN IT!

But the purse issue took precedence!

A couple of months ago George! sent me an article about his cousin Heather (Dooce) I couldn’t get past the picture to read the article. Her purse was incredible, and I knew I had to have it. And really can you blame me? The retro style print is amazing and those colors? Perfect for spring!

After hours of unsuccessfully searching online I gave up. The next day I couldn’t get that purse off my mind. I convinced myself the purse and I were totally meant to be. And we must have been, because I finally found it and immediately ordered it.

I knew it was a risk as I live in the same city as Heather, but I figured the chances of me ever running into her were slim. I forgot to take into consideration the gods of fate hate me, because a few days later she posted the purse in her daily style section. Within a day the purse was sold out.

The next day a friend of mine complimented the purse and said that it looked familiar. OF COURSE IT DID, because it was posted online for millions of Dooce readers to see. The purse is now fondly referred to as the “Dooce ruined my life” purse. Despite the fact half the world now owns the purse I still carry it daily. So, you’ll understand my annoyance at having to switch purses for the filming. After all, nothing says crazy stalker like showing up with the exact same bag as an Internet rock star.

I don’t understand why everyone feels the need to inform me that “The Hills” is not real, and in fact, a very scripted television series. My question is why is it so important to people who don’t even watch the show?

A friend, who shall remain nameless because he’s a giant baby about being written about on this site, felt the need to lecture me on “The Hills.” My friend who has never seen ONE SINGLE EPISODE, is currently as obsessed with the show as I am, but for all the wrong reasons! He’d much rather lecture me on the validity of the show than sit down and watch an episode.

After a heated discussion his final argument was, “Come on Sarah, you’re much smarter than this.” Which translated into “Sarah, I woke up this morning with the sole intention of pissing you off.”

And guess what? IT SO, SO DID!

Last night, someone I met for the first time, also insisted the show wasn’t real. If I had known him longer than forty minutes I would have jumped up and down screaming until he admitted the show is not only real, but incredible, and then bought him a drink to celebrate being on Team LC.

Let me live in my tiny world of denial. Because it’s like totally awesome, overly tan and pretty.

In Utah This Week–Pick Your Poison: Bret Michaels chooses his whoriffic winner of ‘Rock of Love,’ then melts hearts in SLC.

When I heard the “Rock of Love” tour was coming to Salt Lake City, there was only one thing to do: GO!

I’ve loved Bret Michaels since that fateful day in junior high school when the bus driver played Every Rose Has Its Thorn on the way home from school. I was thirteen years old; I was in love. I begged and begged my mother to buy me a Poison tape but she refused– she wasn’t big on glam metal. If she had her way, I would have fawned over John Denver, not some lead singer of a band named Poison. That’s right folks; I’ve been disappointing mothers since 1975.

Sunday night my friend, and fellow groupie, Aimee headed out to the ‘burbs to see our beloved perform. As it turns out we weren’t the only girls up for a night of wild Bret. The place was absolutely packed. Luckily, we managed to bypass the line that wrapped around the building, and headed straight in to meet with the tour manager. I begged him to tell me who had won Bret Michael’s heart, but instead he directed me to the bar where the “Rock of Love 2” season finale was to going to be aired shortly.

After ordering our obligatory vodka tonics, we found a quiet corner with a TV just in time to watch the show starting. It wasn’t long before our quiet corner turned into a madhouse. Everyone wanted to see which stripperesque contestant Michaels chose. Out of the two finalists, Amber and Daisy, I liked Amber much better, but appreciate Daisy for the crazy train-wreck that she is. When Michaels announced that Amber was indeed his rock of love, the crowd erupted with cheers and deafening whistles. Apparently train-wreck Daisy wasn’t a favorite of anyone but her plastic surgeon, who incidentally, should be shot for the horrible lip injections she was seen sporting throughout the show.

Shortly after the finale finished, the main event started. I really had no idea what to expect. I didn’t actually read the press release past his name and date of the show. What I thought would be Michaels and a parade of the women from his show, was really an intimate concert with just my beloved. Aimee and I were able to snag a great spot near the stage. I wanted to be close enough to see the sweat glisten off his body, and thankfully I was. The chosen song for Michaels to come on stage to was Guns and Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.” I thought it sort of an odd choice since it wasn’t a Poison song, but once he was on stage he announced he’d not only be singing some of his old stuff, but some of his favorite cover songs.

I’ve got to hand it to him; the guy can certainly rock a microphone. After a few songs, he had his bodyguard from the TV show, Big John, pass out beers to the audience. I’m never, ever, throwing that bottle away.

The remainder of the show was mind-blowing; I’m just as much in love with him as ever. And as for the V.I.P. after party? What happens backstage stays backstage. Sorry kids, but my lips are sealed.

Upset you missed the fun? Don’t fret–Bret Michaels is coming back to SLC on July 3rd to kick off his summer Poison tour– info at www.poisonweb.com.