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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!

If there’s any one talent I hold it’s the ability to make a complete fool out of myself at any given moment. If that and sarcasm were an Olympic sport I would rock the gold. I’m completely self-taught. I only admit this because it reflects poorly on my mother when I fall down the same stairs on a weekly basis. She did teach me to walk. Though I am the one who felt the need to walk, talk, boss people around and text message all at the same time. No wonder I fall down a lot.

I’m used to looking like a fool. I’ve been doing it for quite some time–On my own, without any help from others.

So for example if we dated a few times and now work in the same building there is no need to make me look stupid, because chances are I’ve already done that on my own by walking down the hall with toilet paper stuck to my shoes. Twice. In one day.

Trust me, I’ve got the “looking like a buffoon” thing covered. So really there is no need to hang a column I may or may not have written about you for your co-workers to see, causing them to look at me with pity and loathing. Frankly, I’d much rather they dislike me because I accidentally shut the elevator doors on their foot, or knock them over when I trip on nothing in the hall way.

What I’m saying is I don’t need any help looking like an ass. Ever.

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!

Gloria Gaynor has nothing on me–I did survive! Although, bruised and humiliated, but that’s a given anytime I leave the house.

For a less “Fuuuuu-ck” filled video clip go here. And to see the very bruised and swollen damage go here.

1) Just because it tastes good in a restaurant doesn’t necessarily mean it will taste good at home unless you actually know how to cook. I don’t.

2) Reusable grocery bags are useless when left in the car. They are however, handy for helping to carry groceries inside the house.

3) Childless grown men milling around the Easter Bunny at the mall are just plain creepy. Avoid at all costs, or get their phone number for Maddie.

When news of Patrick Swayze’s cancer broke I created a shrine on The Kid’s desk. He was less than pleased–he’s way too young to remember the importance of Dirty Dancing. To this day I still find ways to fit in as many quotes from the movie into daily conversation as possible.

The Kid retaliated, and did a mighty fine job of it! Looks like nobody puts The Kid in a corner.
As a reward for such great humor I’m not going to boss him around, or read useless Hollywood gossip to him for five whole minutes.

After years and years of excuses I’m finally going to learn to snowboard this weekend. As an ex-instructor Mrs. AK has happily agreed to teach me. Being married to AK has given her enough patience that I feel comfortable with her having the patience it will take to teach a klutz like me. Plus she promised we could drink wine afterwards.

I’m still planning on being very allergic to snow, and the cold. Which is why Mrs. AK carefully chose the warmest weekend possible to go. She knows me well.

Why this year? Truthfully I’ve run out of valid excuses.

1994-2000 Too scared of heights to be bothered.
2001 Too cheap to spend the money.
2002 Busy finding excuses to avoid the Olympics
2003 Washing my hair. All Winter long!
2004 Sundance.
2005 Kidney stones for Christmas and a new relationship kept me too busy.
2006 The great ear infection of ’06 was enough of an excuse.
2007 Not working and couldn’t justify spending the money.

My goal is zero injuries. Wish me luck! I’ll most certainly need it.

I detest public restrooms. The idea of communal germs completely freaks me out. My mother passed this fear down to me as a small child, producing an adult germ freak much like herself.

In addition to my germ phobia I have a wild imagination, so you can imagine my horror when I was faced with using this bathroom at a friend’s office. Needless to say I didn’t. I would have peed my pants before letting creepy heads watch me taking care of business.

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.