Sarah Bellum's Tales of Wit and Charm

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?