clearly, I have no dignity

I wish I had a plausible excuse for disappearing off the face of the internet for the last month or so. But, to be totally and completely honest, Internet, I don't. Not that I don't love you. We've got a pretty good thing going right now. You're like cheap therapy and for that, my whole family thanks you.

In other less boring news, I joined Match.com. That slapping noise you just heard was the sound of my mom's jaw hitting the keyboard. And that tinkling noise? Uh-huh. She's reaching for the keys.

Before you start giggling like a hyena with a caffeine problem, let me just explain. I joined on a whim and then I filled the damn profile in a less whim-inspired moment. After that, I sat and waited. As of this post 862 people have viewed my profile and from those 862 people an infinite number have winked, sent flirty messages and in every other fathomable way possible, tried to assert that we were DEFFINITELY a match. Apparently men are able to reach this stunning conclusion by staring at a picture for a few minutes. But here's the thing, I sort of hate it. Except now it's like a bad relationship that I don't know how to get out of because Match is still charging me for this stupid experiment.

The feeling vaguely resembles that of a first date where one person (me) just wants to make googley eyes at the other person and the other person (match.com) wants to go to third base with my bank account. To state the perhaps not-so-obvious: I am just not that kind of girl. So now I'm back to square one. Making googley eyes at real people rather than a computer screen and feeling much more comfortable with the current state of things in general. That said, if you happen to know any single men living in the NY metropolitan area who are between the ages of 24-30, taller than 5'11, are emotionally available but not too mushy because that makes me all itchy and uncomfortable AND are ok with the fact that I will always love sweatpants more than I love them, will swear like a sailor but still expect their butt to be in a church pew come Sunday then for shitsakes, hook a girl up.

I have to say, the BEST and I mean tears-rolling-down-my-face-laughing email that I received was this one from a guy who I can only describe as a crazy bigot who couldn't spell worth beans.

"I don't know if you understand this, so let me spell this out for you.......You are a good-looking woman and your probably really annoying, I mean you really do appear annoying and I bet most of your past
boyfriends cheated on you b/c your so annoying....So get up and go annoy everyone in America, b/c you seem to be an expert on it.

P.S you should change your intro to hi my name is Sarah and I'm really annoying...."

Sadly, I just don't think it's going to work out between us.

whoops

If anyone needed proof that I am not remotely prepared to be a parent, they needed only listen to my mom's voice mail from last night. "Hey love, this is mom. Just calling to see how your weekend was...if you went to NJ...how the baby is doing. Also, just wanted to make sure that you were ok after your date with Abdul."

Interpretation: Because if you are NOT ok, I will most definitely drive down there in your defense and do things that the Lord himself might disapprove of (full disclosure, my mom is a pastor).

In highschool I went to my senior prom with a boy who was in college. A boy who had played football. About two weeks after the event, I told my dad I was pregnant just to see what his reaction would be. This was my own form of entertainment - watching my dad change from an odd shade of green to straight up pissed. But in this particular instance, it hadn't even crossed my mind that my parents would read this post and wonder if I'd gotten myself into a situation I couldn't handle. In truth, Abdul was a gentleman. A gentleman who winked. A lot.

We go get dinner *wink*...I move, but I come visit *wink*... I get job with city, and then we go somewhere special!! *wink, wink*... I call you, yes? *wink*... ooooooh no, we have to say goodnight? *wink*

As if Abdul didn't make the night interesting enough, we managed to get ourselves into a political debate with the only other diner sitting in the restaurant. We were sitting there chatting about the upcoming election and how pretty Hillary's pant suit looked on this last debate and how Barack is so friggen' great that it warms my politically apathetic heart. Then out of no where, random lady pipes up from across the room that the media is treating Hil "SO unfairly" and being "TOTALLY BIASED towards Barack... because, well, because he's Black and they don't want to appear racist!"

I tried very hard to wipe the "wtf" expression off my face. I suspect that I failed miserably.

Fortunately, this didn't seem to bother her a whit and she proceeded to blather on for a few minutes about her own views before bringing up the last election. At which point, I stated quite nicely that I didn't vote in the last election because I couldn't really support either candidate. I didn't like Bush, but I also couldn't figure out what the hell Kerry stood for except that he was "Not Bush." Random lady stared at me, and then (I shit you not) said "Well, then you're just as responsible as Bush is for sending this country to war.

So, there you have it. I am responsible for inducing heart-failure in my parents (sorry guys), and for sending our great nation to war (REALLY sorry about that one, America).

it was the marriage proposal that gave it away

Par for the course, in terms of my dating life, last night I accidentally wound up on a date with my bodega guy.

For those non New Yorkers, a bodega is a little shop on every street corner. They carry beer, toilet paper, an assortment of cookies, ice cream and Cheez-Whiz. In terms of inventory, it is almost like they tore a page out of my diary. The entry that was so aptly entitled “What Makes Life Worth Living.”

I happen to live directly above one of these little shops, which is soopa-fantastic for multiple reasons. First, it means I have no neighbors downstairs to irritate while doing my kick-boxing videos. Second, it means I can pretend that I might (in some other alternate universe), do kick-boxing videos whenever the spirit moves me rather than simply catching up on episodes of The Hills.

On Sunday mornings, I romp down the steps in my sweatpants and fuzzy slippers, walk all of two feet to the store to pick up The NY Times. Then, I march up the street to get a pumpernickel everything bagel. I do this every single weekend. And so, I see Abdul every single weekend.

Last night, I got home and Abdul was standing outside the store. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, how quickly this week was going and then, just as I was about to head inside, he asked “want to go get some food?” And I, being an idiot, thought to myself “THAT’S SO NEIGHBORLY!!!”

Turns out that in this particular case, Abdul’s definition of “neighborly”, involved getting to know each other in the biblical sense …I think that perhaps he was referencing a different dictionary than I was.

on becoming Mrs. Lee

S: I don’t think I can date him…
Uncle: Why?
S: Apart from the fact that he makes me want to toss my phone across the room?
Uncle: Well yeah, apart from that.
S: If I married him what would my name be?
Uncle (snorts and then starts giggling like a little girl): Sarah Lee! …but think about all the cute pet names!!!!!!!! DATE HIM.
S: Muffin…
Uncle: Cupcake…
S: Aww my little strudel…
Uncle: You could name your kids after pastries!
S: Ooo you’re a sassy little Tart aren’t you.

(this went on for a good 10 minutes)