skip to main |
skip to sidebar
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.
After turning a year older it's probably best to make sure you continue with your regular routine of sleep. Not just because you're OLD and OLD (seriously, I think I need to train the coworkers on things that you just do not say out loud), but also because 12hrs of sleep spread out over a weekend does not qualify as enough cycles of REM. Especially for a person who believes that 10pm is a totally appropriate hour for bed, when the only thing on T.V. is Law and Order SVU reruns, which hellooooo I have already watched. Twice.
Also, it's probably best to avoid reading a stack of birthday cards when your already hyper emotional, for no clear reason other than that you are a girl. An overly emotional girl. The words "I miss you" from three consecutive friends, and one hand-made wonder from your Mom, will result in tears that know no end. Keep in mind though, I also welled up this weekend reading an article from the NY Times Real Estate section. Because there is nothing like genius floor plans to make a girl really turn on the waterworks.
On a completely unrelated note, I'm starting to suspect that I will singlehandedly keep the bodega downstairs in business on the basis of ice cream sales alone. Just a guess.
After spending the long weekend in the mountains of New Hampshire, I have decided that if NH was a person we would totally make out. I might even let New Hampshire hold my hand and take long, romantic walks up a mountainside together. THAT IS HOW MUCH I HEART YOU NH. Why so much love for the Granite State? Mostly because my family knows better than to ask if I am "feeling ok" or to ponder out-loud if I "just finished crying" when I walk into a room. Because in spite of evidence to the contrary, my dear coworkers, I did not just finish crying - that is simply how I look sans makeup. But thanks in advance for pointing out that this "look" doesn't so much work for me. I appreciate it. Really.
Also, you're just not going to have conversations like these in NYC:
S (glancing around the room): Is it safe to say that these people are all kind of granola-y???
J (without hesitation): Uh, yeah. We call it "crunchy".
S: I bet they all brush with Tom's of Maine.
J: Definitely.
In the last month or so my apartment was somehow taken over by a mouse. Initially, when I spotted him darting across the living room, I had a good old fashioned freak out and proceeded to text Julie messages like "MOUSE. I HAVE A MOUSE!"... which was followed up with much saner messages like "MOUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE. I AM LOSING MY SHIT." I saw him often enough in the last few days, that I took to stomping around the apartment in my Ugg boots every night when I got home from work. I looked like Atilla The Tall Dutch Hun. Finally, this past weekend I dragged The Uncle to the hardware store. After consulting with our local Sears Consultant we went old school, and bought a set of six bait'em and squish'em traps.
Theoretically, I was relieved to finally be dealing with the mouse issue. While stomping around the apartment does have its own entertainment value, consistently freaking the hell out every time something darts across the room, does not. Also, that little sucker ate my cashew nuts thereby forcing me to toss the whole bag. For anyone who reads this site but does not have the pleasure of knowing me in real life, it's safe to say that you do not want to get between me and my snacks.
Yesterday morning I checked all the traps and sure enough, Fivo was there staring back up at me. I disposed of him and proceeded to make gaggy faces for the next half hour. THEN last night in the middle of the Gossip Girl finale, I heard two traps go off in the living room. Two traps. In the room where I was sitting. Internet, I do not consider jumping up to stand on the couch while yelling "Ewwww. Ewwww. OH LORD IT'S STILL WIGGLING!!!!!!!!" an overreaction. I dare say it was tame, because I swear on snacks and everything else that is good and holy, I have never wished for a boyfriend more. So I did what all single girls do when they live alone, and are faced with things that should be handled by those without a gag reflex. Chugged a beer and edged it into a dust pan. This morning there was another one, which leads me to believe that Fivo did not in fact go west, but instead invited the whole damn clan up to my place for a party. I'll keep you all posted, but in the meantime I'll be the one stomping around 1R in her boots.
----
Edit: Unfortunately, the title of this post did actually come out of my mouth. I said it yesterday while riding in the car with The Uncle, only to glance over and notice him staring at me, like "Woman, I'm about to beat you with a Websters and I won't even feel bad. Your parents will thank me." So, I stared back and stated as eloquently as I possibly could, "I write good." In my family, it's not so much a function of being right all the time, as it is pretending like you are even when you know the facts are stacked against you. Because facts? They are just small, insignificant details standing in the way of you winning an argument.
Yesterday my coworkers and I got into in-depth discussion of The Secret. Which led me to conclude, without having ever cracked the cover, that it's some kind of new age tripe that begs to be made fun of. I happily obliged them.
Not believing it, hasn't stopped me from having conversations with the universe. Last night, after stepping on my new sunglasses and getting another parking ticket, I stood in the middle of my kitchen and was all "Listen Universe, I just don't think today was your best work, dawg. I mean, you've got 13 billion+ years of practice, I expect more from you at this stage of the game. Today just didn't do it for me."
Apparently, I DO believe that conversations with Universe require channeling Randy Jackson. Who knew.
