And now for the blog posting that came much too soon. The LAST DAY OF SUMMER VACATION, BLOG 2009. The air has gotten a little bit cooler, and it is beginning to get dark a little bit earlier...this is the end of summer. (Taylor Townsend--The OC--anyone!?)
I have the Sunday night blues, big time. I haven't had these so-called blues in almost three months, and I'll tell ya--I did not miss the sinking pit in my stomach Sunday nights this summer. Who doesn't love living 5 days for 2? Everybody's working for the weekend. Where oh where did the summer go? It feels like only yesterday, that I was sitting at my computer writing my last day of school blog, feeling so saddened by the end of the school year.
What kind of crack was I smoking!?
I have been off now since June 12th, and this is the life. Anyone that tells you otherwise has clearly never had a 2.5 month paid vacation.
I know that most of you who work 12 months a year do not feel sorry for me. In fact, you probably hate my guts--but I think we can all agree that the longer you are off from work, the harder it is to get back. I will miss my lack of routine. Waking up when my body wants to, not at 6:30 am, (which I am so greatly looking forward to doing tomorrow morning). I will miss sending e-mails naked, and spending the day in soffee shorts and a wife beater. (An outfit that I'm pretty sure would be looked down upon in my school). Not to mention-- that the majority of my wardrobe is either too tight or too short for a child-friendly environment. I will miss my ME time all day, every day.
Am I excited to see my work friends, most of whom I have not seen since school ended? Sure! Though, I have a feeling that novelty will wear off, once I am putting fadeless bulletin board paper up on the walls (a job that only teachers can understand just how sweaty and miserable). I bid you adoo summertime freedom, and I will continue to mourn your loss every day--until June 2010.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Mike-Jason Take Two
Just in case you were curious, there was a second date with Mike/Jason. Unfortunately for me, I am not sure that there will be a third date. I take full responsibility for that fact, and for the story that I am about to dispose.
Mike/Jason and I decided to meet at eight o' clock on Friday night on the Upper East Side. Seeing as the UES is not my usual stomping grounds (but his), I was not familiar with the restaurant that he had chosen. The shots of bacardi that I had taken (alone in my apartment) probably did not help with my dis-orientation. Taking shots before a date is not one of my finer moments. Can I get away with having 2nd date jitters?
It was raining outside and as per usual, I was running late. I arrived on the corner that Mike/Jason had specified, but I could not find the restaurant. (Could've been the bacaaadi). I did see a boy(man) waiting outside in the rain, clearly a true gentleman. The man was the only other person standing outside, except of course for me. I was certain that I had never seen that human being before in my life. Feeling guilty that I was late, I got on my cell phone and called Mike/Jason to ask him where the restaurant was. (At this point, I had sort of walked around the corner). Mike/Jason answered the phone and said, "Did you just walk past me?I"m outside looking for you."
Busted.
How humiliating. For both of us. OMG, again. I literally did not recognize my date, (the only other person standing outside the restaurant), on our not first, but SECOND date. I'm really on a roll with this guy. Date # 1--I forget his actual name. Date # 2--I forget his actual face. Date # 3--Oh wait, I'm pretty sure that he's never going to call me again. Boys out there reading--what do you think?
Mike/Jason and I decided to meet at eight o' clock on Friday night on the Upper East Side. Seeing as the UES is not my usual stomping grounds (but his), I was not familiar with the restaurant that he had chosen. The shots of bacardi that I had taken (alone in my apartment) probably did not help with my dis-orientation. Taking shots before a date is not one of my finer moments. Can I get away with having 2nd date jitters?
It was raining outside and as per usual, I was running late. I arrived on the corner that Mike/Jason had specified, but I could not find the restaurant. (Could've been the bacaaadi). I did see a boy(man) waiting outside in the rain, clearly a true gentleman. The man was the only other person standing outside, except of course for me. I was certain that I had never seen that human being before in my life. Feeling guilty that I was late, I got on my cell phone and called Mike/Jason to ask him where the restaurant was. (At this point, I had sort of walked around the corner). Mike/Jason answered the phone and said, "Did you just walk past me?I"m outside looking for you."
Busted.
How humiliating. For both of us. OMG, again. I literally did not recognize my date, (the only other person standing outside the restaurant), on our not first, but SECOND date. I'm really on a roll with this guy. Date # 1--I forget his actual name. Date # 2--I forget his actual face. Date # 3--Oh wait, I'm pretty sure that he's never going to call me again. Boys out there reading--what do you think?
Monday, August 17, 2009
Wedding Bells are Ringing
Alright, alright. I apologize for the revolting blog entry written below. But actually, I only half-way apologize for writing it. That entry was real and true--in short, it's me, people. Take it or leave it.
But to prove to all of you that I am not filled with disturbing/disgusting thoughts all of the time, I decided to blog again, and fast. Lucky for me, I had quite an eventful weekend, left with lots to write about.
This past weekend I attended my first wedding of a friend. This was the first wedding, where I was not seated at a table with my older brother and younger sister. This was the first wedding where Grandma Eva's table was not just a mere inch away from mine. Nope, this was the wedding of my childhood friend, Heather--and I was lucky enough to be there with a great crew of friends.
When Heather and I were little, we attended Harbor Hills Day Camp together. This was where we met, and would later go to middle and highschool together. Heather and I used to dress up in "twin" outfits. As small children, it was not just our outfits that were the same. Both of us had light brown hair, blue/green eyes, and had faces smattered with freckles. Both of us were tiny little girls. One particular day we decided to dress up to camp as "twins." We each wore a hot pink tank, paired with black and white checkered shorts. (Even though it was 1990, I would totally wear that outfit again). On some sort of parents Visiting Day, Heather's dad ran up to me and hugged me, thinking that I was his daughter. He never forgot that moment, as it became one of those memories that our parents would bring up at bat-mitzvahs, graduations... and now at Heather's wedding. During the cocktail hour of the wedding,Heather's dad approached me and said, "Looks like you and Heather decided to wear different outfits today."
" Yup...looks like it."
My high school friends and I took our seats and prepared to watch our friend get married. We watched as the bridal party and groomsmen walked down the aisle. As familiar faces glided down that aisle, I waited for the one face I needed to see to make this whole thing real. A dramatic change in music; the doors opened and Heather walked in, her mom and dad on each arm. That was all I needed-- and it looked like I wasn't the only one. I looked at my girlfriends' faces-- completely tear streaked. (Myself included). Naturally, the boys did not cry...but I know this was just as surreal for them, as it was for us. Heather had taken that irreversible plunge towards adulthood. And there was no turning back.
Weddings have always kind of made me a little sad. Something about a father giving his daughter away, really just kind of rips me up inside. Weddings also remind me that I have friends with husbands, and I still don't have a boyfriend. But perhaps, most importantly of all--weddings force me to recognize the fact that (whether we want to or not) we certainly are growing up, and people are announcing their grownupness in front of family, friends and local religious figures alike.
In short, let me say this: The wedding was a total blasty blast. Heather and her HUSBAND (gasp!) walked into the party room to "I gotta feeling." So, I knew--this really was going to be a good, good night. I danced my pants off, drank my face off, and talked to a boy that I made out with nine years ago and had not seen since 2001. An amazing time was had by all. While I felt like I was reliving my youth at a bat-mitzvah, I had to keep reminding myself: this is a wedding, not a bat-mitzvah, and you're not thirteen years old anymore.
And, just in case you (my readers) have not yet realized--this remains to be a constant reminder.
But to prove to all of you that I am not filled with disturbing/disgusting thoughts all of the time, I decided to blog again, and fast. Lucky for me, I had quite an eventful weekend, left with lots to write about.
This past weekend I attended my first wedding of a friend. This was the first wedding, where I was not seated at a table with my older brother and younger sister. This was the first wedding where Grandma Eva's table was not just a mere inch away from mine. Nope, this was the wedding of my childhood friend, Heather--and I was lucky enough to be there with a great crew of friends.
When Heather and I were little, we attended Harbor Hills Day Camp together. This was where we met, and would later go to middle and highschool together. Heather and I used to dress up in "twin" outfits. As small children, it was not just our outfits that were the same. Both of us had light brown hair, blue/green eyes, and had faces smattered with freckles. Both of us were tiny little girls. One particular day we decided to dress up to camp as "twins." We each wore a hot pink tank, paired with black and white checkered shorts. (Even though it was 1990, I would totally wear that outfit again). On some sort of parents Visiting Day, Heather's dad ran up to me and hugged me, thinking that I was his daughter. He never forgot that moment, as it became one of those memories that our parents would bring up at bat-mitzvahs, graduations... and now at Heather's wedding. During the cocktail hour of the wedding,Heather's dad approached me and said, "Looks like you and Heather decided to wear different outfits today."
" Yup...looks like it."
My high school friends and I took our seats and prepared to watch our friend get married. We watched as the bridal party and groomsmen walked down the aisle. As familiar faces glided down that aisle, I waited for the one face I needed to see to make this whole thing real. A dramatic change in music; the doors opened and Heather walked in, her mom and dad on each arm. That was all I needed-- and it looked like I wasn't the only one. I looked at my girlfriends' faces-- completely tear streaked. (Myself included). Naturally, the boys did not cry...but I know this was just as surreal for them, as it was for us. Heather had taken that irreversible plunge towards adulthood. And there was no turning back.
Weddings have always kind of made me a little sad. Something about a father giving his daughter away, really just kind of rips me up inside. Weddings also remind me that I have friends with husbands, and I still don't have a boyfriend. But perhaps, most importantly of all--weddings force me to recognize the fact that (whether we want to or not) we certainly are growing up, and people are announcing their grownupness in front of family, friends and local religious figures alike.
In short, let me say this: The wedding was a total blasty blast. Heather and her HUSBAND (gasp!) walked into the party room to "I gotta feeling." So, I knew--this really was going to be a good, good night. I danced my pants off, drank my face off, and talked to a boy that I made out with nine years ago and had not seen since 2001. An amazing time was had by all. While I felt like I was reliving my youth at a bat-mitzvah, I had to keep reminding myself: this is a wedding, not a bat-mitzvah, and you're not thirteen years old anymore.
And, just in case you (my readers) have not yet realized--this remains to be a constant reminder.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Grossest Blog Entry Of All
Everyone has their alone habits right? You know--those things that you do when you are completely alone, in the privacy of your own home. This may come as a shock to you, (please note the sarcasm), but one of my most favorite alone past times is being naked. I would go ahead and say that 93% of the time that I am home alone in my apartment, and my roommate is at work (Ah, the joy of summer vacation), I am naked. I am eating breakfast naked, vacuming naked, talking on gchat naked, and of course--dancing around my apartment, you guessed it--naked. Sometimes I'll throw on a pair of boxers for good measure. But, I can assure you that is only if I start to feel guilty that my roommate has to sit on the same couch that my bare ass was just touching. (An aside: I really wanted to make a HOME ALONE reference, but didn't feel it fit in above. I am stealing this one from Droom--"Buzz, You're girlfriend, woof.")
So, there--I just shared an alone habit that I have. I have many more alone habits too--most of them are absolutely revolting. And I was just completely horrified by one of them, and I immediately felt the need to blog about it.
Sometimes I pick my nose. So, sioux me? C'mon you guys--we all do it. Who doesn't love pulling out a big crusty one? (I also love picking off the crusties that my earrings leave behind, and picking/smelling my belly button lint). I am sooo totally going to find my husband writing these blogs.
Anyway, back to my nose picking. When I pick a booger out, and it's not easily flick-able, I have developed the disgusting habit of sticking it places. (I know, I am filthy). The number one place to stick my boogers are underneath my desk drawer. It makes sense. I'm amidst typing a really good blog entry, or having a really funny convo on AIM, I simply don't have time to get up and throw my booger away. So instead, I stick it underneath my desk drawer. Tonight was no different. Sitting at my computer, I picked out a good booger, and stuck it underneath my desk drawer...when the unthinkable happened. I accidentally touched a cluster of old boogers. Oh my god. I almost just threw up in my mouth, for realzies. They say old habits die hard. Boy, am I in trouble.
So, there--I just shared an alone habit that I have. I have many more alone habits too--most of them are absolutely revolting. And I was just completely horrified by one of them, and I immediately felt the need to blog about it.
Sometimes I pick my nose. So, sioux me? C'mon you guys--we all do it. Who doesn't love pulling out a big crusty one? (I also love picking off the crusties that my earrings leave behind, and picking/smelling my belly button lint). I am sooo totally going to find my husband writing these blogs.
Anyway, back to my nose picking. When I pick a booger out, and it's not easily flick-able, I have developed the disgusting habit of sticking it places. (I know, I am filthy). The number one place to stick my boogers are underneath my desk drawer. It makes sense. I'm amidst typing a really good blog entry, or having a really funny convo on AIM, I simply don't have time to get up and throw my booger away. So instead, I stick it underneath my desk drawer. Tonight was no different. Sitting at my computer, I picked out a good booger, and stuck it underneath my desk drawer...when the unthinkable happened. I accidentally touched a cluster of old boogers. Oh my god. I almost just threw up in my mouth, for realzies. They say old habits die hard. Boy, am I in trouble.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Mike-Jason
Did you guys miss me?
I took a mini hiatus--it's summer, so sioux me?
I thought I'd slowly inch back into each of your lives with a small tale from my dating adventures.
A few weeks ago, I met a guy at a bar. (Now there's a novel idea!)My feet were hurting from all the dancing I had been doing, so I decided to take a break and bench myself. I eased onto a soft bench. (The kind your butt molds right into). I looked to my right, and saw a girl sitting next to me. As I glanced to my left, I noticed a pretty cute guy. I use the term "pretty cute," loosely, because once the night was over--I had absolutely no recollection of what this fellow looked like. (And as I would find out, his appearance was not the only thing that I would forget). He noticed me, and soon conversation would begin. I can't really remember what we talked about, I just remembered him commenting on my rainbow heart shaped bracelets. (He liked them, and thus--had found the key to my heart). As the night ended, we parted ways--but not without exchanging numbers first. I'm a phone number whore. I'll give it out to anyone who asks. (I know what some of you are thinking--that's not the only thing I'll give away--hehehhohoh). But, really...unless the guy seems completely inept at life, what do I have to lose by giving him my number...there is only like a .432 percent chance that he will call anyway.
As we parted ways, I wondered if I'd ever see my bar cutie again...About four days later, my phone rang, and it was my bar crush--Mike. Score! We made plans to see each other. I was excited, but also growing increasingly nervous. I realized that I could not remember what he looked like. I would not be able to pick him out of a line-up. How would I pick him out when we meet at a bar? It's one thing to meet a blind date, looking around, confused and unsure...but what about when you've already met the person? I'm pretty sure that's just considered rude.
Lucky for me, Mike decided that he would wait outside of the bar to meet me. As the only male standing outside at arrival time, I had a pretty good idea it was him. I greeted him like I'd known him my whole life. As the night went on, we were having a pretty good time. Conversation was flowing, and so were the bacaaaadi and diet cokes. And that's when it happened. Mike was telling a story, where a friend of his had to call his name, "Jasoooon." (They said), "Jason, dude."
Jason!?
I thought his name was Mike, and I had thought that for weeks. I was on a date with a guy who I had literally mis-named. Luckily, I masked my surprise, and lightly punched his arm, "Jason," you're too funny." Crisis averted.
You're probably wondering how on earth I thought his name was Mike? Well. I don't know. I only know this: When Mike/Jason called--he did not have to identify himself--isn't that the beauty of caller id? And anytime I had to call him, it never went to voicemail, so I never heard the, "Hi--you've reached Jason's voicemail." I went with my gut--and my gut told me that his name was Mike.
I'll leave you with this simple moral: Listen carefully when people speak to you. And listen even more carefully, if you've been drinking. Luckily for me, Mike/Jason will never know that I had no idea what his name was...unless of course he reads my blog.
I took a mini hiatus--it's summer, so sioux me?
I thought I'd slowly inch back into each of your lives with a small tale from my dating adventures.
A few weeks ago, I met a guy at a bar. (Now there's a novel idea!)My feet were hurting from all the dancing I had been doing, so I decided to take a break and bench myself. I eased onto a soft bench. (The kind your butt molds right into). I looked to my right, and saw a girl sitting next to me. As I glanced to my left, I noticed a pretty cute guy. I use the term "pretty cute," loosely, because once the night was over--I had absolutely no recollection of what this fellow looked like. (And as I would find out, his appearance was not the only thing that I would forget). He noticed me, and soon conversation would begin. I can't really remember what we talked about, I just remembered him commenting on my rainbow heart shaped bracelets. (He liked them, and thus--had found the key to my heart). As the night ended, we parted ways--but not without exchanging numbers first. I'm a phone number whore. I'll give it out to anyone who asks. (I know what some of you are thinking--that's not the only thing I'll give away--hehehhohoh). But, really...unless the guy seems completely inept at life, what do I have to lose by giving him my number...there is only like a .432 percent chance that he will call anyway.
As we parted ways, I wondered if I'd ever see my bar cutie again...About four days later, my phone rang, and it was my bar crush--Mike. Score! We made plans to see each other. I was excited, but also growing increasingly nervous. I realized that I could not remember what he looked like. I would not be able to pick him out of a line-up. How would I pick him out when we meet at a bar? It's one thing to meet a blind date, looking around, confused and unsure...but what about when you've already met the person? I'm pretty sure that's just considered rude.
Lucky for me, Mike decided that he would wait outside of the bar to meet me. As the only male standing outside at arrival time, I had a pretty good idea it was him. I greeted him like I'd known him my whole life. As the night went on, we were having a pretty good time. Conversation was flowing, and so were the bacaaaadi and diet cokes. And that's when it happened. Mike was telling a story, where a friend of his had to call his name, "Jasoooon." (They said), "Jason, dude."
Jason!?
I thought his name was Mike, and I had thought that for weeks. I was on a date with a guy who I had literally mis-named. Luckily, I masked my surprise, and lightly punched his arm, "Jason," you're too funny." Crisis averted.
You're probably wondering how on earth I thought his name was Mike? Well. I don't know. I only know this: When Mike/Jason called--he did not have to identify himself--isn't that the beauty of caller id? And anytime I had to call him, it never went to voicemail, so I never heard the, "Hi--you've reached Jason's voicemail." I went with my gut--and my gut told me that his name was Mike.
I'll leave you with this simple moral: Listen carefully when people speak to you. And listen even more carefully, if you've been drinking. Luckily for me, Mike/Jason will never know that I had no idea what his name was...unless of course he reads my blog.
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