Shopping for One

Walking through the grocery store, you can tell I'm shopping for one by the items in my cart. Mine as well have a sign plastered across my forehead that said "single and ready to mingle." I continue to walk hastily down the aisle ohhhhing and ahhing at the latest wine bottles each sitting in their glass-box freezers, all laden with equally as pretty labels that feign expensive taste. "Two-for-one Special" signage really ruins the connoiseur aspect of my adventure. I'm not a wine-connoiser, nor do I pretend to be. I just need a cheap bottle of vintage grapes to get me through Sleepless in Seattle for the 112th time. Back to Twentysomething.

Sign number one that she's single- she's a) dressed in business casual feigning importance as to signal to everyone including the 18 year old stock boy in the cereal aisle that "Yes, I'm single, but I'm fine with that because I'm an important business woman." (Yeah right. I secretly spend what money I have left after paying rent and bills on a $20 slutty dress from Forever 21 hoping that this time, it might just get me a boyfriend.....oh, how naiive we (I) can be.

b) She's dressed in workout clothes, a dewey forhead, and enough endorphins to make her plastic smiles seem the effect of plastic surgery gone awry. Workout clothes suggest, "Hey, I'm an athletic, healthy girl who occasionally binges on low-fat graham crackers." Come and get 'em boys.

c) The items in my cart couldn't BE any more evidence than is needed. Even a blind two-year old could sense the desperation oozing from my "Lower in sugar Maple Brown Sugar oatmeal." Seriously, who eats that kind of shit, only single twentysomethings. I GUARANTEE you.

Just Plain Awkward

Is it better to be silent, or mutter incessant awkward phrases? I wish I could say that I'm the former, but being as it may, I hate awkward silences, now there's an oxymoron, so I choose to be the latter. That's right, I'm the queen of saying awkward things just to fill the space in a verbal continuum that exists among normal, non-anxiety ridden people.

Imagine this, you like a person, a lot. BUT, instead of being a normal single twentysomething ( I love spelling that out, like it's a club you have to sign up for). Okay, so instead of being a normal single twentysomething, you revert to being the awkard 6th grader that you were at the sock hop- yes, I said sock hop. Deal with it. I find myself saying stupid things and telling stupid stories to make everyone else around me laugh. The result? Stories that just make me look plain stupid, and just plain awkward.

Webster's dictionary categorizes awkward-ness as UNGAINLY and lacking GRACE. Well I laugh in the face of awkwardness, I'm naming my first daughter Grace, just so her name answers any lingering questions.

No Apologies

Elevator Small Talk

You have seven floors to say "hi." After that, the doors close and the probability of ever seeing your stranger again, is next to nothing. Listen carefully, because next time you find yourself in this square box breathing in the same air as your neighbor, you'll think twice before staring down at his shoes searching desperately for something interesting on his shoelaces to concentrate on. Instead, you'll step into the air-tight deathtrap (pardon my pessimism, but if you really think about it, you're riding in a flying box suspended in the air held only by a 2-guage cable) stare that person directly in the face, and say "hi."

Isn't it funny how fascinating your nail-beds become when you're riding in the elevator. In an effort not to make contact with your neighboring passengers, your hangnails suddenly become the most interesting thing about you, and you force yourself to fix a serious gaze onto them, well aware that the Suit next to you is probably wondering what's so great about your nails.

Then there's the nonchalant glance at your phone, as if you could care less whether or not you have a missed called. (Although you've been compulsively checking it like clockwork waiting for the bell to go off alerting you that yes, someone else in this world does know you exist other than your Mother. By the way, parents and siblings should count against your call log. It's their job to call you, doesn't count in my book.)

Then there's scenario B. You step over the ledge separating the stationary world from the moveable world when Mr. Litheeeyum holds your stare, wishes you a good afternoon, and picks up a conversation with you as if you're an old friend. After you realize there isn't anyone else in this small room and yes, he's talking to you, it's too late, he's already staring at you wondering if you're a mute because you won't answer his question. You hastily spit out "yes" and nod your head politely, secretly praying he didn't ask if you worked Sunset Boulevard at 4am and that's why you looked familiar. Next stop, reality and the doors open.

Who knows, maybe your deathtrap is really the window to the start of something. Note to self: the stairwell should always be your section option. Moveable rooms are much more interesting.

Since writing this post, "Huh" has become much more confident about riding in elevators with boys.

Ann Taylor's Closet

I looked in my closet the other day and stopped dead in my tracks. I’ve never seen so many muted colored cardigans in my life. All neatly stacked against equally as muted button-down shirts. Neither have I ever seen so many knee-length black skirts. All just dark enough to cover that oatmeal you spilled yesterday, er last week. So I’ve officially opened up an account at Ann Taylor. Ann Taylor for goodness sakes! I used to sit bored on the floor in the dressing room there waiting and waiting for my mom to choose something, anything. I just wanted to get out of there. Now I find myself wandering in there during lunch breaks oohing and ahhing at the latest spring kitten heels and asking the perky sales lady if they happen to have that in a size 6 ½. Excuse me while I vomit. I must wander into the thrift store my next lunch break even if it’s just to sit in the “dressing room” to get away from the kitten heels and cap sleeves chasing me in my dreams. So, it’s official. I have Ann Taylor’s closet. Next.

Le Vending Machine

So my mom used to prepare my lunch in middle school. Then I got to college and my Pony Express card magically produced a plate heaping with warm food from the questionable cafeteria, aptly called “Café.” Let’s just call it what it really is okay. It’s a cafeteria complete with hairnets and steel serving-spoons wedged inside amorphous casseroles. Then came the egregiously happy lunch lady at the sorority house. Beaming every day with the one goal to “strengthen your bones” aka cook every Mexican dish oozing with cheese in the books. Then there’s the real nightmare. You have to actually start cooking for yourself when you get home from work. And when I say “cook,” I really mean that a man named George who owns a grill and a cold-looking microwave start to look like your two new best friends. You now know which button to press for every conceivable frozen dinner at the grocery store. The vending machine at work also starts call your name around 4 in the afternoon. You’ve even convinced yourself that gummi bears are a sort of vitamin source. A4 $.75. Wow.

Rest in Peace Frat Boy

Behind every sorority girl is a King-of-the-World Frat Boy. And with every Frat Boy, there’s an entourage of even more frat boys. All beating their chests in unison, begging for the title Fastest Man Chugger on Campus (must be read in a loud booming voice.) Dear Frat boy, the day has finally come to hang up that paddle. Your weapon of choice now? The ability to “shoot off an e-mail” at the speed of light and the chance to “circle back with your team with a quickness.” Neither of which requires physical stamina or sweat beads. Yes, we know you used to be able to bench-press 180 at the gym whilst eyeing the ladies. Gone are the days when it was “cool” to be sweating beer the next day. Here’s another tip, resist the urge at the next office happy hour to crush your beer can against your forehead. Next time your colleague makes a funny joke, just extend your forearm in the form of a high-five. It doesn’t involve a huge bruise on your forehead, I promise. Oh yeah, and if you see a stack of quarters sitting neatly in front of your boss at the bar, by all means, don’t start flipping them, or his beer glass. It will only end in embarrassment. So may you Rest in Peace Frat Boy. I’ll bring you a six-pack next time you “score” a Client.

Rest in Peace Sorority Girl

Sooner or later (hopefully sooner rather than later), we have to put the sorority girl inside of us to rest. Put her in the urn, bury her in your backyard, unfurl the ashes at White Rock Lake. It doesn’t matter your mourning of choice, just make sure she doesn’t go to your next conference call. And for goodness sakes, never, I say never, respond to someone with “shut up, are you serious?” You’ll surely be met with a look of astonishment and the lingering question of since when was it back in style to be so Clueless. (Don’t we all remember learning the meaning of the word spo-ra-dic, thanks to Cher and Ambular). Here’s another tip, when you’re working on professional recruitment, suppress the heaving urge to make a slide show of each guy/girl’s photo with their resume posted neatly beside it. And don’t call yourself the Recruitment Chair either. No, I’m not kidding. So may you Rest In Peace sorority girl. I’ll bring you flowers to next year’s bid day.

Who Said Minimum Wage

Twenty-three years of no responsibility. Seriously, think about it. Up until now, all we’ve had to worry about is getting in and out of school without a DUI, a DWI, an MIP and avoiding every other letter in the alphabet. Then came spring semester and that numbing feeling of what the hell am I going to do with the rest of my life. You had to sit there and pretend like you didn’t have a care in the world about your future plans, meanwhile secretly freaking out and voraciously posting your resume on monster.com. Then one day your phone rings, the offer’s made, your stomach jumps into your throat, and suddenly you’re on cloud nine celebrating your non-existent working girl alter-ego. Slow down there, you’re not VP just yet. Cloud nine hovers until day one, then reality sets in. Minimum wage: wait what?

Piscean Intuition

So I'm pretty sure this is just a really cool amatuer video, but I'd rather ere on the side of cool rather than amateur. So just ignore the cheesiness of the kissing, if you consider it so. If you're like me, you'll appreciate this for it's visual attention. Another copout reason why i like this video so much is because of the water. I can honestly say that I'm happier when I'm near water, and I seem to think it's because I'm a Pisces.

Individuals born under this sign are thought to be tolerant, modest, dreamy, romantic, humorous, generous, emotional, receptive, affectionate, and have an honest character, but are also prone to exaggeration, fickleness, passiveness, hypersensitivity, and paranoia. Pisceans are said to like mystery and solitude to dream in.

Stick a fork in it, it's done. That's me to a tee. Now focus on the video.

Lost in Translation

I really like that movie, Lost in Translation, but that's not what this is about. This one's about music. I really like music, a lot, but there's this problem. Since I do have short term memory, or lazy memory as my mom likes to call it, I've never learned all the lyrics to one song, except probably some hymn they made us sing in twelve years of Catholic shcool, but that wasn't by choice. That was more of the soundtrack to us passing notes in chapel or scribbling notes on our plaid skirts. Off-track again...

So, yeah, I don't know the words to most songs, but I genuinely enjoy those songs. Like this one, by Postal Service. See, this is why I actually miss C-Ds, for the simple fact that the jackets contain the words. I used to stare at those when I'd buy a CD at Tower Records.

Short Term Memory

I have something confess. Mind you, this will be the first in a litany of rather over-exxagerated confessions. Which brings me to my first confession. I suffer from short term memory. I could be in the middle of an intense thought when I'm immediately distracted by another. It's a constant battle of which one is going to win my static attention. More often than not, they all win, which is why when I'm listening to somone speak to me, I only absorb 50% of what is coming out of their mouth. And what I do absorb, is usually immediately forgotten or filed away for future purposes. So while my mind is going 100MPH trying to decide which thoughts I'm actually going to process, whatever information I do absorb becomes a short-lived visitor.

Which brings me to the reason why I wrote this. It's not that I'm not listening to you (well, partly). It's more of well, I can't hear you. Too much going on up there, mostly non-sense.

We All Edit What We Don't Write

I tend to make my point five minutes later than I should, some would call it long-winded, others call it buying time. I blame it on the fact that I don't know what I'm saying until I say it, and the fact that I hate awkward silences. I was one of those kids who liked essay tests in high school, nothing like a blank page to dirty up. More space to write. More space to edit.

So here's your chance to edit what you never wrote.