Today I was regaled with the news that another one of my friends has become engaged. Being the self-absorbed piece of crap that I can be on a frequent basis, I turned this situation into a "woe-is-me" story, rather than being a decent human being and friend and feeling happy for my friend who has found...umm...happiness. I don't feel like using a thesaurus right now.
Instead, I started to count how many of my friends are engaged or married. I was actually kind of shocked by the number; I definitely wasn't expecting as many. Then I thought about how many of my friends are in relationships. Then I realized it's my day off work and that keeping my brain workload to a minimum might not be a half bad idea. I decided to count my single friends. Out of the three groups, my single friends (and I'm counting people I talk to semi-frequently) are the only group in the single digits. When, oh Alpha and Omega, did that happen?
It's no big secret that I've been checking the "single" box for a few years now. This is partly of my own doing; I place a high value on independence and self-sufficiency. However, as I age ever so gracefully, I realize this pattern is not the most socially accepted as you add on more candles on the birthday cake. Seeing as how I have less than a quarter of a century of birthday candles on my cake, I don't think there should be a rush...at all.
Maybe I don't really have anything to worry about. I think sometimes I get a little frustrated thinking that if my friends and I were playing the game of Life (TM) that I would be losing by quite a bit. I'm a pretty competitive person so you can only imagine my outrage at this absurd situation.
Bat-shit crazy grandma doesn't like it when I joke about becoming an old maid, especially while my seventeen-year old cousin brings her boyfriend over before Christmas dinner to meet the family. My mom, the ever-endearing fountain of cliche, says that loves comes when you least expect it. She also told me once that love is awesome and that if I were a lesbian she'd be okay with that. Thanks Mom, but I don't think switching teams is going to help my batting average.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The Spanish Inquisition
Imagine you are sitting at a corner booth in a restaurant where everyone is sitting on one side, you in the middle with two people on either side of you. You, the heretic and non-celebrator of Ash Wednesday, are facing the crowd that has gathered around you (a.k.a. the other restaurant patrons), while members of the high court, err, your family flank either side. To your far left is the grand matron of the court, your bat-shit crazy grandmother. (You can say that because you love her and she is bat-shit crazy). To your immediate left is Father; to your immediate right is Mother; and to the far right is the Aunt you love dearly but drives you nuts because no one should ever be that emotional (at least when intoxicated.)
It's not to say you don't enjoy the magic show otherwise known as your family, because really, where would you be without them? It's your grandmother's empty (or not-so-empty) threats to everyone about eating meat on a holy day that kind of make you feel a little guilty about not stepping foot into a Catholic church for five years but also tell you to keep your mouth shut unless you really do want her to breathe fire. Your quest for some type of faith is not something unknown to your parents and they seem okay with your journey, although you think they would secretly like you to find your way back to your homeslice Pope Benedict and maybe even Jesus if you feel really ambitious. Then there's your mother, who in some way you feel as though you are never going to measure up to. You can't even be confident in the food you're ordering off of the menu because you feel she might be judging you and biting her tongue at the same time, a skill she's excelled at ever since you left for college. Your father, is well your father. You have his eyes, his nose, his big mouth, and his temper. It's a wonder you don't hate one another.
Dinner with the family is usually fine, but rarely without something that goes awry. Like when your grandmother leaves the table for the moment and gossip ensues about which member of family she's hating this week. Apparently it's your uncle, because your aunt has noticed that their wedding picture was face down and backwards among the many others in Grandma's living room. Or when Grandma starts talking bat-shit crazy again and has lovely racist comments to share with all. Then you just wish she'd actually take her bat-shit crazy pills.
Alas, you've escaped dinner unscathed, but maybe you won't be so lucky next time. Maybe it's time to get on that job search or the diet you've put off for about 10 years. Next thing you know you'll be sitting in time-out on Grandma's picture shelf.
It's not to say you don't enjoy the magic show otherwise known as your family, because really, where would you be without them? It's your grandmother's empty (or not-so-empty) threats to everyone about eating meat on a holy day that kind of make you feel a little guilty about not stepping foot into a Catholic church for five years but also tell you to keep your mouth shut unless you really do want her to breathe fire. Your quest for some type of faith is not something unknown to your parents and they seem okay with your journey, although you think they would secretly like you to find your way back to your homeslice Pope Benedict and maybe even Jesus if you feel really ambitious. Then there's your mother, who in some way you feel as though you are never going to measure up to. You can't even be confident in the food you're ordering off of the menu because you feel she might be judging you and biting her tongue at the same time, a skill she's excelled at ever since you left for college. Your father, is well your father. You have his eyes, his nose, his big mouth, and his temper. It's a wonder you don't hate one another.
Dinner with the family is usually fine, but rarely without something that goes awry. Like when your grandmother leaves the table for the moment and gossip ensues about which member of family she's hating this week. Apparently it's your uncle, because your aunt has noticed that their wedding picture was face down and backwards among the many others in Grandma's living room. Or when Grandma starts talking bat-shit crazy again and has lovely racist comments to share with all. Then you just wish she'd actually take her bat-shit crazy pills.
Alas, you've escaped dinner unscathed, but maybe you won't be so lucky next time. Maybe it's time to get on that job search or the diet you've put off for about 10 years. Next thing you know you'll be sitting in time-out on Grandma's picture shelf.
Emo Boy
Last week was kind of a sad week for me. Said goodbye to a job I didn't exactly want to leave and to some coworkers that I kind of miss already. I also said goodbye (unofficially) to Emo Boy.
Emo Boy, for starters, is not really emo. He has emo-like black glasses, but he's possibly got a bigger beer gut I've ever seen on an emo person. He seems like he hates his job enough to be borderline emo. Emo Boy works at Subway. I thought he might be a manager, but in hindsight, he might have just been a plain ol' Sandwich Artist.
Why do I bring Emo Boy up? In all honesty, I'm not sure. In a very non-emo-ish way, he was unconventionally cute. He liked to run his big mouth and became big fans of my coworker and I, as Subway became our weekly lunchtime destination. My coworker exuded homosexuality and quite frankly, I thought it was great. Although there are few feelings more awkward when a group of straight men can hear your friend checking them out. While I one day wish that this would become a little more of a social norm rather than taboo, I don't think it is today, or even last week at our last visit to this Subway. Emo Boy never cared when my coworker hit on him and was pretty nice to him, even giving us a discount one time. Woo! I'd like to think the discount was for me since I was paying that day but maybe Emo Boy was actually hitting on my coworker.
There is no point to this blog other than I associate my old job with Emo Boy and since I miss my job I guess you could say I kind of miss Emo Boy. Yes, that's right, I have a mild attraction to the Sandwich Artist that perfected my Roasted Chicken Breast on Monterrey Cheddar with provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and lite mayo. Case in point: I'm really not that cool.
Emo Boy, for starters, is not really emo. He has emo-like black glasses, but he's possibly got a bigger beer gut I've ever seen on an emo person. He seems like he hates his job enough to be borderline emo. Emo Boy works at Subway. I thought he might be a manager, but in hindsight, he might have just been a plain ol' Sandwich Artist.
Why do I bring Emo Boy up? In all honesty, I'm not sure. In a very non-emo-ish way, he was unconventionally cute. He liked to run his big mouth and became big fans of my coworker and I, as Subway became our weekly lunchtime destination. My coworker exuded homosexuality and quite frankly, I thought it was great. Although there are few feelings more awkward when a group of straight men can hear your friend checking them out. While I one day wish that this would become a little more of a social norm rather than taboo, I don't think it is today, or even last week at our last visit to this Subway. Emo Boy never cared when my coworker hit on him and was pretty nice to him, even giving us a discount one time. Woo! I'd like to think the discount was for me since I was paying that day but maybe Emo Boy was actually hitting on my coworker.
There is no point to this blog other than I associate my old job with Emo Boy and since I miss my job I guess you could say I kind of miss Emo Boy. Yes, that's right, I have a mild attraction to the Sandwich Artist that perfected my Roasted Chicken Breast on Monterrey Cheddar with provolone, lettuce, tomatoes, and lite mayo. Case in point: I'm really not that cool.
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