1. Have a hushed conversastion with Mr. Ray LaMontagne.
2. Perform Jimmy Fallon’s ‘Idiot Boyfriend’ in front of Jimmy Fallon.
3. Get French kissed by a Frenchman in France after eating French toast.
4. Give away the contents of my piggy bank.
5. Open my own bakery.
6. Read ‘War and Peace’. Finally.
7. Have lunch with a stranger.
8. Seduce a younger man.
9. Drive my car as fast as it will go.
10. Unearth a novel that’s hiding in my collection of journals and publish it.
Deciding that the year of 2010 will be the year that I do something about getting out from under the folds of these here gray cubicle walls, I am shopping for culinary schools, pronounced “coolinary school” by some people. There are two to choose from in my royal city. And both of these reputable schools feature impressive facilities with classroom windows instead of walls, a fish bowl that passersby can peek into anytime. Not once during my undergraduate career did anyone peek in on me working towards a degree in International studies, (a degree that in hindsight I should have thought more about since I am not utilizing today what I learned those three and a half years I was in college). Hey, look at me! I’m conjugating verbs in my French 372 class. Oh, la la tres amusant! Seriously, who wouldn’t want to stand in line to see me do that?
Back to the whisk at hand. The median age of students at School A is 19. The median age of students at School B is 25. Every class at School A would be an opportunity for me to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Fresh and impressionable recent high schoolers, imagine all the fun I could have. School B doesn’t provide enough diversity for me, and when I say diversity, I mean challenge.
What would be extrememly challenging would be juggling like a circus clown at working enough hours at my job to afford to keep my awesome house and going to school and having some semblance of a social life. I currently do not have a husband or kids but would like to participate in the dating rituals to one day have them.
So now I am in the middle of applications and transcript requests and searching the sky for money to fall so I can pay for a few semesters of culinary school where I hope to be assigned to a seat next to my future chef of a husband.
In my drug-adled state, my mind is foggy and I’m sounding like a seventy two year old with a pack a day habit. The worst thing about being sick is being sick when it is SO nice outside. Who wouldn’t want to bask in sunny sunshine in the middle of January? I would but I’m stuck inside, personally keeping the Kleenex folks in business with enough snot to fill a bathtub thanks to a dirty co-worker who couldn’t keep his germs to himself. There’s no I in TEAM but there is in SICK!!
Since I cannot shop for a new immune system (believe me that I’ve looked already on ebay), I have taken off work to nurse myself back to health with a dose of Redbox flicks, orange juice and Nyquil nightcaps. So far I have viewed ‘Duplicity’ and ‘Extract’ and ’Leap Year’, totally predictable but staring at Matthew Goode for an hour and a half was more than worth it.
So now I am fresh out of drugs and need to make a dash to the grocer for more, a drug run if you will. And maybe some vodka with which to make a Nyquiltini, Nyquil martini.
My friend Tiffany invited me to an impromptu mani-padi this afternoon at Polish where you can sip on girly drinks while being pampered. Deciding that I needed to excuse myself from the trainwreck marathon that is ’Jersey Shore’, I agreed.
It wasn’t until I stepped out off my New Balances that I encountered an entirely different ‘situation’. I don’t have a boyfriend so my leg shaving sessions are few and far between. I didn’t feel too bad about it for too long. A metrosexual took the massaging chair next to me to have his feet washed, buffed and (clear)polished. He thankfully had longer leg hair than me. So I was free to enjoy my beverage and partake in some girl talk while my toenails were painted a nice shade of purple Peeps.
Have you ever done something with the aid of Yuengling and an Internet connection and then woken up the next morning regretting hitting the “send” button? I may or may not have had one of those nights last night. And so all day today I may or may not be incessantly checking my inbox as many times as there are hours in the day looking for a reply, some sign of life.
Communicating with blasts from the past is much like bringing the dead to life. Posts will follow regarding the topic of zombies.
My cute realtor Cam, responsible for finding me my awesome home, is coming over this week after work to bestow upon me a “housewarming gift”. After being a homeowner for two and a half months there’s really nothing more that I need, save for a puppy and puppy accessories. So I can only be led to believe that he’s only coming over to help me christen my bedroom (wink, wink, nudge nudge). To help his efforts along, I’ll begin the tour of my home with the lights dimmed, Barry White on the stereo and a bottle of wine in hand as I answer the door naked.
Is it painfully obvious that I am watching ‘The Bacehlor’ at this very moment and just as delusional as all those girls on the show? If I was on such reality show I’d whore myself out on national television not to win but to come in runner-up so I’d be granted a show of my own (ever heard of ‘The Bachelorette’?) with which to extend my fifteen minutes of fame into thirty.
Never have I ever dated a non-smoker.
Never have I ever dated a college graduate.
Never have I ever been written a love letter.
Never have I ever been invited to dinner with his family.
Never have I ever dated a guy who had his own place.
Never have I ever had my first kiss not take place in a parking lot.
Never more! 2010 is all about raising my standards when it comes to dating.
For the year of 2010 I’ve resolved to give up just two things, dating and fast food, both not good for my heart. We’ll see how long I last resisting the juicy delicacies of Chick-fil-A. Boys, on the other hand, I can resist for the next twelve months, no problem. I’ve done a pretty good job of not dating since July when I went dinner with a guy who sat in my driveway for thirty minutes before our date. After enduring a near death experience last month when my car got real intimate real fast with an I-40 guardrail, perhaps I should reconsider these resolutions, just for the simple act of expunging the “Driveway Idler” as the last date I’ll ever have if I happen to die young.
So, dear readers, this is my plea. In order to have fodder with which to keep Bibliophiled Away alive and well, I need a date. If you know a guy between the ages of 25 and 30 who is nice, funny, smart and has a job and doesn’t live at home and knows how to not leave a girl waiting, please send him my way.
When you find him, let him know that I’ll be the girl with dark hair holding a rose at the fancy Scottish restaurant in town, McDonald’s.
Yes, I am 27 and unmarried and may very well be the youngest spinster I know, but I’m not about to give up the fight and become some cat lady. I hate cats, even more so today than yesterday. In the middle of the night, I woke to the sound of loud cat sex taking place underneath my house. The next morning, bleary-eyed and with coffee cup in hand, I ventured outside in nothing but my bathrobe to investigate Cat-gate 2009 to remedy the situation. If I’m not having wild animal sex, then nobody else is either!
While I was away celebrating Christmas with my family in Florida, some clever cats entered my crawl space by chewing at the plastic corners of the air vents. I replaced the air vents in hopes that my unwanted houseguests will get the hint and not come back. Hell, for all I know, they could still be under there, going at it and then I’d have to have someone come to my house to remove dead cats from my crawlspace. And that’s money I just don’t have. Although on the other hand, the dead cat removal guy could turn out to be cute…