This November will not only bring too much turkey and not enough self-control, but my ten year high school reunion. WHAT?! Ten years since I have been in high school means only one thing, I am ten years older than I was in high school. And what do I have to show for it? Hm, where to start? I could brag about my wonderful European underwear model of a husband who takes the initiative to perform household chores around our mansion (in the buff) and insists on getting up in the middle of the night to tend to our adorable one year old twin boys, McConaughey and Pitt, singing to them French lullabies. I could, but I won’t since the man of my dreams is still in my dreams.
In ten years I have done nothing. Four of those years were spent getting a useless college degree. Big deal, everyone has a bachelor’s degree these days, just like everyone has their own cell phone or personal computer or sex tape. At 28, I don’t have the dream job I hoped for and so I spend 40 hours of every week within the confines of gray cubicle walls, performing tasks that a well-dressed monkey could do. Oh, I’m a blogger. That’s very impressive, no? It’s read daily by dozens nationwide. It’s a vehicle where I vent about my failed relationships. All 2 1/2 of them. Yes, I have had only 2 1/2 boyfriends since graduating high school (the fraction is for that one guy I thought I was in a relationship with. He, on the other hand, had not a clue). Ever the late bloomer, I didn’t start dating until after college, and then haven’t ever had a boyfriend who stuck around for more than ten months. No stellar career, no husband, not even a boyfriend, no kids, no pets even. Hm, my life isn’t that different from when I was seventeen. The only thing really to boast about is my recent foray into escrow. Nine years after graduating high school, I bought a house. I can’t let anyone know of such an investment. They’ll wonder where my husband and 2.3 kids are. I’ll have to lie and say that the state took them away after deeming me an unfit mother for converting my granite counter topped kitchen into a meth lab. For dramatic effect, I’ll reveal my Bedazzled house arrest ankle bracelet. And introduce my warden, Bubba, to one and all.
I can’t return to the hallowed halls of high school squeaky clean, dateless and shy. I can’t conjure up a husband and kids between now and November 27, but at the very least, I can color myself bad at my ten year high school reunion.
After watching drunken bridal parties don penis headbands and sip from buckets of alcohol at the Epicentre’s dueling piano bar, Howl at the Moon, I escorted my friends outside for some sobering air. It was there on the patio that I noticed part of Aloft Hotel’s neon sign was missing so it glowed F loft; a more fitting name for a hotel I think.
And I imagine that every hotel John Mayer checks into is dubbed the F loft. After a show, he’ll invite a groupie or two or a baker’s dozen back to his room, dim the lights, order chicken wings and beer from room service (because he likes to keep it classy) and select some sexy tunes from his iPod to set the mood. ‘Your body is a wonderland’ is track #1. I wonder too if Marvin Gaye made the sex while listening to himself croon ‘Let’s get it on’. Nah, he’s not that much of a narcissist.
Speaking of mating rituals, it was reported by one of our eagle eye security guards that 3 horny law students (2 girls and a guy) were involved in some sexual activity over the weekend in an empty classroom, giving a whole new meaning to the word “study group”. I wonder if that poor security guard will get worker’s compensation for having to gouge his eyes out. It was reported a few months ago that 2 citizens not affiliated with the law school were engaging in some sexual activity in the parking lot, in a car, in the middle of the day! You couldn’t pay me enough money to patrol a building/parking lot/wooded area to ensure that no one is making the sex.
I had the opportunity to spend my lunch break in the heart of uptown Charlotte on a beautiful sunny afternoon today. Charlotte was stop #4 of Top Chef’s 20 city tour. Former cheftestants Jennifer Carroll and Ariane Duarte dished about the show’s behind the scenes while dishing up a tasty smoked trout morsel that us 6o lucky fans sampled while seated underneath the big top.
Guests were encouraged to ask questions and nothing was off limits. And unlike Paula Deen, who focused on the talkin’ and none of the cookin’ as she had her assisants and her husband, Micheal Groover, take over the recipes, these ladies managed to balance personal questions and ingredients flawlessly. Some tidbits I found interesting:
*Top Chef contestants do not have any sort of relationship with the judges and have to wait up to six hours for the judges’ deliberation.
* Top Chef contestants are more or less cut off from the outside world and have little communication with families.
*I also learned that if you’re a chef and want to quadruple business at your restaurant, apply to be on Top Chef. Apparently die hard fans participate in their own Top Chef tour, visiting cheftestants’ restaurants from coast to coast. Top Chef’s youngest fans even request birthday parties at these Top Chef touched restaurants.
It was a wonderful opportunity to meet these inspiring chefs and judge for myself their culinary delights.
So over declarations of love being paraded around Facebook. It makes me want to puke! Where is the “dislike” button for your vomit-inducing relationships, dear friends?
So over having to wait another 6-8 weeks for my tax return because of incompetent tax preparers at H+R Block.
So over biding my time at a dead-end job.
So over the look that waiters give me come check separating time whenever dining with couples; the look of pity, the look of ‘I don’t want to end up like you’.
So over my family’s delayed visit to see their only daughter. Maybe scheming a fake pregnancy would entice them to visit sooner.
So over holding out hope for unanswered e-mails.
So over it!
I like to do my part for Mother Earth by recycling my jokes! Just as funny today as they were 5 years ago!
Thanks to Facebook, I no longer have to attend my high school reunion. I am kept abreast of former classmates’ happenings thanks to wall posts and tagged photos. All the boys I had crushes on are fat now so there’s no reason for me to parade myself around them. I know who is married and who has kids. I know who is on husband #2. I know who is gay. I know who still lives at home. I know all I need to know and for that reason, I can save gas money by not having to trek up to Cincinnati to mingle with people I still don’t like ten years out.
Sometimes I feel like Facebook has become too invasive. For instance, I’ll be chatting up a friend about a funny that happened the other day, and before I can get to the punchline, they will interject how I should cease talking about it because Facebook got to them before I could. Save your breath, anything you have to share is old news because of the magic of updated social networking sites.
Facebook gets it wrong sometimes. When I post the title of a movie starring Tina Fey and Steve Carrell as my status, everyone assumes that I really had a date night. I haven’t had a date night since July 2009. I’m starting this new thing where I only go out once a year, not so unlike that furry groundhog. If I make an annual appearance onto the dating scene, will I get a day in February named after me? Sources say yes!
And then I feel bad that I got everyone’s hopes up for nothing, not unlike how last April Fools Day I posted that I was engaged. This news was received with congratulatory comments until I reminded one and all what day it was. A couple weeks ago, I was pregnant. For some reason, this gag wasn’t met with the same congratulations. Maybe because for those who know me, know that it would be by immaculate conception as I haven’t a boyfriend since last May and haven’t had a date since last July. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I think my friends have caught on to my shits and giggles and no longer fall for my hijinks no matter what it says on the calendar.
I only have eight months to decide whom I will let take me out for my annual outing. Message me your application on Facebook. The first to submit is the lucky winner!
Wanting to get a head start on planning the wedding of my dreams, I’m envisioning my bridesmaids wearing fuschia afghans. Afghans, how cool and progressive! Cool yes, progressive maybe not, just practical for my aged friends. I have accepted the fact that by the time it comes for me to say ‘Til death do us part’, death may be not too far out.
I will be in a nursing home by the time I have my first (and last) wedding, complete with an afternoon reception of mashed potatoes and a three tiered bran cake with Metamuciltinis for one and all. Wedding favors to include oldpeople pills instead of jordan almonds. Shuffleboard to follow the reception with optional nap time. Instead of a bouquet of flowers, I’m planning on tossing my pearly white dentures at my widowed bridal party.
I had dinner with my friend Kim last night and while sharing a plate of Aussie cheese fries, she shared how she was worried how to get wheelchairs onto the beach for her seaside wedding. My dear friend is 30 and has had a bf for almost 2 years and needs not to worry about such things. I, on the other hand, have reason to worry. Each time my mother calls, she asks if Kim is married yet, resigning to having to live vicariously through my friends for milestone achievements. I believe my mother has written me off a lost cause as I haven’t had a bf in a year, technically 11 months, but in her eyes it may very well be a decade long dry spell.
Gloria Steinem was in her 60′s by the time she married her soulmate, Christian Bale’s father. If she can find love at such an age, then there is certainly hope for me. I just have to hold out for another 40 years.
Paula Deen is coming to town for a book signing today. I have taken the day off from work to prepare an array of homemade goodies in case her unmarried son Bobby Deen is there. I’ve got butter cupcakes, butter muffins and butter cookies at the ready. Bobby will take one bite of my bountiful buttery spread and fall in love with me I just know it.
In the event that things get out of hand this evening, my next post may be written from inside a jail cell. Update to follow.
After an emotionally and physically draining weekend, I was delighted to come into work today to find that I was among two other winners in the NCAA bracket. I walked away with a $25 gift card to Outback. I’m not really a Duke fan, but with UNC out of the mix, I had to root for another stellar North Carolina team. I’m scheduled to spend the day in Chapel Hill Friday, playing hooky from work. (Dare me to wear my Duke baseball cap?)
On tap will be large cosmic burritos from Cosmic Cantina, sugary cupcakes from Sugarland, a cupcakery offering coffee and adult beverages, and yummy fries with olive dip at South Point’s Nordstrom. And no visit to Chapel Hill would be complete without a visit to Whole Foods because though Charlotte is the most populous city in the Tarheel State, we go without Whole Foods. And it is a shame. I’m starting a petition.