forced friendly

We are being friendly. In case you were wondering, it is fake friendly.

and it’s not that fun.

surprise, surprise.

pretending, still?

I had an hilarious interaction with my dry cleaner on Friday.

A little background, first. My dry cleaner is commonly referred to by the people at my work as the dry-cleaner nazi. The slight Seinfeld reference is an earned one, as he requires exact change, very prompt pickup and often scolds you for new stains. Why do I continue to provide my nosy dry cleaner with business? Well, because he does a great job, and grace isn’t my best quality, so I often send him clothes that appear as though they jumped out of a Tide commerial.

He recognizes me and has inquired about my job situation. He asks quizzically if I am in school and repeatedly I tell him, “No, I am done. I work.”

So I walk in Friday, he nods, and pulls a new ticket. Then he looks at me above the rims of his glasses and says, “Pretending, still?” as he inquires about my last name. Then he asks for my first initial. I nod, then respond, and he counters with “When are you going to change your name?” I laugh. He says “When are you going to get married?”

I laugh again, smile, and respond, “Not for a very long time.”

Undaunted, he persists. “Why a long time? What is your plan for marriage?”

“My plan? I don’t have one, I don’t even have a prospect. I am in no hurry.”

“hmph. How old are you?”

“22.”

“hmph, you should be married by 25. I think 25 is good age. Then you have two years.”

“ok, I’ll remember that. Thanks.” I smile, he relents, and I leave.

I can’t wait until I walk in three years and he says, “Pretending, still?”

Talk about dissapointment.

non-response: Part 2

the lovely message that warranted the following response is here.

oh you didn’t hear?

I won the lottery. Good thing you kept in touch. I sent you your share.

What? You didn’t get it? It was in an envelope addressed “Go to Hell.” I’m pretty sure I got the address right.

That sucks, you could have bought yourself some balls with that money, or at least paid your way back from the fiery underworld.

non-response: Part 1

I don’t want to respond to you for fear of starting that cycle. The one where I respond, careful to not write anything too cryptic, needy or optimistic, and then wait for you to respond. In waiting for you to write me back, one of two things will happen: you will make me frett over your impending response for days, or you will never respond. For my sake, I hope it is option 2. Honestly though, both are going to suck equally.

With regards to the first, I am sure you will leave ample space between exchanges, much like I am doing now. I am also operating under the understanding that you do this for the same ridiculous reason I do: beacuse you like the idea of knowing that someone is thinking about you.

Between the waiting, the thinking, and the worrying, you’re not worth the effort. The “worth it” to “waiting for you to respond” ratio is not in my favor.

Consider this my non-response. I will see you at the wedding. It will be fun, because I will be drunk. Save up all of your responses until then.

sinking heart

my heart sank. into my stomach. and my fantastically new pilates abs couldn’t catch it on its way down.

You have the balls to send me an ecard to “check up on me”, but not to break up with me in person?

gulp. excuse me while I try to organize all of the witty replies swirling around in my head.

“Just touching base in case you ever get rich”

I am rich with reasons to not reply, ever.

You will not keep me on this string. You do not keep me on this string. Or at the very least I am going to try my absolute hardest to never let you know that the last remaining string is obviously still attached- to my heart, which is now casually resting on the yogurt I had for breakfast- in my stomach.

Something in the water

Last night, there must have been something in the water. I glided through the day, barely remembering that it had started out so oddly.

I was not the only one that awoke disturbed from dreaming. Fish wrote about hers here, stirring up thoughts of recounting my own dream from last night. If Fish and I drank the same water, which we don’t (I think), I would have credited both our sleeping cinemas to that.

I dreamt of my ex, but he was in my current life. I was in my current apartment, but my ex was stuck in the late 90s. He was the same as he was then. Just as skinny as in high school, decked out in too-baggy Nautica Jeans and Polo shirts. They hung on him just like they did then. And his hair was short and conjured visions of the eleventh grade. I am glad I dream of him then, because that was the him I fell in love with.

In a weird way, I think I will give myself credit for remembering him at his best.

Looking back with fondness and warm, nostalgic feelings must be a sign of moving on. Points for me (and for the high school version of him).

I’m not a navigational genius.

I cried, I flipped out, I was yelling at myself in my car. I was lost and late on my way to meet up with a client in the NAVY. He navigates for a living. I spent an hour and fifteen minutes trying to get myself to a flipping Starbucks.

Thankfully my dad bailed me out with google directions via phone, after I yelled at him. Gotta love that guy.

I need an iPhone. Thomas Bros. does not cut it.

I can’t believe I thought I could be on The Amazing Race at one point.

I called it a day and went to the beach. Cheers to that.

Pillow Pout

I want to have a reason to take all of the pillows off of my bed, instead of stacking them up on one side.

It is as simple as that.

Guilty Pleasures

So, apparently, I am a little behind. I was watching the season finale of The Hills from last year and I am shocked! I cannot believe I was so far behind. I had no idea Heidi left Spencer.

Then my roommate laughs at my gasps of disbelief and says, “I can’t believe with all of your Perez Hilton and stuff you are so behind. This is pop culture.”

I love that The Hills is pop culture! Hilarious!

Makeout Maybes

Went out in PB with Kay, her new boy and Steph. All in all, we had a great time. We ended up going back to his place, which I was increasingly excited about because Shea’s new boy has a roommate that is soon to be a teacher. In other words, he could have been a definite prospect.

I lost a few hands at beer pong and couldn’t read this guy AT ALL. He seemed to be waiting for someone to call (v. bad sign) despite his single status, and was just not all that captivating. He didn’t laugh at my jokes (what? you didn’t get the memo? Oh, I am hilarious a few drinks deep). Then, just about the time everyone passed out, he just goes to his room, leaving me half-asleep in a fully lit room with blaring TV and no blanket.

At one point during the night, I seriously asked myself if I would make out with him. All roads pointed to yes, mostly because this pretender likes to be kissed. Upside of Guy Friend 1 being completely uninteresting: He has friends. That I haven’t met yet. And because I didn’t make out with him, they are all still prospects. Whoo-hoo!

I am not interested in being a repeat offender in the “making out with a guy before you meet all his friends, only to realize you like his friends” department.

Is it bad to evaluate boys on their make out potential upon meeting?