In commemoration of Danielle's birthday, I've decided to compile The List, which is essentially a running joke of deal breakers.
-ventriloquists
-policemen
-mimes
-undertakers
-psychologists
-Mormons (or fanatical religious men)
-if you have a god complex. See: architects, doctors, lawyers, contemporary artists. (I should note, I am not excluding all architects, doctors, lawyers, and contemporary artists, just those with the aforementioned complex).
-if you shave your chest
-if your neuroses exceed mine
-lisps
-baby talk, Statin Island-/Jersey Shore-talk, or really, any talk that defies the rules of grammar
-unemployment over six months
-if sports get you off better than sex
-hunters
-golfers
-baggy pants that hang down to your knees so I'm forced to see your flat butt; contrarily, if your pants are tighter than mine
-if you wear more jewelry than me
-long finger/toe nails
- make-up
-white supremacist/bigots of any sort
-if you pronounce "often" phonetically (and not "off-in") for the sake of pretension
-if your intelligence is haughty and for the sake of competition
-skid marks/if you don't flush the toilet/pee on the toilet seat or out of the toilet altogether
-clinginess/neediness/flakiness
-if you have children
-organic vegans
-if you confuse the concepts of opinion and fact
-mamas-boys (see those of Mediterranean or Jewish decent)
-Anyone pre-1970/post 1990
-If you wear double polo shirts with a popped collar
-If you play World of Warcraft, play Magic cards, or enjoy animaie; if you play more than 6 hours of virtual reality-type games a week
-You consider paintball a hobby
-You identify as right wing
-Dandruff
-If you own Friends on DVD
-country music
-man-icures
-self-proclaimed artist/writer/musician
-renaissance fairs or conventions of any sort
-rat tail, mullet, or pot belly
-If you eat fast food more than 4 times a year
-more than 500 facebook friends
-smoking cigars in my presence
-If you shush me
-tempers/bad communicators
-if you smell; if you shower less than 3 times a week and/or brush your teeth less than twice a day
-clownsor stand0up comedians
-mafia/mob/gang affiliates
-actors and opera singers
-wearing pink
-obsession with designer with designer-wear
-fetishes
-country music
-if you use money as power
-if you don't read at least one book a month
-if you're too serious
-if you're too funny
-taxidermists
-bird watchers
-jewelers
-southerners
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Sweaters and Saturday
This weekend, I promised myself that I would take the time and finish the BEAST of an Aran sweater that I began last March. I went home with my Irish friend, Murray, whose family lived just 40 minutes north of Belfast. I had never cable knit that intensely before, but decided being in Ireland, this was probably the time to try it. I got the authentic wool and buttons and a book of patterns ("Favourite Aran Knits"), and ended up making this lovely cardigan that I'm so happy with- check out those pockets:
When I got home from France, I also found this stash of honey-colored yarn with which I decided to make a second:
I'll be very warm this winter, to say the least.
Anyway, this weekend turned into an amusing one to say the least. Because Friday night was so...spontaneous, I was feeling ready for anything. Like if I walked into a club, there should be a sign hung around my neck that read "Bonne has arrived" (Murray used to say this all the time in France, sort of being sassy, but mostly being correct). I get into these moods rarely, and believe me, it dissipated after last night. Being Danielle's birthday weekend, we did in fact decide to go out to old city. Originally, I wanted to go to this party of this English teacher who I find mildly attractive (I don't know him well enough to have any feelings past 'mild'), but decided against it- Philly hipster is not Danielle's scene. Though apparently, Old City clubbing was neither of our scenes. We walked into four bars, and after deciding in 2 minutes that each was inadequate, we walked home (she jokes that we have going out ADD, which is probably true).
And so we walked 30 blocks home, because there were no buses and unless I'm very drunk/about to be sick/have been sick/it's precipitating something, I do not take cabs. We got back on the early side, maybe around 1 or so, and were craving a snack. As I lie on my back in my favorite position (looks like I'm birthing) on the love seat in the living room, Danielle toasted some bread under the broiler. I was sort of falling asleep when I heard, "Ow, ow. Sarah..." I should tell you that earlier on in the day, I dropped a glass, and that glass scattered EVERYWHERE. And when I look over, I see my very drunk roommate bleeding all over the carpet. Holding an inch-long shard of glass. Clean-up was hysterical- Danielle remained much more concerned with the carpet, whereas I thought about doctors and the emergency room. Such is the nature of our differences. At least the bread was good.
When I got home from France, I also found this stash of honey-colored yarn with which I decided to make a second:
I'll be very warm this winter, to say the least.
Anyway, this weekend turned into an amusing one to say the least. Because Friday night was so...spontaneous, I was feeling ready for anything. Like if I walked into a club, there should be a sign hung around my neck that read "Bonne has arrived" (Murray used to say this all the time in France, sort of being sassy, but mostly being correct). I get into these moods rarely, and believe me, it dissipated after last night. Being Danielle's birthday weekend, we did in fact decide to go out to old city. Originally, I wanted to go to this party of this English teacher who I find mildly attractive (I don't know him well enough to have any feelings past 'mild'), but decided against it- Philly hipster is not Danielle's scene. Though apparently, Old City clubbing was neither of our scenes. We walked into four bars, and after deciding in 2 minutes that each was inadequate, we walked home (she jokes that we have going out ADD, which is probably true).
And so we walked 30 blocks home, because there were no buses and unless I'm very drunk/about to be sick/have been sick/it's precipitating something, I do not take cabs. We got back on the early side, maybe around 1 or so, and were craving a snack. As I lie on my back in my favorite position (looks like I'm birthing) on the love seat in the living room, Danielle toasted some bread under the broiler. I was sort of falling asleep when I heard, "Ow, ow. Sarah..." I should tell you that earlier on in the day, I dropped a glass, and that glass scattered EVERYWHERE. And when I look over, I see my very drunk roommate bleeding all over the carpet. Holding an inch-long shard of glass. Clean-up was hysterical- Danielle remained much more concerned with the carpet, whereas I thought about doctors and the emergency room. Such is the nature of our differences. At least the bread was good.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
What an odd Friday...
So nothing that I anticipated happening last night actually happened...instead, I ended up on what would constitute as an accidental date with a 33 year old man I'd never met before.
From the beginning: Danielle found this event at the Franklin Institute for last night, which was pretty much quizzo on Cleopatra, but minus the drinking that usually comes with it (quizzo, not Cleo). So from what I knew previous to going, Danielle, Lisa, and myself were going to meet another woman, Erin, at the Franklin institute, we were going to play, perhaps have a drink, and leave to come home and get drunk in our living room, inevitably falling asleep to Bridget Jones. It's a fair thing to anticipate on a Friday night.
When we got there, Erin sitting on the steps to the building with this guy. We do the introductions, the hellos and niceties (he's a composer getting his PhD), and go inside to what was essentially a bingo hall/planetarium filled with nerds. I thought we might be in a hall, or maybe in front of the giant statue of Ben Franklin, with the cash bar advertised being a bit larger than a 18 x 30 inch table. But, as with anything, all we could do was make the best of it. Though, that sentiment grew more difficult when we got seated at a table with this older couple, who was lovely and well intentioned, but were sort of know-it-alls in a way that 55 year old people should not be. They came from Queens, NY, and read library books to prepare all day; sweet, just a bit annoying to be on a team with. Especially when everyone in our party was between the age of 23 and 34 and just wanted to goof off and gossip a bit. So the entire time this was happening, I chuckled to myself while being slightly checked out because if I actually invested my attention in the situation, I knew it would annoy me that an older, pot-bellied gentleman just kept talking over me while his wife chirped on about history and hoarded the answer sheet.
After four grueling rounds and a planetarium film about space narrated by Liam Neeson (which did make the concept of black holes all the more sexy), we had a second place victory (the prize being astronaut ice cream) and decided to go get some dinner and a drink. It was really the walk to dinner that started this thing between me and the composer. As we were waling towards center city, Danielle pointed out that we were passing Logan Square (which I had never seen), and we decided to cut through it. I started walking around the fountain in the middle of the park, and as everyone went to sit on a bench, I called out that I was going to finish my lap around the fountain; the composer followed. We started chatting, and ended up breaking off from the group (you know, the obviousbutnotexplicit tailing behind the main group) all the way to dinner.
He and Erin had been planning on going for drinks and then down to old city for salsa dancing, and while I wasn't planning on going out after the restaurant, quizzo just sent me into a I-need-to-go-dancing-and-let-off-some-steam frenzy. I tagged along with them, and danced with him all night, like three hours. Granted, we were two white, bookish types trying to dance to latin music, but still, despite the foibles and stepped-on feet, it was hot. Never in my life have I made eye contact with someone for THAT long without kissing them, at the very least. Holy crap. Talk about an exercise in self-control/foreplay. Man.
Erin left somewhere in the middle of this, and he and I stayed in the club until it closed at two, when we proceeded to walk back uptown. At this point, I was fairly certain that something would happen (Danielle told me this morning that she knew when we were walking around the fountain...foresight is better when it's objective, I guess). We were walking back arm in arm, it was all very cute, chatty, and so on, and somewhere around 12th street, I hear, "Hey, Muhlenberg! Hey you! Muhlenberg!" And I'm like, what's going on? It's nearing 3am; I shouldn't know anyone at that hour. I turned around, and it's this jersey shore-type Italian frat boy that was in my French class during my freshman year. I almost forgot his name.
We continued walking after that lovely bout of Muhlenberg nostalgia, and he FINALLY kissed me as we were walking across Walnut on 21st (not the best place to be distracted, but neither of us got him by a car, so that was good). I should interject here: recently, I've decided to start dating. Like actually dating and getting to know a person WHILE progressing physically with them. No more of these one night hook-ups (because truth be told, I can do it better myself). This means: a make-out, tops, upon first meeting. I've been struggling with this a bit, but I will say: I have never felt good after a one-nighter, and with the exception of one guy, I have wanted to bolt for the door every morning I've ever woken up next to someone.
With this in mind, we got back to my apartment, still kissing, and I go for a bottle of wine, trying to keep the whole thing, well, task-oriented, in a way. Does not work. So I say it, plainly and honestly. I think he was less than thrilled; so was I, but it was what I needed to do. (Although, I will say this: I have a HUGE hickey, like huge. I didn't realize the hickeys existed past your early 20's, but I guess they do.) He stayed until 4, when he woke me up and I let him out. How this will go, I have NO idea, but my expectations have remained within the confines of last night, so either way, it was a good Friday...
From the beginning: Danielle found this event at the Franklin Institute for last night, which was pretty much quizzo on Cleopatra, but minus the drinking that usually comes with it (quizzo, not Cleo). So from what I knew previous to going, Danielle, Lisa, and myself were going to meet another woman, Erin, at the Franklin institute, we were going to play, perhaps have a drink, and leave to come home and get drunk in our living room, inevitably falling asleep to Bridget Jones. It's a fair thing to anticipate on a Friday night.
When we got there, Erin sitting on the steps to the building with this guy. We do the introductions, the hellos and niceties (he's a composer getting his PhD), and go inside to what was essentially a bingo hall/planetarium filled with nerds. I thought we might be in a hall, or maybe in front of the giant statue of Ben Franklin, with the cash bar advertised being a bit larger than a 18 x 30 inch table. But, as with anything, all we could do was make the best of it. Though, that sentiment grew more difficult when we got seated at a table with this older couple, who was lovely and well intentioned, but were sort of know-it-alls in a way that 55 year old people should not be. They came from Queens, NY, and read library books to prepare all day; sweet, just a bit annoying to be on a team with. Especially when everyone in our party was between the age of 23 and 34 and just wanted to goof off and gossip a bit. So the entire time this was happening, I chuckled to myself while being slightly checked out because if I actually invested my attention in the situation, I knew it would annoy me that an older, pot-bellied gentleman just kept talking over me while his wife chirped on about history and hoarded the answer sheet.
After four grueling rounds and a planetarium film about space narrated by Liam Neeson (which did make the concept of black holes all the more sexy), we had a second place victory (the prize being astronaut ice cream) and decided to go get some dinner and a drink. It was really the walk to dinner that started this thing between me and the composer. As we were waling towards center city, Danielle pointed out that we were passing Logan Square (which I had never seen), and we decided to cut through it. I started walking around the fountain in the middle of the park, and as everyone went to sit on a bench, I called out that I was going to finish my lap around the fountain; the composer followed. We started chatting, and ended up breaking off from the group (you know, the obviousbutnotexplicit tailing behind the main group) all the way to dinner.
He and Erin had been planning on going for drinks and then down to old city for salsa dancing, and while I wasn't planning on going out after the restaurant, quizzo just sent me into a I-need-to-go-dancing-and-let-off-some-steam frenzy. I tagged along with them, and danced with him all night, like three hours. Granted, we were two white, bookish types trying to dance to latin music, but still, despite the foibles and stepped-on feet, it was hot. Never in my life have I made eye contact with someone for THAT long without kissing them, at the very least. Holy crap. Talk about an exercise in self-control/foreplay. Man.
Erin left somewhere in the middle of this, and he and I stayed in the club until it closed at two, when we proceeded to walk back uptown. At this point, I was fairly certain that something would happen (Danielle told me this morning that she knew when we were walking around the fountain...foresight is better when it's objective, I guess). We were walking back arm in arm, it was all very cute, chatty, and so on, and somewhere around 12th street, I hear, "Hey, Muhlenberg! Hey you! Muhlenberg!" And I'm like, what's going on? It's nearing 3am; I shouldn't know anyone at that hour. I turned around, and it's this jersey shore-type Italian frat boy that was in my French class during my freshman year. I almost forgot his name.
We continued walking after that lovely bout of Muhlenberg nostalgia, and he FINALLY kissed me as we were walking across Walnut on 21st (not the best place to be distracted, but neither of us got him by a car, so that was good). I should interject here: recently, I've decided to start dating. Like actually dating and getting to know a person WHILE progressing physically with them. No more of these one night hook-ups (because truth be told, I can do it better myself). This means: a make-out, tops, upon first meeting. I've been struggling with this a bit, but I will say: I have never felt good after a one-nighter, and with the exception of one guy, I have wanted to bolt for the door every morning I've ever woken up next to someone.
With this in mind, we got back to my apartment, still kissing, and I go for a bottle of wine, trying to keep the whole thing, well, task-oriented, in a way. Does not work. So I say it, plainly and honestly. I think he was less than thrilled; so was I, but it was what I needed to do. (Although, I will say this: I have a HUGE hickey, like huge. I didn't realize the hickeys existed past your early 20's, but I guess they do.) He stayed until 4, when he woke me up and I let him out. How this will go, I have NO idea, but my expectations have remained within the confines of last night, so either way, it was a good Friday...
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Famous last words:
I will not replace knitting with online dating.
Though I do think that this is pretty objective proof that a lot of my motivation to knit is sexual/lackofman frustration.
Ok, I'll start from the beginning: last Thursday night, I drank most of a bottle of wine. It was a stupid choice (as I painfully realized sitting at work with my eyes glazing over "Communications in Algebra" manuscripts), but yielded humorous results, as it always does. On a whim, I logged onto okcupid, and created a profile. I've been telling myself that I would start online dating (meeting people the regular way has CLEARLY not worked out for me thus far), but you know, I kept putting it off. I'll lose ten pounds and then I'll start. I want to give myself a chance to meet men in person, like in bars or group Philly things. The former is still something that's nagging me, but I'll let it go because black on black is in this season and my black pencil skirt paired with a plain black spandex top and pumps are just perfectly suggestive while still remaining classy.
The latter on the other hand, this idea that I'm going to meet anyone out in the world is sort of bullshit. Every morning, two homeless men harass me about 10 blocks away from my apartment. But in that sort of sweet, deranged old man way where they force me to make eye contact and then call me gorgeous like the weather outside. I got called "hey hotstuff how you doin'" as I was walking back from the bus last night at NINE AT NIGHT. From a dude on a bike. What does he expect? That I'll wave him down and we'll go at it on a sidewalk? And every time I go to a bar, I kick myself for spending $5 on a beer that I could have spent on half a bottle of wine or the weeks worth of veggies. You're not a good dancer or conversationalist, and the Phillies are not god incarnate. And consider my hobbies? Knitwear, design work, and reading. Three of the most female oriented things I could do. Believe me, it is slim pickings out there.
So I made a profile that went through several drafts, because my immediate reaction in foreign situations is to make myself better than everyone and puff out my elitist feathers while using words like "esoteric." I toned it down, made myself cute and quirky and someone you wouldn't mid waking up to (aka, non-clingy and out the door before you say coffee), talked about daisies and my love of runny yokes. All very nice. All very PG.
So what is the first message I receive? A man quotes the last section of my profile, the "Message me if," (where I filled in something along the lines of funny and fun, smart, kind, interesting, etc). Generic, but true. Underneath, he simply writes: "Message me if you want to fuck."
Whether I take this as a joke or an entirely serious thing, that is GROSS. Ewewew. I work. I'm an adult. Adults should not speak to each other like that. I mean, I'm sure as much as he may have wanted to fuck or talk about fucking, it's all a bit of a farce because he's a eunuch. (Reverse kharma. In action.)
Things are looking up from there (thank god), but I've accidentally gotten into a message chain with a republican. Stay tuned for that one.
Tomorrow, I will finish my Aran sweater. I will. The bearded man getting a vague PhD (who Danielle, my roommate, and I have nicknamed the burrito man) can wait.
Though I do think that this is pretty objective proof that a lot of my motivation to knit is sexual/lackofman frustration.
Ok, I'll start from the beginning: last Thursday night, I drank most of a bottle of wine. It was a stupid choice (as I painfully realized sitting at work with my eyes glazing over "Communications in Algebra" manuscripts), but yielded humorous results, as it always does. On a whim, I logged onto okcupid, and created a profile. I've been telling myself that I would start online dating (meeting people the regular way has CLEARLY not worked out for me thus far), but you know, I kept putting it off. I'll lose ten pounds and then I'll start. I want to give myself a chance to meet men in person, like in bars or group Philly things. The former is still something that's nagging me, but I'll let it go because black on black is in this season and my black pencil skirt paired with a plain black spandex top and pumps are just perfectly suggestive while still remaining classy.
The latter on the other hand, this idea that I'm going to meet anyone out in the world is sort of bullshit. Every morning, two homeless men harass me about 10 blocks away from my apartment. But in that sort of sweet, deranged old man way where they force me to make eye contact and then call me gorgeous like the weather outside. I got called "hey hotstuff how you doin'" as I was walking back from the bus last night at NINE AT NIGHT. From a dude on a bike. What does he expect? That I'll wave him down and we'll go at it on a sidewalk? And every time I go to a bar, I kick myself for spending $5 on a beer that I could have spent on half a bottle of wine or the weeks worth of veggies. You're not a good dancer or conversationalist, and the Phillies are not god incarnate. And consider my hobbies? Knitwear, design work, and reading. Three of the most female oriented things I could do. Believe me, it is slim pickings out there.
So I made a profile that went through several drafts, because my immediate reaction in foreign situations is to make myself better than everyone and puff out my elitist feathers while using words like "esoteric." I toned it down, made myself cute and quirky and someone you wouldn't mid waking up to (aka, non-clingy and out the door before you say coffee), talked about daisies and my love of runny yokes. All very nice. All very PG.
So what is the first message I receive? A man quotes the last section of my profile, the "Message me if," (where I filled in something along the lines of funny and fun, smart, kind, interesting, etc). Generic, but true. Underneath, he simply writes: "Message me if you want to fuck."
Whether I take this as a joke or an entirely serious thing, that is GROSS. Ewewew. I work. I'm an adult. Adults should not speak to each other like that. I mean, I'm sure as much as he may have wanted to fuck or talk about fucking, it's all a bit of a farce because he's a eunuch. (Reverse kharma. In action.)
Things are looking up from there (thank god), but I've accidentally gotten into a message chain with a republican. Stay tuned for that one.
Tomorrow, I will finish my Aran sweater. I will. The bearded man getting a vague PhD (who Danielle, my roommate, and I have nicknamed the burrito man) can wait.
Monday, September 6, 2010
It all began when...
During my junior year of college, I lived with a couple of guys and a girl who introduced me to "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." I loved the show, and was telling my family about it over Thanksgiving dinner. Now, the thing about my family and the holidays (or maybe just me in general everyday) is that there is drinking involved. It is my coping mechanism (as it must be for all of those other independent women from Mediterranean-American backgrounds) for dealing with my mother asking me when I will finally start dating a nice man. Nice and stable are her two favorite adjectives for my future suitors.
Anyway, I'm drinking my way through Thanksgiving. My aunt is going on a Republican, conspiracy theorist rant (Welfare, minorities, and Obama is a favorite of hers), and to pull the topic away from that one, I start to describe "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." Except: when I drink a lot, my verbal competence is the first thing out the window. You know how it's either one or the other with alcohol, speech or physical coordination? I can walk a mile drunk off my butt, but after 5 glasses of wine, I am capable of walking home, watching a movie, eating a can of tuna, and falling asleep in the fetal position on a love seat. That's it.
So my introduction to this fantastic, revetting television program that I'm about to explain to my family, in order to avoid scream-lecturing my aunt on the importance of social responsibility over the dinner table, comes out as "Oh my god! You guys have to watch this new show, 'It's always Phunny in Siladelphia.' It's some of the best comic writing on cable." My sister, Amy, who pokes fun at everyone whenever she can, bursts out laughing, unable to even respond because I am that unaware and silly. Needless to say, the family cut me off, and my aunt and I ended up going head to head on health care reform, gay marriage, and legalizing cannabis; they should have just let me drink more and sleep it off.
Recently, I moved to Philadelphia for real (or Siladelphia, depending on the day), and the above is where I'm coming from: frazzled, ridiculous, and a bit over the top in an understated way. Here's to a lifetime of drunkenly inverting first initials in order to avoid republicans. It promises to be a laugh, at the very least.
Anyway, I'm drinking my way through Thanksgiving. My aunt is going on a Republican, conspiracy theorist rant (Welfare, minorities, and Obama is a favorite of hers), and to pull the topic away from that one, I start to describe "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia." Except: when I drink a lot, my verbal competence is the first thing out the window. You know how it's either one or the other with alcohol, speech or physical coordination? I can walk a mile drunk off my butt, but after 5 glasses of wine, I am capable of walking home, watching a movie, eating a can of tuna, and falling asleep in the fetal position on a love seat. That's it.
So my introduction to this fantastic, revetting television program that I'm about to explain to my family, in order to avoid scream-lecturing my aunt on the importance of social responsibility over the dinner table, comes out as "Oh my god! You guys have to watch this new show, 'It's always Phunny in Siladelphia.' It's some of the best comic writing on cable." My sister, Amy, who pokes fun at everyone whenever she can, bursts out laughing, unable to even respond because I am that unaware and silly. Needless to say, the family cut me off, and my aunt and I ended up going head to head on health care reform, gay marriage, and legalizing cannabis; they should have just let me drink more and sleep it off.
Recently, I moved to Philadelphia for real (or Siladelphia, depending on the day), and the above is where I'm coming from: frazzled, ridiculous, and a bit over the top in an understated way. Here's to a lifetime of drunkenly inverting first initials in order to avoid republicans. It promises to be a laugh, at the very least.
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