If you thought my year of eHarmony heartache (as evidenced here and here) might have deterred me from online dating, guess again.
For the past several months, I’ve experienced the highs and lows of Match.com. Stay tuned for future posts, Your Facebook Profile Says You’re Still Married and No, Thank You, I Would Not Like To See A YouTube Video of You Surgically Removing Your Toenails.
One might consider these experiences a sign. Take a little break, Jules, a little step back, they might suggest.
Ha!” I say. “Show me a REAL sign.”
Last night, I was getting ready for a third date with a delightful gentleman who discovered my blog before we ever met, so let me just again say he is especially delightful (and owes me a guest blog post).
He was picking me up for dinner, so I straightened up the house, got all dudded up, lit a few candles (to cover up any Eau De Dog-who-really-needs-a-trip-to-the-groomer) and anxiously awaited his arrival.
Ten minutes before he was due, I blew out the candles. One of them was the sort that has a tea light heating a scented wax cube.
It was resting atop a wall sconce. I lifted it down, let’s just say, a tad carelessly.
Suddenly, all the hot, melted wax sloshed out.
Onto my face.
Onto my white dress.
Onto my couch.
It was red.
Have you ever had any last-minute blunders while getting ready for a big night out? (Come on, I know for a fact one of you has had a run-in with a curling iron.)
You might recall I recently started a new position at my company (Big Pharma, Inc.), developing training. I’m pretty sure my dog, Uncle Jesse, got me the job – he was part of the Sudoku lesson I had to put together during the intense interview process.
My new group is creative, fun and hilarious. I’m finally among colleagues who appreciate my memes!
This team of 13 celebrates everything. On my first day in the new office, it was No Diet Monday, and my manager brought cheesecake for breakfast. She decorated my new cubicle, too. “I think I’m gonna like it here,” I thought.
For the past two weeks, they’ve been trying to plan a surprise birthday party for two of the women in the group. A difficult task, since people work from home a lot.
The first Monday, I made cookies. The birthday girls didn’t show. This Monday, I made tortilla roll-ups, and one woman didn’t show.
“Well, as long as Laura comes in, we’ll still have the party,” everyone kept saying.
Later that morning, I popped my head next door to say hi to my cool, spirited cubicle neighbor. We’d only spoken a couple of times, but had bonded right away.
“Hi! Have you ever seen Finding Nemo?” she had blurted when she’d first shook my hand.
I had blinked back my surprise and laughed, dying to know where this conversation would go. She had had a point, eventually.
That Monday morning, I repeated the refrain of the day, “As long as Laura shows up, we’re still having the birthday party!”
She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we started talking about wine. Because of course.
At noon, we all hid in a nearby conference room and set up the food. In walked my cubicle neighbor, and everyone clapped and sang “Happy Birthday.”
I sang along merrily.
“Do you know what you said to me this morning?” the birthday girl asked loudly. I was sure she was going to regale the group with some amusing tidbit I’d dropped, letting all of my new coworkers see how charming and funny I could be, even unawares.
“No,” I replied, grinning.
“You said, ‘As long as Laura shows up, we’ll still have the party’! I thought you didn’t know who I was!”
Yes. That’s right. I told Laura we’d still have the party as long as Laura showed up. Then I sang “Happy Birthday” to Laura, forgetting I’d talked to Laura at all.
I distracted my colleagues with stories of Uncle Jesse and the beautiful chickens down the road. Later that day, Laura sent a thank you e-mail to everyone. I replied with this:
Dear Whoever You Are:
Uncle Jesse’s caretaker
Any embarrassing work stories to share? Blonde moments?
I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Chipmunks.
I’m losing it. (Louise, expect a call any day now.)
The proof is in this post, a.k.a., The Worst Post Ever.
Last night, I got a magical email from someone regarding evidence that a Mini Me exists in this otherwise colorless, desolate, mustache-deprived world.
For the first time since I saw this, I felt complete.
I don’t know how it happened, except I think I do, and it involves vodka-soaked cherries.
I deleted the email! Or I must have, because it’s no where to be found. (Thank my lucky Chipmunks Peppermeister saw it before it disappeared, otherwise I would think I made the whole thing up.) I checked every folder, and my phone, then every folder again, then wept into my coffee, then wrote this post, to:
1) Ask the mother of the most awesome child in the universe if she can kindly resend the email to the biggest nincompoop on the planet, and,
2) Warn you. Everything they say about blondes is true, especially Clairol-enhanced blondes like me. Expect posts about purses that double as dog carriers and/or alien abductions any day now.
P.S. – You guys are seriously like adorable, little, chubby-cheeked miracles. My comments and inbox are alight with your splendor. So much so that I think I must launch a weekly feature for the rest of the summer to prove it. Stay tuned. Heck, it can only go up from here.
And I was convinced Uncle Jesse, my 2-year-old Australian Labradoodle, would too. After all, he’s not afraid of startling noises; his [human] father has perpetual allergy sneezes and coughs that could wake the dead.
So, brimming with an overconfidence usually reserved for Spring Breakers and Donald Trump’s hairstylist, I headed out on 4th of July with Uncle Jesse and Mr. Sneeze in tow.
Here’s what happened:
Have you ever scarred your own pets or children for life?
I’ve always been a blonde at heart, even after I had to start dying my hair to maintain the golden hue on the outside. I can’t tell left from right, Clueless is my favorite movie, and I truly believe stuffed animals can talk.
The thing is, up until this past week, I considered myself a very high-functioning blonde. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, and even figure out how much to tip my girl crush colorist.
This week, things took a nosedive.
It started on Tuesday, when I wrote out a GoGuiltyPleasures slap bracelet letter for The Mad Queen (I try to make every handwritten letter completely unique, because I can’t remember what I wrote the last time so you are not only getting the hottest fashion accessory, but a little piece of my soul. It’s the least I can do for my Chipmunks), and I felt a strong sense of déjà vu. My jokes about the meaning of life seemed so overdone. I shook off the feeling, and mailed out her letter with a few others.
When I got home from the post office, I had an email from The Mad Queen, thanking me for her brand new slap bracelets, which had just arrived. Because I’d already sent them. Four days earlier.
“You will never believe this…” began my immediate response. “Oh god. I should really stop drinking,” I concluded. (The Mad Queen told me to do nothing of the sort, solidifying her chipmunkitude.)
Exhibit B-E More Aware of Obvious Facts
On Wednesday, I went shopping on my lunch break for a baby shower gift for a co-worker. Her surprise shower was at 2pm, so I set out for one of the many nearby malls (let’s hear it for Jersey!). I almost doubled-back to my desk to check the invite, to see if she was having a boy or a girl. “Screw it,” I decided, since I was only getting a gift card.
For a blonde, I had a surprising amount of difficulty navigating the mall. The mall is our motherland. I couldn’t find the store I was looking for, and wound up at Hallmark instead. They actually sold some baby clothes, including hilarious gender-neutral onesies, so I got one of those (for baby), and some equally funny chocolate bars (for mom). I scooped up a card and gift wrap, feeling smug that I wouldn’t be a part of the ‘group gift’ (er, because I missed the deadline to contribute).
I got back to work and showed our administrative assistant what I’d gotten. “I don’t really know [this person], so I didn’t get her anything,” was her response. We have a very large department, not all located in the same building (or state, for that matter), so this isn’t unusual to hear. I answered, “We went to boot camp together, and have gone to lunch, so I thought I should get her something. She’s really nice.”
I decided to check the online invite before I wrote out the card, so I could congratulate my colleague on her little ‘boy’ or ‘girl.’ I opened the invite and my jaw dropped:
Do you have any memorable blonde moments (or have you forgotten what they were?)?