Jessie and Abe bought a legit pizza oven for their backyard and hosted their first bumble workshop pizza party of the summer this past weekend.
I’m not sure if it’s because most of my friends are in relationships, or because Jessie’s husband calls me “baby boo” sometimes LOL, but my friends are intent on finding me a baby boo of my own! They set up my bumble profile while I scarfed down breakfast pizza, chamango paletas and hell or high watermelon. I obliged them and swiped right on a few “entrepreneurs” (srsly, what do you do for a living?), but only the girl can initiate the convo within 24 hours after you’ve been matched before the connection disappears forever. Seeing that I never approach guys first and wait till the eleventh hour to do anything, this may not be the best dating app for me haha. I may need a few more bumble workshops thinly disguised as pizza parties to convince me otherwise!
My dear friend, Christine, is officially engaged! Just a year ago, we were livin’ la vida loca in Cabo, and now she’s got a baby and a fiancé! Time moves so quickly around here. It seems like only yesterday, Christine, Jessie and I were at Blind Lady talking about the crapshoot that was the three of us, and now I’m the last one standing! The only time I’ve ever felt bad about being single is when I got into a car accident this year and had to be rescued by someone else’s husband. I was standing there at the auto shop watching them lift my car up, and my best friend’s husband was there talking to the mechanic for me, and my heart sank. Partly because they told me how much it would cost to fix my alignment, but mostly because I forgot how nice it was to have someone there to help me.
The few single friends that I have are serial daters. Tinder, Bumble, OK Cupid… If there’s an app for it, they’re on it. And although I pretty much pioneered online dating 20 years ago with my first AOL boyfriend (LoL), I would still prefer to meet someone IRL. Even though most of the guys I meet in real life are assholes. My problem is that I like assholes. If Christine and that rock on her finger taught me anything, it’s that you don’t always end up with the kind of guy you’re used to being with. I definitely have a type. If they’re bearded, witty and/or an asshole, all the boxes are checked. Maybe if I go for a nice guy with a babyface who tells mediocre jokes, the outcome will be different. I guess I’ll never know since the guys my friends want to set me up with have girlfriends already! Ha.
I caught up on seven episodes of How to Get Away with Murder with Pammie over the weekend. I’m dying to know what happens next, but I never watch this show by myself because I get too scared. I can’t wait till I’m home for Thanksgiving to find out who shot Annalise, so someone please come over when the new episode airs this Thursday!
Spoiler Alert: There will be frozen salmon from Costco (it’s the only thing I keep stocked in my fridge because holiday weight) and me with no pants on.
The act of trying to forget someone is a futile one. In order to do so, you are forced to remember. It’s like dieting. Like trying your hardest not to think about food, while weighing every ounce and counting every calorie.
One of my randoms who I haven’t seen or responded to in five years hit me up late last night. Who does that??? Please just forget about me, just like you seem to have forgotten that you have a girlfriend and babies at home.
She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it’s there, because it can’t hurt, and because what difference does it make?