Love Me Tinder Love Me True

Welcome to "dating" in the 21st century!  Surprise, it's a NIGHTMARE.  But could there be a cure?

Watch as my sister and I review a phone app called Tinder, and learn about our soul mates (or deeply seated emotional issues) in the process.  Then decide for yourself:  Are YOU a Tinder Heart?

Epilogue:  Ernie finally responded to my message, saying something like, "Cheese is important to me, too.  As is wine.  How about we take both on a picnic under the stars?"

We were married the very next day!!  We now live in the suburbs of Virginia and are expecting our fourth child.  ERNIE + ANNA 4 LIFE!  <3 <3 <3

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GOSLING: It's What You Do

Fun fact:  A gosling is a baby goose.

Even More Fun Fact:  A gosling is also a shmexy actor-man named after a baby goose.

And according to the interwebs, "Gosling" is also a family name of English origin.  It's derived from the Germanic given name Gozzelin, which means "little God."  As in... Ryan Godling.  If you google it, you'll find that this, apparently, is the Gosling Arms:

But that just goes to show that you can’t believe everything you read online anymore, because I happen to know for a FACT that THESE are the Gosling Arms:

Hi arms

"What??" you're asking yourself.  "This blog post doesn't even have any writing in it!  What the hell is this?"  

I get it.  That's fair.  Maybe you just came here to read, and for all I know, you might not be attracted to men.  (Looking at these photos will be a good test!)  I ought to explain myself.

There are three main reasons for this blog post:

1. I could potentially be the next Mrs. Gosling, so I should know all about goslings.
2. I haven't been sleeping much and am kind of losing my shit; looking at photos of Ryan Gosling is therapeutic for me.  And--
3. I majored in English Literature in college and genuinely like words, names, and meanings.  I was taught that most words ending in "-ing" are verbs, and am therefore absolutely convinced that "gosling" must be a verb, too.  As in, I've been gosling a lot lately.  I really like to gosle.  Last night, Ryan and I gosled all night long.

So I ask you:  IS gosling a verb?  And if so, can I do it?

Potential definitions for GOSLING:

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: giggling in the cutest possible way

Example Sentence:  “I made a joke and saw Ryan gosling!"

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: earnestly pronouncing one's own name

Example Sentence:  “Look at Ryan gosling as a little boy!"

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: utilizing the slow single blink as a classic tool of seduction

Example Sentence:  “I saw Ryan gosling and blacked out for several seconds.  Now I cannot find my clothes."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: showcasing the family jewels

Example Sentence:  “This should be uncomfortable, but instead it's just Ryan gosling."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: turning women into creepy cougars

Example Sentence:  “I'm kind of afraid I'm a pervert, but it might just be Ryan gosling."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: defending one’s right to be a hipster

 Example Sentence:  "I heard Ryan gosling; turns out he really dislikes mainstream  bands."

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: inviting others to objectify and possibly molest you… but in a sexy, consensual     way.

Example Sentence:  "How could I resist Ryan gosling?"

gosling [goz-ling]

verb

: congratulating someone on their somewhat gratuitous compilation of Ryan     Gosling GIFs

Example Sentence:  "It may have just been Ryan gosling, but I think he really enjoyed this blog post."

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Go Team Sports and Stuff!

In first or second grade, my school librarian introduced me to a book called Shaq and the Beanstalk, and I remember LOVING it.  I was already a big fan of fairytales, and here was one with a modern twist and a protagonist I could relate to—Shaq was super tall, just like me!  I checked the book out and read it again and again.

A few days later, a boy in my class said his dream was to be like Shaquille O’Neal.  “I know who that is!”  I burst out excitedly.  “The author!”  I had somehow missed that Shaquille O’Neal was a famous basketball player.

Maybe it’s because both my parents are artists, and I grew up never having tasted a buffalo wing.  Maybe it’s that while every other kid in America was playing AYSO, I was singing, dancing, and basically just training to be a Broadway star.  But whatever the reason, I never learned to care about sports.

We never watched the Super Bowl at my house, or any other sporting event, for that matter.  It always confused me that one little game could attract so much attention and excitement.  I’d throw up my hands in exasperation: “The way people are acting, you’d think it was the Tony Awards!”

Hey, sporty people:  Yes, YOU, in the colorful jerseys, tweeting about double faults, no-hitters, and goal line stands:  Do you know how the rest of us live?  Do you know what it’s like to get picked last in gym class and know more about Quidditch than golf?

87% of the time, we have no idea what you’re talking about.  ESPN.com might as well be written in Chinese.  We claim to like going to baseball games, but really we just like peanuts and beer.  We wish “Fantasy Football” was just another name for “Game of Thrones.”

I have so many questions for you, sports fans.  Like, what is a bracket?  Do you use it in tennis?  Why does one minute in football-time actually last much longer?  Are football minutes the equivalent of dog years?  Why do people throw up jazz hands during basketball games?  Why are you so passionate about who wins?  Isn’t Kobe Bryant a rapist?  And also: what is a hockey?

Occasionally I begin to wish I knew more about sports.  I wish I could watch a game on TV with you and do more than occasionally shout “Team!” and “Sport!” and “Balls!” whenever you seem enthusiastic about something.  But as soon as you start trying to explain the rules to me—really, elaborately, explain them—I stop caring, and suddenly have an overwhelming desire to hide under the bowl of bean dip.  Because really, I’ve seen Air Bud and Rocky and Moneyball and Mighty Ducks.  ISN’T THAT ENOUGH FOR YOU?

My dear, darling sports fans, I suppose it’ll just have to be.  And if you can forgive my ignorance and apathy, I’ll excuse you for spamming my Twitter feed with your unbridled passion for athletics.  Like that time thousands of you all started tweeting at once about Larry Bird.  For the record, I’m not totally uninformed and out of the loop: I looked up Larry Bird online.  I know he’s that actor from Space Jam.


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Gray's Annatomy: Also, I'm Dying

I don't mean to brag or anything, but I was born to not be a doctor.  It's almost like God specifically crafted me to be the perfect non-physician.  And it's not just that I'm a squeamish hypochondriac who giggles whenever she hears the word "sphincter," I'm also kind of an insensitive jerk.

A few years back, I accidentally stepped on my sister's toe AND BROKE IT.  "It hurts so bad," she whimpered quietly, hobbling to the freezer to get some frozen peas.  "Are you calling me fat?" I replied.

The moment I truly realized that I had no bedside manner, however, was during my freshman year of college.  It was the dead of night, and my darling roommate, Carrie, was having some kind of violent cough attack.  I didn't wake up--so to be honest, I don't actually remember this happening--but apparently I thrashed about beneath my blankets and bellowed, "SHUT THE F*** UP!"  Two minutes later, I actually woke up.  "Are you okay, Carrie?" I asked, my voice full of concern.  "Can I get you anything?"  She looked at me with fear in her eyes.  "I don't trust you at all," she replied.

I don't remember much about the rest of that night, because I, being the sweet, loving person that I am, went immediately back to sleep.  This was rather particularly horrible of me, because Carrie ended up being taken to the hospital that night.  I must have opened my eyes briefly during the wee hours, because I remember noticing that she--and my blanket--were gone.  "That bitch took my blanket," I murmured dreamily, drifting back to undeserved sleep.

The good news is, Carrie was fine, she just had Swine Flu or something, and she, for whatever reason, actually still chooses to be my friend today.  But the point is, when confronted with other people's sicknesses, I am emotionally unmoved.  Which just means that, if there is any sort of poetic justice to this world, I deserve to be the MOST SICK person of ALL.  Which is great, because I am also, as previously stated, a semi-hypochondriac.

This is a completely undoctored photo of that time I was on Grey's Anatomy.

I have been waiting my entire life to be told that I'm dying.  First, there was the weird lump behind my ear, which they told me was probably nothing, but I still think contains a piece of my unborn twin.  Then, I started randomly collapsing--which, it turns out, is fairly common for people like me who "don't like the taste of water."  But they still had to run a bunch of tests on my heart, which turned out to be healthy despite having an irregular beat.  "Your heart is weird," my doctor told me, "but it won't kill you."  Funny, people have said the same thing about me.

Recently, however, my only health concern has been this horrible asthmatic sea lion cough.  I've had it on and off for 22 years, but only now have my doctors decided to figure out why.  Naturally, I'm assuming the worst.  If having a PhD from WebMD has taught me anything, it's that if you think you have a paper cut, a cold, or a sore muscle, what you probably actually have is cancer.  It doesn't matter if my cough is just a temporary thing that happens when I'm around dust and smoke.  It's probably still Bubonic Plague.

Which brings me to where I am now, coughing spastically and convinced that bad karma has doomed me to a short and germy life.  A coworker just stopped by my desk to ask if the doctor has determined what's wrong yet.  "Nope," I told him before also blurting, in my paranoia, "it's probably a terminal disease!!"  The coworker nodded distractedly, drifting away toward the kitchen.  "At least you're not contagious, then, right?"



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Post Grad Purgatory

I remember being in third grade, and my teacher giving me the multiplication problem 12 x 4.  “You can’t just keep adding four over and over again,” she told me, “you have to actually learn how to multiply.  My job is to prepare you for fourth grade!”  

New teachers said the same sort of thing every year.  Middle school was about preparing us for high school.  High school was about prepping for college.  And by the end of college, they told us we would be ready for “the real world.”  

But, they skipped a step.  No one prepared us for—or even told us about—Post Grad Purgatory. 

“The real world,” or so I’ve been told, is a place where people have careers and apartments and can pay for insurance with their own moneys.  Once upon a time, I believed that right after graduation, I would move there.

But finding a job was really difficult.  I majored in English Literature and Theatre Arts.  If that doesn’t scream, “I have 1 million marketable skills,” I don’t know what does.  Everyone assumed I’d be analyzing sonnets for the CIA within weeks after graduation, but as it turned out, it wasn’t that easy.  

I started applying for jobs in January, and by “applying for jobs,” I mean that I emailed a bunch of people who never emailed me back.  As graduation grew closer, I became sad and desperate, which mostly just means that I ate a lot of ice cream sandwiches and listened to a lot of Taylor Swift.  Her song “22” began to feel terribly distant from my own reality.  “I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU!  BUT I’M FEELING 22!  NOTHING EVER TURNS OUT RIGHT!  THIS APARTMENT SMELLS LIKE POO,” I’d sing to my empty living room.

It was around this time that I finally applied for a job as a dog walker, despite having no particular passion for walking or dogs.  The qualifications didn’t include a college degree, but that didn’t matter—I just wanted something to put on my LinkedIn profile.  Unfortunately, I never heard back.  “THAT’S IT.”  I told myself.  “Prostitution it is!”  But for some reason, my parents thought it was a better idea for me to just move back in with them.  

It’s not a bad deal, moving back home: you get free housing, access to a fully stocked pantry, and occasionally, when your mother is feeling particularly generous, laundry services.  Regrettably, you also have to sleep in a bedroom that looks like a shrine to your 15-year-old self, and… you’re living with your parents.

When I first moved back home, what with not having a job or many friends in the area, I suddenly had an outrageous amount of free time on my hands.  I thought it would be a great time to take up new hobbies, like sleeping and playing Candy Crush Saga on my phone.  But when I rediscovered Netflix, I started wondering why I had ever bothered with friends or hobbies at all.  I started partying all night with my new best buds: Walter White, Lucille Bluthe, and the entire cast of ‘Lost.’

Henry and I break bad together on a crazy Friday night.

By week three of summer, my life revolved around two main goals:  Getting a job, and never having to change out of my pajamas.  Because despite my surplus of free time, I didn’t dare leave the house—it was dangerous!  Just going to the market was like attending a hometown reunion.  “Nope, I still don’t have a job!” I’d awkwardly confess to various old acquaintances while purchasing several bottles of wine.  “Why yes, I am still living with my folks!  Be sure and tell that law school son of yours I say ‘hello!’”

The good news is that I actually ended up getting a job, and not as a dog walker—I’m exactly where I want to be at this point in life.  I have a desk and a file cabinet and a phone, so even though I’m pretty sure my office has asbestos, I get to spend every day pretending to be a real grown-up human being.  And at the end of the day I get to walk through my door, throw down my bag, and exclaim, “Another day, another dollar!”

Because literally.  Starting salaries are $1 per day.  Farewell, post grad purgatory, and welcome to… what?

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Most Inspirational Graduation Speech Ever

Congratulations, Class of 2013!!!

I made you something in honor of your achievements.

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Cast Me as the Best Friend in the Movie of Your Life

You know how in that movie ‘The Holiday,’ the little old man tells Kate Winslet that she should be the leading lady of her own life?  And she’s all like, “YEAHHH!!  I should!!”

That always hit home for me a little bit, maybe because I don’t think of myself as the leading lady in my own life.  And that’s not depressing for me.  Because I happen to think of myself as a very good supporting character in everyone else’s life.

Which is why I think I should be cast as the best friend in the movie of your life.

A movie best friend is a very specific type, and being that type has both its pitfalls and its perks.  A movie best friend should be less attractive than the leading lady, but should still not be painful to look at for a few hours.  She should be the kind of girl men describe as “cool,” and “funny” versus “hot” or “sexy.”  Guys in bars should playfully punch her on the arm and say, “You’re a real cool girl, you know that?” before turning to buy someone else a drink.

Because a movie best friend should never have an exciting love life of her own.  If your movie is about a 20-something working woman in search of her one true love, you need a best friend who has an untiring ability to listen to you whine.  And when eventually you need her advice, and ask her, “Should I marry Rupert, the dashing British doctor, or Todd, the funny photographer who saved my cat’s life,” she will comfort you in your troubles and not throw a glass of red wine in your face.

That’s the part I’m less excited about.  I can’t promise that I’ll never throw wine in your face, and I might even send you some passive-aggressive text messages if you complain too much.  But a movie best friend gets to do a lot of fun stuff, too, that I think I’d really enjoy.  While you, the leading lady, probably have a “cool girl” job as a journalist, no one will really know what I do, so I might just run an orphanage for stray cats.  I’ll harbor some slightly radical political ideas, write a blog, and shamelessly perform my dorky dance moves in front of crowds on karaoke night.  I’ll lecture you about your shopping addiction and probably tell you hilarious horror stories about my blind first date with “Glenn,” the taxidermist with the handlebar mustache.

Because the greatest part about being a best friend in a movie is that I’ll be allowed to actually be funny.  Leading ladies are rarely allowed to be funny, because people are afraid they’ll lose their “cute factor” or sex appeal.  If a leading lady is supposed to be considered “funny” and “quirky,” the most she can do is accidentally burn mini muffins or get stuck in a telephone booth.  Boring!

But if you’re a straight male, you’re probably thinking this post doesn’t apply to you.  You’re thinking that maybe you shouldn’t cast me as the best friend in the movie of your life, and that maybe you should go with Zach Galifianakis instead.  WRONG!  I could be the best buddy in your buddy cop movie.  You can be the hot one and I’ll be the chubby one in aviator sunglasses. Or maybe your life is a musical.  And instead of being the delicate little blonde soprano you fall in love with, I’ll be the brunette named “Eponine” who’s in love with you and wanders around in the rain singing songs about being in the friend-zone.  (Your life is 'Les Miserables.')

My life is so hard

The fact is, whether or not it’s featured on screen, the best friend in movies must actually have a life of her own.  She’s not a perfect cookie-cutter person, and she doesn’t fall in love with Josh Duhamel, but she has a lot of freedom to do what she wants.  She can make a lot of wisecracks and drink a lot of chardonnay and generally just be a badass supporting character.  So when they make a movie about your life…which they will obviously, inevitably, do... cast me as your best friend.  I promise I won't let you down.


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