sauvmyproblems-blog

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

FIFTEEN | LOCKED IN

HI! REMEMBER ME?! HOW ARE YOU??? Can you believe that Donald Trump is going to be our president??? UGH.

I’m so sorry that I haven’t posted in one million days. Seriously. It’s unacceptable and I’m ashamed of myself. For the record, I have 4 stories started but I’ve been suffering from severe writer’s block. Apparently, it really is a thing that can happen to even the most mediocre of bloggers!

In addition to my official/medical writer’s block diagnosis, I have other excuses to offer up. I’ve conclusively become two things: busy and lazy. I recognize that these two adjectives shouldn’t traditionally go together…yet I am living and breathing proof that this oxymoron is possible.

I strangely find myself having plans almost every single night of the workweek. Trust me, I’m not bragging; it’s not easy being this popular and socially relevant. Instead of staying in to write / exercise my "creativity", I’ve been hitting up ALL of the bars. And ALL of the restaurants. And ALL of the work outings. And ALL of the J. Crews. And ALL of the friends’ apartments where alcohol is served. Thus, demonstrating the busy component.

The later I stay out, the greater the likelihood is that I will take a cab home. And of course the chances of me being hungover in the morning grows exponentially. Like you guys, I’ve discovered that my new baseline is just my old self except 20% more nauseous and bloated than I used to be. Since I’m staying out passed my bedtime, I get little-to-no sleep and thus have a challenging time waking up in the morning. Which also means I’ve been wearing Leggings As Pants (LAP) which is NOT A PRETTY SIGHT for someone who has been doing nothing but consuming calories 24 hours a day. That’s the lazy part.

Also, since I have your attention, I’d also like issue one more formal complaint: this newfound lifestyle has made me broke as shit. I swear on your life, my eyes filled with tears the other morning when I realized I had $34 in my bank account. LITERALLY THIRTY-FOUR DOLLARS. WHO HAVE I BECOME? I HATE MYSELF.

Hold on a sec. I’M ACTUALLY STRESS-SWEATING. I need a minute to regain my composure.

K. Back.

Anyway… a few weeks ago, I decided my life needed to change. No more bullshit. It’s time to be a responsible human being. I promised myself that I was going to wake up early that Saturday morning and really adult. I was going to do laundry and exercise my disgusting body and clean my disgusting apartment. I was going to put my shoes in my closet and hang up all of the coats that were draped over my couch.

Since I still don’t have blinds in my apartment, I woke up with the ~sunrise~ around 7:00AM, which sounds kind of ~romantic~ until I inform you that I’m not wearing pants in this flashback. And I’m alone watching said sunrise. Yep. Just me, myself and the teardrops on my guitar.

I did what any other 28-year old adult would do: put on the Spotify playlist “The Best of Kelly Clarkson” and ate 3 bowls of Special K while standing over my sink. I made a couple cups of Starbucks coffee in my ghetto-ass Keurig machine. I moved all of my shoes from my hallway to shoe rack that is literally just a mangled piece of Bed, Bath and Beyond plastic – but hey, we can’t win them all. I Swiffered the living hell out of my 452-square foot apartment. I EVEN USED PLEDGE ON MY RAYMOUR & FLANAGAN MEDIA WALL UNIT. I am trying to use a lot of product placement in this paragraph, but now I’m not sure if it’s funny. I digress.

You get it. So far so good with this whole adulting thing. I pat myself on the back, which is a lie because I HATE BEING PATTED ON THE BACK. Seriously. If you ever pat me on the back when we’re hugging, I’m going to be offended and consider unfollowing you on social media.

Next up comes the laundry.

Laundry is something that I don’t mind doing, but there are a few quick things I need to tell you to help you get a visual:

1. I always, 100% of the time, have 25 OR MORE pounds of clothing to wash on Laundry Day. And I take reusable tote bags that you get from TJ Maxx to bring said clothing down to the basement of my building, where the laundry room lives. 2. I usually need to use 4 of these bags to lug my laundry downstairs. 3. I always, 100% of the time, have enough black clothing to do a “blacks only” load, which sounds really questionable but is meant with the upmost respect. New Yorkers wear a TON OF BLACK. I love black. And the new black heart emoji.

Now that we are aligned, let’s get back to the story.

After all my clothes are done in the dryer, I shove them back in my $0.99 tote bags and drag them back up to my apartment. Since my arms are full of clean garments, I body-check my door open and then karate-kick it closed behind me. I am oftentimes unaware of my strength -- and the door literally SLAMS SO INCREDIBLY HARD. It makes an abnormally loud noise.

I dump all 94 lbs of clothing on my bed and go back to the door to lock it behind me, because murderers.

But…I notice that the metal around the doorknob has become lose, probably from my Power Ranger-style kick.

And now the door won’t re-open. Chuckling, I give myself a minute to regain my composure, and pull on it again.

The door does not open.

Hmmm. This can’t ACTUALLY be happening, can it? There is no way I’m trapped in my own apartment.

I take a deep breath and reposition my stance. I pull as hard as I possibly can on this god damn door.

It does not open.

I look around to see if Ashton Kutcher snuck into my apartment while I wasn’t looking – I’m definitely being Punked. THERE IS NO WAY THAT I’M TRAPPED IN MY OWN HOME.

I’m now doing that thing from the movies where my foot is on the wall to brace myself, and I am literally PULLING with all of my being on this fucking door.

It does not open.

Maybe my hands are just sweaty? Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I put on oven mitts because of the grippy part. And I pull as hard as I can.

It does not open.

As the terror slowly begins to sink in, I do what any other person would do in this situation – call their doorman for back-up. I tell him that I can’t seem to open my door, and ask him to bring up the spare key to see if he can open it from the outside.

The following video is actual evidence taken from the moment that my dear Tony comes to assess the situation. [Director’s note: please observe the shoe marks to the right of the doorknob from where my foot was.]

You heard it with your own two ears, people; Tony confirmed it.

I’m fucking locked INSIDE my studio apartment.

“This can’t be happening”, I say aloud. “On the ONE day that I actually was going to get shit done.”

While Tony is calling the locksmith, I begin to wonder what life would be like if the door just never opened again. “Maybe I can make a ladder out of sheets and lower myself the 9 stories to the street,” I think in my brain. I then remember that I broke my pelvis from running up a HILL, so the chances of me surviving the descent are slim-to-none. I wonder how long it would take me to build up enough body mass to knock down the door. I dig through my junk drawer to look for any secret tools I may have forgotten about. What if the fire department has to come and scoop me out of my window like a cat stuck in a tree? I can see it now… “FDNY RESCUES SLIGHTLY OVERWEIGHT MILLENNIAL FROM 9th FLOOR MANHATTAN APARTMENT DUE TO STUCK DOOR.” Oh my god. THAT WOULD BE SOCIAL SUICIDE. Actually, maybe I could finally fulfill my dream of being on Ellen.

I can barely get deep in this stress-fantasy before there is a knock on my broken door; Joe, the locksmith, has come to rescue me.

Within the first 10 minutes, he pops out the doorknob and somehow, magically, is able to get the door open. THIS IS SO GREAT. All he has to do now is pop the doorknob back in and he can get on his merry way. And I can continue on with the promise I made to myself for being productive on this Saturday. I CAN STILL SAVE THE DAY. CARPE GOD DAMN DIEM, Y’ALL.

But of course, this is me we’re talking about. Shit can never be that easy.

Joe comes into my apartment wearing gym clothes and lets me know that this emergency totally interrupted his workout. At the very second I start to feel guilty for ruining this guy’s weekend, I realize that he is a GUM SNAPPER. He is smacking on that piece of Trident like it’s his last day on earth. Like he was trying to win the World’s Loudest Gum Chewer contest. I start to feel less bad for him and more sorry for my eardrums.

Anyway, Chompy Joe makes a full assessment of my door, muttering to himself about the various parts that he’ll need to back to “the truck” and get. He starts to ask me a lot questions about the innards of my door’s lock system – do I know which way the bolt was installed, have I ever replaced the trigger, etc. I want to scream YOU ARE TALKING TO A PERSON WHO LOCKED HERSELF IN HER ACTUAL APARTMENT but instead I politely shrug and tell him I’ll be no help.

Joe and his gum go back to “The Truck” and reappear a half hour later – he begins drilling and hammering and screwing and chewing boisterously. I don’t want to seem like a helicopter parent, so I begin folding the skyscraper of clothing that’s atop my bed. After 15 or so minutes, Joe calls out to me that he’s fixed the door. WOW. THAT WAS FAST. WHAT A PRODIGY.

I run over to him, which is a lie because you can’t run in my apartment because it is so small. He confidently attempts to walk me through the steps he took to replace the lock. Except when it comes time for him to demonstrate his success, we discover that he DID NOT FIX the lock. And thus begins the real emotional turmoil / the below hellacious cycle:

1. Joe mutters to himself while futzing around with my locks. That sounds sexual. It is not sexual. 2. Joe lets me know that he finally has discovered what the problem is, and heads back out to “The Truck” to get more necessary parts. 3. After 30 minutes or so of truck rummaging, Joe returns to the scene of the crime and begins playing around with the door. 4. After 10 more minutes, Joe calls back out to me that the locks are repaired. 5. Joe tries to show me that my door is fixed. 6. The door is still not fixed. 6.5 The locks are still broken. 7. See step 1. 8. Repeat.

THIS PROCESS RECURS A TOTAL OF FOUR TIMES. Since I know nothing about locksmith-ery so I TRY give Joe the benefit of the doubt. Luckily, I had no formal plans that day so I had time to devote to this stupid circumstance.

Since it doesn’t take 3 hours to fold laundry, I begin to struggle to pass the time while Joe is pretending to know what he’s doing working very diligently. I organize my dresser. I clean out my refrigerator. I put all my dishes away. I cure the common cold.

Finally, I hear a familiar sound - a CLICK in the door in tandem with a positive cheer come from Joe. “I really fixed it this time, Sara. Come look.” Joe closes the door. He tests both locks. Pulls on the door when it’s locked. IT’S FIXED. IT’S REALLY FIXED, ISN’T IT?!

Clearly pleased with himself, Joe begins to pack up his tools in his little locksmith bag. He hands me the bill and lets me know that I can call to tell him my credit card number over the phone so I don’t need to go with him to The Truck. I sign some forms, give Joe a heart-felt thank you, and wave as he turns towards the door leave. He turns both locks to free himself from my apartment.

But the door doesn’t open.

Joe pulls as hard as he can on the doorknob, clearly shaking it with all of his might.

I burst into laughter – OH JOE! My little trickster! It’s so funny that we’re on the level where you feel so comfortable playing such a silly joke on me. You devil!

Then, there is a long pause.

Joe slowly turns back and looks at me square in the eyes. He stares into the depths of my soul. I watch the energy literally drain out of his body, as his shoulders slump over.

He doesn’t even need to say a word. I already know that he’s not joking.

We are now BOTH stuck inside my apartment.

The panic really starts to set in. How THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN. HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET OUT. Are there any other Joes out there that can come rescue us? God, I hope they aren't chompers. WAIT. I DON’T KNOW IF I HAVE ENOUGH CANNED GOODS FOR TWO HUMANS TO SURVIVE. I only have 4 boxes of cereal which is DEFINITELY only enough for me. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO. Do I need to marry Joe now? He's not really my type. Ugh, okay fine. I’ll do it if he closes his mouth.

Luckily, that doesn’t need to happen because Joe still had the DRILL with him. He proceeds to SHAVE DOWN the top of my door in order to free us. So creative. He busts the top lock out and as the minutes turned to more minutes – we were finally free.

Given the extensive injuries that my poor door and lock endured, and the emotional scarring that Joe will now have, I am handed an updated $275 bill…

…which I immediately send to the owner of my apartment to deal with for having the world’s crappiest door of all time. I COULD HAVE DIED IN THERE.

Needless to say, I opened a bottle of Sauv before the sun even thought about setting that day. It made everything better.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I wonder what Joe and his gum are up to. Has he changed up his flavors? Did he ever finish that workout? Did someone teach him that society prefers that humans chew with their mouths closed?

And I wonder if he ever thinks of me.

Joe, if you’re reading this – thanks for the memories. LYLAL (Luv Ya Like A Locksmith.)

#SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

FOURTEEN | THINGS I HATE

“Hate” is a strong word. This is something I am aware of.

Actually, one of my pet peeves is when people say, “you know, hate is a strong word” like it’s some sort of revolutionary finding. As if I missed a frantic CNN Breaking News alert that read “SCIENTISTS HAVE DISCOVERED THAT HATE IS A STRONG WORD.” As if I’m not just being ~dramatic~ about whatever it is that I’m saying I hate. Give me a break, people.

There are many things that most people do not love - like terrorism or when your favorite sports team loses a championship or terminal illness or open-mouth chewers. (Additionally, from the feedback I’ve received, most of you now hate “Dylan” from post THIRTEEN.)

Consequently, one of my favorite pastimes as an American is asking people about the unique things that only they “HATE” in civilization. We ALL have something – whether it is a food or a phrase or a generic life occurrence that most people would find to be tolerable, but you CANNOT STAND IT. (PS it’s a great date question, for my single fans.)

The key is that the “hated” entity can’t be something commonly “hated” by many people, such as feet. Like, feet bother me beyond words – ESPECIALLY toes. When people use their toes to pick something up off the ground, I want to put them in a headlock until they temporarily pass out. The sound of rubber flip-flops slapping against bare feet is enough to make me begin planning my own funeral. Yet, a lot of people can relate to this, as feet are a regularly disliked body part. Thus, “feet” isn’t an acceptable answer. Are you following the rules? GREAT. YOU’RE A GENIUS.

Often bitterly irrational, but ever-present in our daily human lives, I invite you to ask yourself this very question: what do you HATE that you probs shouldn’t HATE?

I know you couldn’t care less but in no particular order, below is my Hate List.

APPLES I don’t even know where to begin about this filthy excuse of a fruit. I’m a little heated that I’m wasting precious brainpower and some of the time I have left on Planet Earth writing about apples, to be honest with you.

Apples are absolutely repulsive in every way imaginable.

“How could anyone hate apples?!” you probably just asked. First of all, save your questions for the end of the post because interrupting is RUDE. Second of all, I have absolutely no rational reason to hate them, which is why they are part of this god damn list. I thought you understood.

Let me preface this by saying that I definitely gave apples a chance. When I was little, my mom used to try to serve them to me different ways. As-is. Apple sauce. Apple pie. Apple-flavored treats. Apples dipped in whatever the fuck. For a short stint, it’s rumored I was once a fan of watered-down Mott’s Apple Juice (because all kids are) but I wouldn’t touch apples in any other form.

Apples act like they are so innocent and well-liked – saying they are “healthy” and “easy to grab and go” and “satisfying”. You ain’t foolin’ me tho, buddies. You are the “edible” iteration of Satan himself.

I don’t understand who an apple even thinks it is, honestly. It is nothing but a slimy, mealy, waxy sphere that literally killed Snow White or some shit. It tries to break your teeth, for cryin’ out loud. That “juicy” struggling sound (like “kkkkccchhhhhhkkkcccc”) when a human bites into it makes me shiver.

Apples also have super obnoxious names like “red delicious” and “granny smith”…and I am here to firmly declare that YOU ARE NEITHER DELICIOUS NOR A GRANDMOTHER, APPLE. You can’t just casually have the name “delicious” in your title; that’s so cocky. You are NOT an adorable elderly female with tennis balls on the bottom of her walker. Screw yourself for saying otherwise.

Also apples get brown AF in 3 seconds, which also maddens me to no end. Who are you to tell us how fast we need to eat you?! Why you gotta act like a ticking time-bomb and rush people to finish you before you get grosser than you already are? Why don’t you have any patience, apples?!!? (I’m looking at you too, avocados. Except I don’t hate you. You are well-intentioned.)

I should probably inform you that when I was 15 years old, I accidentally drank an entire water bottle filled with 99 Apples, which I didn’t realize was apple-related at the time because all liquor is revolting to a teenager. I became violently ill and I couldn’t look at anything apple-flavored the same after that. (Or my own sad reflection in the mirror, for that matter.)

In fact, during my sophomore year of college one of my roommates bought apple-scented dish soap for our kitchen. And once when I was cleaning out a pot, I realized that the green liquid was not “soap” flavored – it was that of my arch nemesis. My mortal enemy. And I instantly projectile vomited all over the counter. (My coworker and friend who I adore, Audra, absolutely LOVES that story. HI AUDRA!!!)

So, no, I don’t want to go apple picking. I don’t care how delectable your mom’s apple crisp is. I’d rather starve than eat the sour apple flavored Blow Pop in your trick-or-treat bag, kid.

Also, don’t try and be stealth and throw apples in your chicken salad. Or regular leaf salad. Or fruit salad. THEY WILL BE NOTICED AND I WILL BE ANGERED.

Well there you have it, my friends. I hate apples. It’s an absurdity, but I truly hate them.

BEING ASKED IF I CAN COOK This is by far one of the most frustrating questions you could ask me – especially if you are a guy who is sizing me up as a potential girlfriend and want to see if you’d be coming home to a hot meal after a long day at the office.

OF COURSE I CAN EFFING COOK. EVERYONE CAN COOK. LITERALLY, EVERY SINGLE PERSON CAN COOK.

You see, cooking is quite simply the ability to successfully follow food preparation-related instructions. If you have the necessary ingredients, spices, appliances and are a literate human, you are capable of cooking. And of course you MUST have free time and patience.

Obviously some people are better at creating flavor profiles and have more advanced palates or whatever other bullshit you’ve heard on Chopped. And many chefs or just moms or dads have perfected this skill and can serve up something significantly better than the average Joe.

But at its rudimentary level, I believe cooking is a straightforward act.

Happily, the below alternate questions are available for you to choose from:

• “Do you like to cook?” • “How often do you cook at home?” • “What is your favorite thing to make?” • “Can I have your Seamless account password to assess the damage you’ve caused to society?”

But DO NOT. I repeat. Do NOT ask me if I CAN cook. Because I absolutely can.

(I just don’t feel like it.)

TIGHTS/STOCKINGS Ugh. BUSINESS WEAR.

The irony of this one is that I own a few of these unspeakable, body-constricting, torture devices. I really don’t understand women’s business clothes AT ALL and always look like a restaurant hostess when I try to dress up. But I would rather be barelegged in the negative one million degree tundra than wear tights.

It would be easier to launch a rocket into the actual universe than figure out how the sizing works for tights. There are letters AND numbers. And charts. And “control tops” to suck in all your fat rolls so you don’t have a FUPA in your pencil skirt – I DON’T WANT YOU TO HAVE ANY CONTROL, TIGHTS. THIS IS MY WORLD. #ImTheCaptainNow

(Also, I think pencil skirts are human-sized wearable sleeping bags.)

The actual worst part of ALL of this is that tights are .0000000000000000000000000001 millimeters thick and tear as soon as the air touches them, like this horrible tragedy I once faced below:

Honest to god, why hasn’t anyone come up with a better solution? Wait - is there a brand besides Duane Reade that I should be investigating?! Fall is here so someone please let me know before I lose my mind. Thx xoxoxo.

THE PHRASE “SETTLE DOWN” I would rather lay my actual face on burning hot coals than be told to “settle down” at any point of any day of my lifetime.

First of all, “settle down” is laced with patronizing tones, even if it’s said in a sing-song manner and covered in glitter. “Settle down” means whatever you’re doing or saying is irritating the person you’re interacting with to such an extent that they need to alert you, and ask you to cut it. It’s passive aggressive. It’s condescending. It’s COLD AND HEARTLESS; HAVE SOME WARMTH WHEN YOU EMOTE.

At least the phrase “relax!” is capable of having a positive spin on it – someone could genuinely be concerned about your escalated stress level and gently encourage you to reassess. Even “calm down” can be seen as soothing, depending on the inflection. But “settle down” is the short way of saying, “oh my god, you really need to take a look at your pathetic life and adjust everything about it.”

So no one in his or her right mind ever is allowed to tell someone to settle down. Unless you’re joking, in which case LOL.

OWLS / NOCTURNAL ANIMALS Ya know what, I don’t think I really HATE owls per se. I am just wholeheartedly terrified of them – they are my biggest fear in the world. Raccoons, bats, possums and those freaky little night monkeys are a very close second.

I’m sure there’s a valid scientific reason to why these creatures are nocturnal and live on opposite schedules, but I genuinely do not care about said reason. To me, there is absolutely no purpose of something needing to be nocturnal other than to terrify us. Honestly, I think they’re just trying to be different for the sake of being different. Like vegans.

I’ve been terrified of owls since I was three years old when my parents decided it would be a great idea to hire a clown for my birthday party. No joke, her name was Sparkles and she was the scariest thing I had ever seen. Completely white faced, including white lips. Crazy make-up that made her eyes look as big as dish plates. I carry a traumatic memory of Sparkles singing Happy Birthday to me in a VERY high-pitched voice. There is photo evidence of me hysterically sobbing while clinging to my childhood nanny, begging her to make it stop. I thought my little life was over. I had dreams, Sparkles. I wanted to go to college to major in being a fairy princess. I wanted to live in the IKEA ball pit. But you snatched that from beneath my tiny fingers, you wench.

Sidenote: because of this experience, I developed some bizarre Pavlovian fear of the birthday song and would panic whenever it was sung in my presence. All of my childhood birthday’s are of my friends giving me a half-assed pat on the back and an unenthusiastic “happy birthday” grunt since I refused to be sung to. (It still makes me uncomfortable.)

Strangely, I have absolutely no fear or hatred of clowns. Instead, I am abnormally frightened by mysterious animals with large eyes, i.e. owls. If I am outside at night and hear even just one measly hoot, I will run as fast as my little legs will carry me to safety. Like, I need to close my eyes during 22% of the scenes in the Harry Potter movies. Let me remind you that I am a 28-year-old adult.

________

Well. Now that you think I’m insane, I’ll see myself out. PS: I want to hear all about what you hate. Click here to LMK.

#SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

THIRTEEN | PUPPY LOVE

It’s very important that you understand what I’m about to tell you:

I LOVE DOGS. I REALLY, REALLY LOVE DOGS.

There is a puppy store a few short blocks from my office and I’ve been going there for as long as I can remember to play with the French bulldogs, my favorite breed. I find those little guys to be irresistible and that we become fast friends. They make my heart melt into 90,000,000 pieces with their ears and little butts.

Now that we’re aligned on that, we need to talk about Dylan. Get comfortable, my little friends, because this story is long AF but WORTH IT.

I promised myself that “Dylan” didn’t deserve a “full-length feature” on this godforsaken blog (especially since he requested one when it first launched), but compared to other guys, the story of Dylan and I is beyond strange.

Many of the dates that I’ve shared were either before or interspersed between the on-again-off-again multi-month Dylan Chronicles, so I could literally write a novel about this bro. In the interest of time and energy, I’ll just focus on the milestones. Also this will probably come as a surprise but I’m having a glass of wine right now, and I’d be black out if I drank during the entirety of this story. Nevertheless – I’m ready. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?

As you already know, I broke my pelvis from running up a fucking hill. My sports orthopedist instructed to me to remain still as possible during the commencement of my injury, so I didn’t leave my apartment for an entire week. I was SO immobile that I literally made a permanent indent of my broken body on my sectional.

Anyway, during my hibernation I did a LOT of two things – eating and app swiping. (How many of you just read that as ass wiping? Let me know.) At some point I matched with a 33-year-old named Dylan on Hinge and he messaged me something involving an animal/musical pun that I can’t remember (a skunk inventing funk maybe). I shot back with something that one-upped his joke and thus opened the “getting to know you” floodgates.

Since I was a fixed/agoraphobic statue stuck at home, we didn’t initially make plans to get together. But for some unexplained reason, we just couldn’t get enough of each other. Part of me was intrigued since he was seven years older and he frequently discussed how dating older guys is a different ballgame. Allegedly, they’re more mature. They’re not looking to just mess around with us, ladies. They’ve lived more life and had more meaningful experiences. L O FREAKIN’ L.

“Dylan Hinge” and I texted each other from the moment we woke up in the morning into the middle of the night. It was to the extent that he once bought in-flight WiFi during a short work trip so we could maintain contact while he was 50,000 feet in the air. Ridiculous.

We spoke so frequently that we covered TOO much preliminary ground; Not only did Dylan tell me he was divorced, but I even got the details around the demise of his ex-wife. (Note: while I was super supportive of this fact, I do acknowledge how atypical and inappropriate it is to discuss something so serious with a stranger over text.) I called his siblings and parents by their first names when we were talking about families. Things like that. You get it.

When we finally made plans to meet IRL for alcohol, I had to bail the day of because I fell over in the shower from excruciating pain on my right side. Since I’m extremely medically blessed and fortunate, I ended up having to spend 38 hours in the hospital – working up those NYU Langone frequent flyer miles like WHOA. I’m currently LOLing at the memory of me trying to hurl myself to the Emergency Room on crutches, alone. I hope a passerby took a video of that struggle that I’ll find on the internet one day.

Dylan offered to come and stay with me in the hospital…even though we hadn’t met yet… because he knew my parents were out of town and that my friends were at work. He genuinely didn’t want me to be alone. He phrased the offer in a non-creepy way, but since I was a sweaty hog who was vomiting all over myself, I politely declined since I wanted him to meet me in more attractive conditions. But he consistently checked on me throughout my stay.

Once I was feeling better, Dylan planned a date for us. We were gonna go out on a SATURDAY – a concept which is UNHEARD OF for a first date since most people don’t want to waste such an important night of the week on a stranger who could quite honestly poison your drink for all you even know.

Since I was still on crutches, Dylan told me he was sending a car to pick me up from my apartment. I assured him that I was a pro at getting around NYC in my condition but he absolutely insisted. So at 8PM that Saturday night, an Escalade pulled up in front of my building. The driver asked me if I was Dylan’s date and told me I was a “lucky girl” – to which I replied “k so why is my fucking pelvis broken, sir” – err, I mean “thank you!”

When I got to the West Village bar, Dylan was waiting at the curb for me. I peeped at him through the tinted SUV window as he stood there in his faded, reddish t-shirt – hands halfway in the pockets of his dark-wash designer jeans. He was just as tall as he said he was. His eyes were greener than I thought they’d be. He winked at me with a half-smirk, knowing that he was already slaying the date.

I crutched over to him, he kissed me on the cheek, and the following opening exchange ensued:

Me: “Hi Dyl, thank you so much for arranging that chauffer situation for me. So sweet and unnecessary.” Dylan: “Wow, it’s so great to finally hear what your voice sounds like, Goldberg.”

…and that’s the exact moment that I knew I was in really big trouble because he was just as [100 emoji] in person. We head inside and he stores my crutches in corner so I could feel normal/uninjured and not have to worry about them. He made sure I was comfortable and stable on the bar stool and thought it was “cute” that I was hobbling around. We hit it off and the night carried on swimmingly.

Over the next week, we made our presence known at MANY bars. We went out for dinner. We went to a NY Rangers game. In addition to his real job, Dylan also owns a men’s accessories company – that mostly focuses on funky, wild socks – and he brought me a bunch to test out on our second date. I’m an avid foot hater, but what kind of monster doesn’t LOVE a fun pair of socks?!

As the weeks turned into months, I was starting to get the urge to Define The Relationship (DTR) – things were progressing enough that it seemed necessary. But I remember Dylan telling me that having a girl in his life was a huge deal given his divorce. He had a developed a fear of commitment and really wanted to take things slowly. Fine by me, dude.

One day at work, I was admittedly having an ~insecure moment~ and texted Dylan saying something half-joking along the lines of “bro, you like me, right? Like this means something to you, right?” WHY I texted him this and didn’t bring it up in person, I’ll never know. Luckily, he responded with something like, “This is definitely not a conversation that I want to have with you over text. Let’s talk about it at dinner tonight, but of course I like you.” I scolded my inner 16-year-old and told myself never to hold back with Dylan again.

Thanksgiving rolls around and we both went to our parents’ houses and up telling our extended families about each other. I told my friends about him. My coworkers. We came back to New York City early during the holiday weekend so we could see each other before I left for Europe for a week. That night marked the first date we had that I walked to on my own without any sort of medical device support. Dylan and I had that talk about “what we were” – and we, as you could imagine that we decided we were officially “dating” – THRILLING!

The timing was shitty given that I was leaving the next day, but we spoke every day that I was in London. He was in California so the time difference was vast - Dylan told me he never felt so far away from me. Little did I know how metaphorical that was of what was to come.

After my amazing trip, I get home to a VERY WEIRD Dylan, acting like he was super busy and telling me he “couldn’t talk” and not having any time that week to see me. Sensing something was up, I asked him what was wrong and if he was having second thoughts. For the next 20 minutes, I died a slow and painful death as I watched the dreaded “…” of him typing back to me. My heart totally sank when I got the following message:

“I’ve had a lot of time to think and I’m not sure this is the right next step for us. So I don’t think we should continue down this path.”

Hold. The. Phone.

What are you even saying to me right now? How have you had a lot of time to think when we just decided to be “something” six days ago?

While part of me was pretty excited that I now got to eat all the chocolate that I bought for him, I was shocked. Where was this coming from? We exchanged a lot of confusing text messages, and since he had previously wanted to talk to me in person about “important” things, I was miffed when he refused to meet up with me to discuss. He was 100% confident in his decision – it was over, just like that.

FAST FORWARD SEVEN WEEKS

It’s now officially 2016 and I was in my bed recovering from one of the worst hangovers of my career. It was one of those “never drinking again” days where you feel like you are blind and your internal organs are beating the shit out of each other and you are considering planning your own funeral. Since I’m a popular human being, I get a text message.

It was Dylan.

The text said, “Hi. I understand if you don’t want to respond and I’m not looking for one. But I wanted to apologize again for how everything ended. You really didn’t deserve it.”

Since I was 87% dead, I DIDN’T respond and wished that if that text HAD to arrive into my life, it occurred when I was a person. ANYWAY. I ended up responding with something generic and disinterested the next day when I was alive again. Yes, it was nice that he sent a follow-up apology but it was ALMOST TWO MONTHS after the fact; I had already gone through all of the stages of grief and was “over it” obviously.

FAST FORWARD ONE LITERAL DAY

Dylan texts me AGAIN.

I’ll spare you the details, but essentially he was telling me that he was looking at an apartment that was 12 blocks away from me and decided to ask me a million questions about the neighborhood, as if Google didn’t exist and as if he didn’t come here constantly when we were dating. I showed Brigette the conversation and since she is the most brilliant person of all time, she told me that she thought Dylan just wanted me to know that he was moving close to me. I think she was right.

Obviously this led to a new common ground, and Dylan and I started texting again. He told me that he wanted to explain the real reason why he ended things to me, IN PERSON. We made plans to grab a drink. Maybe Dylan actually changed?

FAST FORWARD A RELATIVELY SHORT PERIOD TIME

Dylan gets Lyme Disease.

Like, what the actual fuck.

He was having really bad symptoms – the facial paralysis, the extreme fatigue. On the night that we were supposed to grab our “what TF happened” drink, I ended up going to his West Village apartment for the first time.

[Con: one side of his face was totally stuck from the bells palsy. Pro: he had grown a pretty hot beard.]

I helped him research Lyme Disease and make follow-up doctor’s appointments. I offered to go with him to said doctor’s appointments. I looked up specialists in our neighborhood. I brought him wine because it’s been medically proven that EVERYONE always wants wine at every moment of the day.

FAST FORWARD TO I DON’T EVEN KNOW BUT IT WASN’T THAT LONG I DON’T THINK

Dylan asks me to work for his sock company.

He’s almost settled into the new apartment in our hood and he has me come over to discuss his offer, which is to be company’s Creative Director. He wants to rebrand and thinks that my imaginative eye, unmatchable wit, brilliance and deep understanding of his vision would prove to be invaluable. Plus, he was gonna pay me by the hour in cash and homegirl loves some extra dollas because I’m a Jew.

I accept his offer, and thus begins the next official chapter - Dylan becomes my boss.

We talked about socks every damn day. I would go to his place to storyboard, create mind maps, and do image research.

We were spending a ton of time together again – occasionally, I would stay at his apartment until 3AM, as we sat on opposite ends of the couch talking about footwear adjectives.

We slowly were becoming best friends…

…until then we started going on “company outings” more known to commoners as dates.

…and I start spending more and more of my free time with him.

…and then one night Dylan tells me I’m doing a shitty job and we’ve hit a “lull” in our progress with the rebrand and I storm out of the bar.

…and then Dylan takes it all back and kisses me on the street corner.

…and then I have to quit working for him because the lines have become so blurred.

…and he gave me a set of keys to his apartment.

FAST FORWARD ABOUT ONE WEEK OR SOMETHING

Dylan and I go out for fancy cocktails and then I go back to his apartment to help him assemble some furniture. (Little known fact: I’m actually pretty handy…boys, take note.)

And I don’t know what provoked me to do this, but I offer Dylan a second chance – I wanted to take things slowly but I hoped things would move forward. I just wanted to be a team with him since we made such a great one.

The next day, he asked me to be his girlfriend.

FAST FORWARD TWO DAYS, NO EXAGGERATION

Dylan gets a puppy. (Please recall how in the beginning of this post, I told you how much I adore dogs.)

Well, Dylan had wanted to get a dog for a while now but needed to get one that he knew would stay small because studio apartments. So, being the French Bulldog fan that I am, I start going to the store by my office and sending him pics of the puppies there that I love.

He falls in love with that breed too, and tells me that I can pick out “our” dog.

You can imagine the sudden joy that had washed into my life – I was healed from my pelvis and my boyfriend just got a three-month-old puppy – the kind of puppy that makes instant tears shoot out of my eyeballs like waterfalls. He named her “Penny” (this isn’t her real name, but I want to protect her more than anything else.) I don’t think Dylan was expecting to buy one so quickly, and he kind of forgot about all the crazy stuff that was going on at work. And that he had a ton of travel coming up…

So I worked from home for the first few days that Penny was adjusting so a familiar face could consistently take care of her. Since Dylan was out of town, I slept at his apartment so she could be comfortable in his own bed. I smuggled her into my office when I had to be there for in-person meetings so she wouldn’t have to be alone for long periods of time.

During Penny’s first couple of months in her new home, she saw me just as much as she saw Dylan. I cleaned up just as much of her piss and shit as he did. Penny came with me to get my nails done. My doormen fell head-over-heels in love with her. One weekend, I spent an entire Saturday night teaching her how to “sit” so Dylan didn’t have to when he got back from his trip. Most of the toys that covered the floors were purchased on my Amazon account, etc.

I have never, ever, EVER loved an animal as much as I loved Penny – she jumped three feet into the air when she saw me. And vice versa.

At that point, I’d let myself in after work and Dylan would go to softball and come home to Penny and I hanging out with a bottle of wine. She would be fed and the garbage would be taken out. His bed would be made. His clothes that were all over the couch would be folded on a chair. Once I went with him to clean out his storage unit and then hand-washed all of the monogrammed glasses with he and his ex-wife’s initials.

One would think that Dylan had it pretty good, right? A chick who did all she could to take care of both of them?

Wrong. Dylan was miserable.

He began making really snide remarks and giving me unwarranted feedback about everything I did. “Sar, you need to stop being like ____.” Or “Bro, you always do this and here are 100 reasons why everything you say and do is not as good as it should be.” Or “Goldberg, stop kissing the dog so much.”

When I finally called him out on it, Dylan and I had a MAJOR cry-fest where he admitted to me that he was just a really sad person, and needed to work on himself before he could be in a relationship. He realized he was taking out all of his gloom on me.

Through this hysterical sobbing, Dylan told me that if he couldn’t be happy with me, he couldn’t be happy with anyone. “Goldberg, you need to be with someone who is going to put forth as much effort as you deserve.”

And he dumped me…again.

I asked Dylan how I was supposed to get through the rest of my life without Penny, and how she was going to just have the leading female in her little life snatched out from under her perfect paws. (We half-jokingly discussed sharing custody.)

Since dogs are extremely intuitive, Penny knew something bad was up. When it was time for me to leave, I scooped her up into my arms. She licked all of the tears off of my face and buried her head in the crook of my neck, just like she always did. Dylan lost it when he saw how heartbroken Penny was and how he had just literally destroyed her soul.

Penny didn’t leave my ankles while I was gathering up my stuff. When I got to the door, she was sitting at my feet, looking up at me kind of like, EXCUUUUSE ME, why are you doing this?! Why are you leaving me?! What did I do?!

I regretfully snapped this picture:

I listened from outside the door to Penny whimper, as Dylan tried to calm her down. It was one of the hardest moments of my life.

But I’d be lying if I told you it was over that quickly. Dyl and I went through an additional couple of months of checking in to see how the other was doing. There were a few occasions where he needed a dog-sitter and I would take Penny, which did nothing but keep us in each other’s lives. Penny and I started having “Girls Nights” where I’d just hang out with her by myself, which was obviously the most fun of all time. We made mistakes and many slip-ups – mutually dragging out our *SECOND* break-up out / blurring those damn lines. Needless to say, it became impossible for me to say a “real” goodbye to Penny.

One night, I went to Dylan’s house after a work dinner to see Penny, who was no longer a tiny puppy. Dylan had been drinking and decided to tell me that he didn’t think my blog was funny. Although he finally admitted that I was Penny’s favorite human, he soiled it by adding that I was just her “ex-stepmom” since I “pressured” him into being with me. I’m currently rolling my eyes so far back into my head right now that I can see my actual brain.

I left his apartment feeling like crap and texted him the next day saying that we needed to end things once and for all. He told me he was, and I quote, “a fuck dick” to me. He told me we would never be together again.

…Turns out, the reason we would never be together is because he had a secret, out-of-town girlfriend. A girlfriend who I discovered after the fact. A girlfriend who probably doesn’t know that she overlapped with me… I used to joke with him that I felt like he was in a relationship with himself and I was his “mistress” – little did I know that I WAS his mistress after all.

God, you guys. I’m so drained from writing all that – I even cut out some of the less critical parts because I’m sure you are OVER IT. There is so much to take away from all of those crazy happenings. How many of those work trips were ACTUALLY work trips, Dyl? I’ll never know - and I truly don’t care to. Please note: I literally don’t give one shit that this story makes me seem vulnerable. Here’s why.

There is a quote from The Hunger Games (of all things) that hit REALLY close to home for me, and that’s, “Hope. It is the only thing stronger than fear.”

For a while, I kicked myself for unknowingly setting my life up for all of the above. I was so quick to jump and I thought that I would soar each time. I WANTED TO SOAR SO BADLY, YOU GUYS. But I fell – I crashed – into the earth’s mantle when Dylan was involved.

Upon a lot of self-reflection, I realized that it was quite simply just an immeasurable amount of hope that flowed through my veins during the entirety of the Dylan Series. Hope that he would regress into the person that he was in the very beginning. Hope that things would actually work out when he did come back. Hope that he’d realize what he was missing out on with me. Hope that he and Penny would come sprinting into my arms for a fourth, fifth, sixth time. That hope conquered the fear of getting hurt – the fear of losing them. The hope mindlessly fueled me to go back to him nearly every time he asked me to.

The other part of the problem was the universe put the most selfish person in the world, Dylan, with the most patient person in the world, Yours Truly, and tried to make us work. I can honestly say that as much as I miss Penny, I am so elated that Dylan didn’t contact me again. I have no anger or hatred towards him anymore because he is not worth another second of my energy. Because as cliché as it sounds, I’m a significantly stronger person than I was before Dylan. If anything, the whole experience just made things better for the next guy who comes into my life; he’ll be getting a much wiser girl with a steel backbone and an unbroken pelvis.

Many of us have had a Dylan in our lives – the one who we know in our heart of hearts is not right for us. The one we think we need to better ourselves for. The one we senselessly return to over and over again. The one who gets too many chances and always is forgiven. Yet, it is SO imperative for us to have these types of heartbreaking experiences as human beings – hopefully, for you, they are few and far between. Because we need to crawl through the shit to learn what we deserve. We need to be able to trust our gut and not let hope get the best of us. We must hit the bottom so we can teach ourselves how to climb back up to the top where we belong.

The moral of the story is this. If someone wants to be with you, they’re going to prove it. Actions will ALWAYS, always, speak louder than words. You should give a second chance, but maybe think before you give a third. You are so amazing and there are people in this world who will happily show you that.

It shouldn’t be HARD to get a relationship off the ground – and if it is, put the puppy down before you become obsessed with it, and walk away. Don’t disregard every red flag. And always remember to eat your veggies and to drink your wine.

You are so much better than you think you are. PS: Penny, my sweet girl - I’ll love you forever, little babe. #SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

TWELVE | BASIC

If you’re a human being who breathes air, you’ve heard the term “basic” before. It’s a word commonly used in music, pop culture, the media, and just in every day millennial life. But, if by some stretch you are an alien or just totally out of the loop, let’s get you back on track.

Basically (see what I did there?), “basic” or a being “a basic” is a term usually used to describe women who love mainstream products, styles, trends, music, certain food - you name it. Basics live their lives trying to keep up with The Kardashians the status quo of modern happenings.

Basic can be used as both an adjective AND a noun, which does nothing but make it harder to explain to adults. (Entirely unrelated – but have you ever tried to explain the functionality / appeal of Snapchat to someone who doesn’t know anything about it? It’s the most impossible feat known to man.)

Anyway, “basic” has developed a negative connotation over the last couple of years – it’s now seen as offensive. Many would rather be called just a “bitch” than “basic bitch” any day of the week. Basics are believed to travel in packs (or “squads”) and have identical, superficial interests.

To help provide further clarity and since I’m extremely thoughtful, I’ve complied a list of the top stereotypical things that Basics currently LOVE.

Top 10 Things Basics ~Love~ 1. Starbucks 1.5 Looking forward to pumpkin-spiced things (lattes) leading up to fall 2. Drinking green juice / smoothies as meals 3. Constantly wearing leggings / yoga pants 4. Taylor Swift and her celebrity friends 5. Thinking everything is like, ew so gross, like omg 5.5 Pretending they don’t fart because like, Kate Middleton DOESN’T fart 6. Quoting Friends and/or Mean Girls 7. Pretending to hate the Kardashians but following them all on Instagram anyway 8. Abbrevs (totes, margs, Chipots, T-givs, lmao, LYLAS) 9. Saying “Woo!” in high-pitched voice 7-9 times a day 10. Drinking Rosé / loving all related hashtags about it (#roséallday, etc) Retired basic items: UGGs, Lauren Conrad (aka LC), Northface fleeces, side bangs, nail art Honorable mentions: Beyoncé, Coachella, Instagramming brunch photos, kale, Soul Cycle, Froyo

Now, as someone who has been called “basic” quite a few times, I’ve put a lot of thought into this phenomenon. Once I looked at myself in the mirror before work and asked myself:

“Am I basic? I guess I’m not NOT basic. BUT I don’t understand the appeal of Friends (and dislike all SitComs for that matter). I’ve been a Starbucks Gold Cardholder for seven years and definitely pretend smoothies are healthy meal substitutes. BUT I don’t know anything about celebrities or models or fashion. BUT I say “WOO” because I excite easily and am hopelessly attracted to Ryan Gosling. I think bodily functions are hysterical and I kill bugs with my bare hands. BUT I love to exaggerate and say “literally” a lot. Ya know what, self, ya don’t check all the boxes. What does this mean? WHO EVEN AM I?!?!?!??”

And that’s when it hit me as hard as the ENTIRE flight of stairs hit my falling body in 2008 at Theta Chi, when I broke my tailbone at a frat party as I helplessly tumbled down.

Being “basic” is actually complex - society needs to realize that since it’s being used inappropriately. Here’s why…

MOST PEOPLE YOU CATEGORIZE AS BASIC ARE ACTUALLY JUST ANNOYING.

It’s happened to all of us.

We’ve been scrolling through our phones and looking down as we accidentally enter a crowded train car with a herd of young adult females – a fate worse than the car where the drunk guy pissed on the handicapped seat.

Remaining in eerily close proximity of each other, the girls stick together as people pile in and try to push by them. But they are like an unbreakable wall of Marc Jacobs perfume-scented bricks – there is no separating the pack.

You squeeze your sweaty body into the seat between the businessman with the giant newspaper and the overweight woman with 900 reusable tote bags and turn your headphones down so you can hear their conversation, which you anticipate is going to be hilarious.

So there’s one chick who is just outwardly frenetic about everything. She has no self-awareness. And right now, the issue she’s bitching about is that her younger sister got engaged before her. She is DEVASTATED. Her name is “Danielle.” Even though Danielle has been with Brian for ALMOST THREE AND A HALF YEARS AND THEY JUST MOVED IN TOGETHER IN CHELSEA, YOU GUYS. How the hell did younger sis Emma get engaged before her? This just isn’t right. It CANNOT be. She’s TERRIFIED about the bridesmaids dress situation. Danielle literally can’t even with how her life is unfolding. Below is an actual selfie that Danielle took of herself when she found out the news:

Choking back tears, Danielle pulls her Lulu Lemon running jacket’s sleeve down over her hand, so not to touch the subway pole because like omg omg omg germs like ew omg her mom said she could get Zika like totally gross, ew.

Her friends listen to her go on and on and occasionally nod their heads in agreement. One of the girls is exceedingly wide-eyed and asks Danielle approximately 78,000 follow-up questions: did they pick a date? What if it’s on the same weekend as Nicole and John’s wedding? Emma’s ring isn’t THAT nice, is it? What does Danielle’s dad think of the situation?

Then we’ve got the one chick who is chill and low key wishes Danielle would shut the fuck up and stop embarrassing her in public. There’s another chick who is so hungover and therefore incapable of emoting at all, so she just stands with her sunglasses on (I would probably be this one if I was a character in this hypothetical scenario.)

And you’re sitting there saying to yourself - “ugh, look at all those Basics.”

WRONG.

Is Danielle basic? Probably – but at the end of the day, she is likely just a whiny little shit. The friend that asks the follow-up questions has good intentions because she’s upset to see Danielle so upset. My point is, you can’t say for sure that they are basic - they are simply being annoying for standing so close together and speaking loudly while you’re trying to live your life. So you can’t call them basic, even if they are all wearing leggings.

Which leads me to my next point…

THERE IS A DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BEING “BASIC ON THE OUTSIDE” AND “BASIC ON THE INSIDE”

Basics are often classified as boring, cliché and unintelligent because of they way they speak, dress and physically present themselves. This is TOTALLY unfair of the world.

I’ll use myself as an example for this one.

On a typical day, you will see me wearing a “basic” outfit. Usually something from J. Crew with oversized Michael Kors watch and jeans from Bloomingdales. I have worn proudly worn leggings as pants before – they are comfortable and slimming, what more could you want out of pants?

The phrase “I can’t even” comes out of my mouth once in a while. I say “AF” and abbreviate a lot – which started as a joke but now has questionably become a part of my daily routine. If you saw me standing next to “Danielle” on the subway, you’d probably think I’m basic too.

But in my heart of hearts, I say this with humble dignity: I believe that I’m only basic on the outside.

Do I like Taylor Swift? Of course – her music is catchy as shit and JUST generic enough that all humans can relate it to our break-ups and love lives. But I don’t like her just because everyone else does.

In fact, I believe that I was a frat boy in my past life. My innermost soul is filled with sarcasm, worry (I’m a Virgo) and a relative sense of nonchalance. I have a disgusting mouth and a disgusting mind - but it’s a sharp mind that can fend for itself. It doesn’t need to follow the pack and it’s DEFINITELY not afraid to say what it’s thinking.

Basic on the outside is perfectly OK. Basic on the inside means lame, sad and painfully average – this is why the phrase “don’t judge a book by its cover” was invented by the founding fathers of the United States of America. Don’t get it twisted, y’all.

The moral of the story is this. Being “basic” is more complicated than you think it is. Stop throwing it around erroneously. If you want to insult someone, pick a specific adjective. Use your words.

If you’re a dude and see a “basic-looking” chick on Bumble, swipe right instead. Look beyond the leggings, bro. Because you could find your soulmate. And always, always remember to drink wine. Because wine.

#SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

ELEVEN | SUMMER LOVE

Good news! I fell ~hopelessly~ in love this August!!!!

…with mint chocolate chip ice cream. Seriously. I feel horrible that I’ve been neglecting it for so many years because that shit is DELICIOUS and I had no idea what I’d been missing. It’s not nearly as toothpaste-y as I’ve always imagined; it’s actually refreshing and airy.

Oh my god, did you think I meant with a human being?!?!?!! Aw! You’re so naïve.

It’s the summer and SUMMER LOVE IN NEW YORK CITY IS NOT REAL, YOU GUYS.

Have you EVER heard someone say, “Ya know, I just really want to settle down for the summer” or “I hope that I can find someone to cozy up next to this July 4th weekend” or “I can’t wait to take the guy I just met on Bumble to my family BBQ!” – OF COURSE NOT. That would be as probable as me drinking a glass of a full-bodied Cabernet. Barf.

Let me stop and say that you need to take this concept with a tablespoon of salt; I’m not an expert on love. I don’t have a bachelor’s degree in human relationships and I don’t know how to romance. To be completely honest with you, I accidentally peed on my own hand at a rooftop bar this past Saturday because I couldn’t get myself out of my romper in a dark bathroom stall. So I’m not sure that I’m the best person to take advice from.

But yes. I believe that people do NOT want relationships to blossom in the summer, even if they pretend they do. Don’t listen to people who claim they’re looking for “the one” right now because it’s potentially disingenuous. I believe that love is seasonal.

Here’s why:

SUMMER FLINGS ARE EASIER This ain’t The Notebook, ladies and gents. There is a scientifically-proven difference between a Summer Love and a Summer Fling.* *note: this is a lie.

Love is that feeling where you can’t eat, can’t sleep, see shooting stars and glitter bursts when you close your eyes, throw up rainbows all over yourself, yadda yadda yadda kisses and marriage blah blah blah forever and ever and where have you been my whole life like omg omg xoxo bye.

Flings, on the other hand, are carefree. Harmless. Title-less. Emotion-less. Little-to-no effort needs to be exerted. You have nothing to lose, so can text your fling literally WHENEVER you want – while you’re at work, in the middle of the night, while you’re on a date, etc. There are no rules, no games, no bridges to burn. No “what are we?” conversations. No pressure. Everyone just gets it. We are busy.

Our vitamin D intake skyrockets, producing something you might have heard of called happiness. There’s no time for “getting to know you” and lots of time for “I’ll buy this round!” So enjoy the lightheartedness while you can - for when the leaves fall, people will look for someone special to share those pumpkin spice lattes with.

BIKINI BODIES ARE A SHAM I’m not gonna go all “societal images of beauty” or “feminism 4eva” on you right now - I just genuinely don’t want you to stress about this mythical concept. There is absolutely NO reason to try to obtain a bikini bod.

First of all, you probably are going to starve yourself to speed up the process. That’s just not right. Please eat. Have seconds, for all I care. This applies to guys as well – don’t worry about having a 6-pack for the beach unless it’s Corona. (I LOVE CORONA SO MUCH. #CoronaMyProblems)

Also, you might get a little bit tan at some point, which makes some people feel more confident in a bathing suit. Or maybe you’re Casper AF. Or maybe you are just sunburned. I don’t even know anymore, but I think you’re beautiful regardless of your skin gradient.

At the end of the day, if you aren’t a piece of shit it’s not going to matter if your muffin top spills over your bottoms. You will find love one day - just not in June, July or August of ANY year you are alive.

HOT GARBAGE SMELL I honestly don’t know where to begin.

For those of you from the ‘burbs, I cannot even articulate how putrid Hot Garbage Smell (HGS) is. New Yorkers have been suffering a massive heat wave over the last number of days, making the HGS absolutely out of control. There are literally mountains of steamy trash bags that line our city’s streets and spend their final hours baking in the hot sun. It is a scent so vile that some people are reluctant to leave their homes. But in reality, it is an unavoidable horror that we dread every summer.

The other morning, I was going to work and I walked by one of these shit monuments that hadn’t been collected yet OUTSIDE OF A RESTAURANT. It clearly had been roasting in its own poisonous musk for 24 hours. When the HGS entered my personal space, my eyes burned. My organs began rapidly disintegrating inside my body. I was dying. Actually, I died. I passed away. I was so dead that I had already been reincarnated into someone with a deviated septum and a weak sense of smell. My company posted an opening for my job on LinkedIn. I called my extended family from the afterlife and asked them to sit Shiva. I was so deceased that I already had 4 floral arrangements resting beside my gravestone. (Okay, I’m done.)

HGS takes away your innocence. It kills the mood.

It blocks the ability to love.

SUMMER COCKTAILS ARE DELICIOUS Absolutely ZERO explanation needed for this one, but basically everyone would rather drink grapefruit-infused, bubbly alcohol than choose to love a new person.

LOVE IS EXPENSIVE When said Summer Cocktails are $16, no one wants to involve an additional party to their tab. We are more inclined to take an Uber to prevent being out in the heat. We are already dishing out extra dollas to ConEd for keeping our AC on at all times. Every wallet for himself.

EASTERN LONG ISLAND EXISTS Have you ever been to the Hamptons? Amagansett? The North Fork?

Or you maybe you’ve heard of Montauk, where the tagline is “Where You Try To Bang Everything In Your Line Of Vision That Has A Pulse” - err, I mean Montauk Or Nowhere. That place is really quite family-oriented.

(I’m just kidding, MTK - I actually love you.)

SO MANY PEOPLE head out east every weekend and I don’t blame them. It’s essentially like cutting New York City people out of New York City and pasting them in a beach environment.

Anyway, the bar scene during the summer out there is like stepping foot into a lion’s den. Except instead of lions, there are 42,000 single people who migrated from Manhattan to take shots out cough syrup sized plastic cups, convince the douchey bouncers to let them cut obscenely long lines, and scream sweet nothings into strangers’ ear upon entry.

Trust me, I’m not a hater – that is precisely what I did a few weeks ago and I enjoyed all of the Ja Rule throwbacks I heard.

My point is, these singles plan on staying that way. If you want them to be your weekend Summer Fling as mentioned above, by all means! DO IT. It sounds so fun and I can’t wait for you to tell me all the deets. The only rule is you MUST pretend that you can only talk when you’re out east and you MUST ignore the fact that both likely take the 6 train together every day during the work week. Which is hilarious no matter how you slice it.

SWEAT New York City is extremely humid. There is no breeze because the buildings are blocking any source of air movement. (I don’t even know if that’s true.)

The good news is, there is no reason to be embarrassed about how much you sweat because EVERYONE IS THAT SWEATY. Every single person. It’s impossible to remain dry and attractive. One day, I want to invent a way to collect the sweat of New Yorkers and purify it into drinking water because I’m so philanthropic.

Riding the elevator up to my office in the morning is similar to putting 37 raw hot dogs in your pocket. Everyone is avoiding eye contact because they don’t want to risk accidentally gazing into someone’s sweat mustache instead. There is a universal rule that you have to just ignore other humans until you are able to wipe yourself down.

I have to take a shower IMMEDIATELY when I get home so I don’t drip on any of my belongings. My make up is usually all over my shirt. I produce 3x as much laundry in the summer months because of how much my body literally cannot even. Needless to say, no one can love me when I’m lookin’ like that.

_______

And there you have it! But don’t you worry, my dearest friends. Once the sun sets on Labor Day, New Yorkers start thinking about who TF they’re going to cuddle up next to at night. They’ll want to take you to an outdoor brunch in the crisp autumn air and then suddenly insist on Defining The Relationship.

Love is absolutely possible. Someone will love you one day if they don’t already love you right now. In fact, I want to love you and will do you the honor.

…just not until September. #SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

TEN | “JAKE”

I know you’re reading this, Jake. I’m 100% sure.

I know you already know this is about you because we selected your theoretical “code-name” together last week. Also, I know you know that I know you’ve probably been feverishly refreshing my blog over the last week, wondering if you actually were going to “make it” on here, as you predicted you might.

Congratulations, douchebag! Your very own post!

Now that we got that out of the way, I’m going to pretend you’re NOT reading this, kind of how you pretended I didn’t text you two very nice things last Friday. In case you forgot, you ignored both of them.

Hi everyone else that’s not Jake!

Anyway, as I mentioned in my previous post, the dates that I write about are part of a special collection that I’ve accumulated over a long time; they are the moments worth sharing that I experienced in between relationships / multi-month-long rapports with individual gentlemen.

But Jake and I literally met last week.

Jake and I matched on – you guessed it – Bumble. He was almost 36 and was smiling in a couple of his pictures, so he seemed like he could be a nice guy. (Wait, that’s what smiles mean, right?) He also didn’t have any pictures of him holding up a moderately large fish that he just caught, which about 77% of Bumble guys have as part of their album.

[Sidebar: For those of you who don’t know, Bumble is the Sadie Hawkins Dance of The Apps. It’s the one I use because I like to be in control re: the opening message. I guess you could say it’s a creative challenge for me - you can bet that sweet ass of yours that I wouldn’t dare use “Hey! How was your weekend?” as an opening line. Barf.

Anyway, after making a profile with the absolute BEST photos of yourself, you select whatever age and location (how far away they are from you at that moment) preferences to narrow down the pool of guys you’re about to be bombarded with.

Once you’ve got that down, you get an infinity amount of profiles of the guys in your area. You swipe right for “yes” and swipe left for “no”, and if you both “swipe right” then you are a MATCH. MAZEL TOV! Then, the chick has 24 hours to message the guy, and in return he has 24 hours to reply. This 24-hour rule is supposed to provide an incentive for the ladies to put a little hustle in it, because the match will ::GASP:: disappear.]

After we matched, I sent Jake the following message:

You look like fun, Jake. T/F?

This was his reply:

Please note that this is one of the best responses that I’ve received back in my whole damn life. It was not only meticulously thought out, but very clever and charming. (FYI, I have a line in my profile about how I’m still mourning the retirement of my favorite NBA player Patrick Ewing. I cried like a baby with a splinter when they raised #33 up in the Garden in 2003, a year after he decided to call it quits.)

As you could imagine, I of course replied with something v sentimental about how I was certain that my commitment to Jake was strong enough to overcome all of life’s obstacles, and my love for Pat was in a totally platonic and basketball-based manner.

Jake was ALL ABOUT playing this game and we continued chatting for about a week through Bumble, and he jokingly brought up his desire to start planning our wedding. He promised that he would get us a wedding coordinator and we decided that we should come up with a Hashtag sooner rather than later. He told me that as much as he loves my mom, we are NOT doing the chocolate fountain. Jake was hilarious in a cute way. PS, I wish I could say this was the first time I’ve planned a wedding with someone I haven’t met, but… alas. Discussing marriage right off the bat is a way to assess your counterpart’s level of sarcasm and eliminate some awkwardness, so it’s something that has happened to me on more than one occasion.

There’s no way to really prepare you for what happened next, so I’m just going to plop this screenshot right here:

I’ll give you a moment to absorb that into your soul.

HE FOUND THIS VERY BLOG. AND HE ASKED ME OUT BECAUSE OF IT, YOU GUYS.

Brigette and I have had a few conversations around if Sauv could destroy my renowned respect in the dating world; I’ve been slightly worried of this exact thing happening – a guy I’m into finding this website and thinking I’m just looking for new material. I just cringed at the thought of that. But, Jake proved me wrong.

Since I’m boring, I was free on Thursday and of course got super excited to go out with him. I hate to say this because I know Jake is painstakingly holding his breath reading every word of this post, but I hadn’t looked forward to meeting someone as much as Jake in a very long time.

In case you were wondering - turns out my Tumblr link was public on my Facebook and he found it while he was performing the obligatory pre-date stalk. Now that same link is set to just Friends of Friends, hehe.

One thing about Jake that was different was we didn’t chat too much leading up to the date. I didn’t know a lot of the basics about him like number of siblings, favorite color, alcoholic drink of choice or even blood type.

Finally Thursday evening arrives and Jake texts me exactly 60 seconds before we were supposed to meet and let’s me know that he has to cancel.

HEY! THAT’S MY SIGNATURE FIRST DATE MOVE. The pretend cancel and/or mock catfish one minute before the date time. It’s a great way to make your date nervous as shit icebreaker, and Jake serendipitously and ironically slipped it in before I had a chance to (that’s what she said). And it actually helped reduce the AWFUL pre-first-date nausea I suffer from. Touché, Jake. Touché.

For a reason I cannot recall, I ended up sending Jake my Bat Mitzvah photo as I was approaching him. This is entirely irrelevant but true.

Jake waited for me outside of the bar, gave me a big hug and we walked in together. He was wearing jeans, a dark, short-sleeve Polo shirt and sneakers. Tall. Boy-next-door. Brunette. A splash of Jew. He was absolutely adorable.

The bar was v crowded but we were hitting the tail end of Happy Hourers, so we stuck it out and waited to order a drink. Our banter was effortless and we understood each other’s sarcasm, which is pretty rare for a first date. I was shitting on him for being eight years older than me and he was shitting on me for being a child. We were mutually making fun of each other, which to me means it’s going well. I kid you not; there were a couple of times where we literally said the same thing at the same time…~*finishing each other’s sentences*~

I don’t remember exactly how it came up, but I think we were talking about our “wedding” or how everyone is getting married these days. All I know is shortly after we received our drinks the following conversation happened:

Me - ::random commentary, blah blah blah, witty joke, eye roll, yadda yadda yadda:: Jake – “…..well, I have a kid.” Me – ::laughs:: Jake – ::doesn’t laugh::

Let’s pause for a moment. It’s 2016 and the divorce rate is through the roof. This is totally normal. Are you a divorcee? Cool, IDGAF; your ex-wife probably sucks. Are you going to slip in that you’re a father 11 minutes into our first in-person encounter? Great, I also DGAF, but since we’ve been joking for the ENTIRETY of those 11 minutes, I will probably won’t take something like that seriously.

Turns out Jake wasn’t fucking kid-ding (see what I did there?) and I unknowingly laughed in his face when he told me he has an actual child.

Good one, Sar.

Jake can tell I’m mortified for laughing and tries to make me feel better by saying:

“Wait, you know you’re here for a babysitting interview, right?”

Whew. Thanks, Jake. That helped a little.

Of course, I do what I do best when I get nervous – ask a million really blunt questions that I think will be funny and ease the awkwardness, such as: Wait, do you actually have a son? Is he real? What’s his name? How old is he and when is his birthday? When is your birthday? Where does [kid] live? Do you have to pay child support? Wait, is it mandatory to pay child support? Where does your ex-wife live? Is she re-married? Why did you get divorced?

He willingly answered all of them but as I’m typing this right now I’m sweating because why in god’s name did I ask him if he pays child support on a first date? CHILD SUPPORT. Who do I think I am, “Matt”??!? My definition of “funny questions” might be his definition of “psychopathic tendencies”��� Man, that probably came off as super weird and the literal opposite of what I was trying to accomplish.

In hindsight, I felt like he “knew” me because he read a couple of dumb stories that I wrote. I figured he’d understand I was playing around and that the “no filter” mentality was part of my personality. This is a ridiculous concept - he obviously doesn’t KNOW me.

Nevertheless, the date continued onward.

Jake now had a huge advantage so I admittedly played up the “comedy” angle a bit as I continued to try to save the date.

We found a table and started chatting about the following things: • Our families, siblings and home life (turns out we had a SHITLOAD in common about a certain, very specific subject) • Sauv My Problems and how much he (allegedly) enjoys reading it and appreciates it • More about how awesome his son is (how he just moved out of NYC and he’s a 7-year-old genius and really likes to read in his room and play Pokémon and he changes his favorite sports team all the time just to piss Jake off and wants Jake to have a girlfriend) Note: I was sincerely interested in hearing about his son and thought he sounded like a dope little dude • Bumble and dating in general (I was Jake’s first Bumble date) • Our best friends (he even name-dropped Brigette from this blog) • etc.

As we were having a second drink, I felt triumphant in my date salvation after the shock on my face / the back peddling I had to do after fortuitously LOLing at his fatherhood.

After Jake told me his favorite color is turquoise (while I’m glad he didn’t boringly say “blue”, what kind of boy likes TURQUOISE) he rather abruptly asked for the check.

We walked outside and had a friend-hug. Jake apparently DROVE and needed to head back to Brooklyn. Was that why the date ended – since he had to get behind the wheel? I thanked him again and walked away feeling very mixed about the situation.

I sent him a text that night when I got home. After an hour, he replied with something relatively general and said something about how got he stuck in traffic and how it was “great to chat” or whatever. I replied with something that solicited a response. But he didn’t write back.

And he never did.

There are many reasons why I wanted to share this story with you people - primarily to prove that I’m capable of fucking up dates too. I asked way too many questions and I think I also offered unwelcomed advice about a few things. I probably freaked him out when I talked about my memory and started asking specifics about his friends and where they lived (yes Jake, I still creepily remember your besties’ names – N***, D** and J****).

Or, maybe Jake was never really interested in me and just wanted to see what his Sauv My Problems story would be about. It’s also possible that he just didn’t get great vibes about dating.

Or maybe Jake is dead.* *note: this is unlikely.

My sister Leah thinks I’m an idiot and often doesn’t understand my sense of humor. I can hear her voice right now – “just because YOU think something is funny, Sar, doesn’t mean other people do.” Understood.

Although I’ve ignored guys before, I think that it was rude for Jake to ghost out on me. You’re not really supposed to ghost on people after you meet them, buddy. But at least you got your point across, and I’ll never reach out to you again.

The moral of the story is this. Anything is possible, so always keep your shit together. Know when to pump the brakes. And whatever you do - do NOT ask a person you just met about child support.

#WordVomit #SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

NINE | HUMAN

Disclaimer: this post is a little pointless and short and so don’t get your hopes up.

Surprisingly, many of you have been asking me how/why I started this blog so I wanted to quickly address my ~fans~ and some people who don’t really “get” Sauv My Problems yet.

First and foremost - this is "comedy" writing. Sauv My Problems is a spin-off of my IRL self. Like everyone, there are many unique things that embody who I really am as a human. One of them is trying to make you LOL, which may not always be the case. Anyway, three of the more notable ones are:

1. A bizarre memory 2. A unique level of sarcasm / sense of humor 3. An ability to turn anything into a story

Regarding #3: I don’t make this shit up you guys so calm TF down.

The above three traits are the concoction that quietly define Sauv. Remembering the minutest details, attempting to be ~hilarious~ and exaggerating are my not-so-secret ingredients.

Wait just really quick – I’m in Cabo San Lucas right now on vacation and there are literally 40,000 ants all over my keyboard. They REALLY like the 4/$ key and keep crawling underneath it. I bet there’s a crumb in there. I’m such a pig.

Okay, back.

As I said in my first post I simply just want to story tell, even though I now realize that this blog could potentially/accidentally made me seem a bit callous and undateable. Like, I know for a FACT that at least one guy on Bumble has found it – story on that to come #Jake. (PS: if you think that all of these dates happen one right after the other than you’re dumb. They are part of a broad collection that I’ve gathered over time. Sorry I just called you dumb, I didn’t mean it.)

Anyway…

For a while, I considered writing under an alias which is VERY Mark Twain of me. But I’m in the business of honesty and felt it absolutely necessary to metaphorically slap a picture of my gigantic head on everything I write. I want Sauv to be more than another droll, meme-obsessed outlet for millennials alike. I want it to be tangible. I want it to be humanized. I want you to read it and say, “holy cow, I have an awkward dating story like that” or “hey, I’m broke too!” or “oh my god, I also fractured my pelvis and my spine while running up a hill in Central Park.” I have a lot of wants RN apparently.

OMG there goes THREE MORE ANTS under the F10 key. I bet it’s a pretzel crumb. I love pretzels.

Back to what I was saying - I believe that the true allure lies in the reality. And at this stage of my life, I am willing to sacrifice some of my pride in the spirit of being relatable. Take this with a grain of salt. Live a little. Roll your eyes. Calm down. I don't have much to lose except for the health of my liver, as I like to stay on-brand and drink Sauv when I write. And I guess my job. (I don’t want to lose my job since I really like my boss Kate. HI KATE.)

Am I perfect? Yes. No. But you aren’t either. Because you’re a human too.

Read this blog only if you want to. It's supposed to be light-hearted and funny, you guys. And if you don’t, please let the door hit you on the way out. No, that’s not a typo.

#SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

EIGHT | PELVIS PROBLEMS

It may be hard for you to believe that my life extends beyond feeling uncomfortable on dates and ingesting wine - I also go out with really fun guys and drink beer! I’ll even have the occasional cocktail when I’m feeling frisky.

Regardless, there’s more to me than just drinking and dating.

Exactly one year ago today, I broke my pelvis in Central Park.

If you and I have any sort of relationship (personal, professional or through social media) you already know about my cracked pelvis, or “Pelvy” as my good friend Mike who I also dated for 4 months named her. I posted umpteen Facebook statuses, photos and even a couple of videos during the course of the injury. I needed various apparatuses to support my walking for the majority of the last 12 months.

But what you probably DON’T know is the full story.

They say “when it rains, it pours” and holy shit did it pour on Sara Goldberg’s 2015.

I originally typed out all of the unfortunate things that happened, but then I realized that you probably don’t care, so here’s a less-detailed overview of what went down in a 3-month period:

• I was working 80-hour weeks on a major product launch for work – AKA Stress City, USA • I had just moved out of my apartment with my best friend Andrea, and was adjusting to “home life” without her - (we WEREN’T fighting you guys. We just had to move.) • My three-year, long-distance relationship with the boy I swore I’d marry was officially over - after nine additional “broken-up” months of back-and-forth trying to save something that was unsaveable - we were neverrrr everrrrrr everrrrr getting back together, and my heart was shattered in a million pieces • I learned some severely crappy news about the TRUE love of my life, my little brother Josh (and he chose to move away for a bit) • My uncle passed away • I also learned that my best friend Allison and her fiancé Adam (who is also my best friend, luv u Ad) were leaving New York and moving to Dallas • I also x 2 learned that my best friend Grace was moving to London for work for a few months

Yes, I really do have that many best friends because I’m exceptionally well liked by all. But you get it, I was miserable because why was everyone leaving me?

To cope, I knew I needed to do something that was good for the ~body~ and the ~mind~ because sometimes you just can’t sauv your problems; you need to solve them.

So I decided to start running.

Mind you, I don’t run. I CAN’T run. It’s challenging for me to walk up 2 flights of stairs without getting out of breath. But there I was, Nikes tied too tightly, jogging up the east side of Manhattan. Despite the fact that I could only run one 28-minute mile, I spontaneously signed up for a half marathon so I would have something to work up to.

Five mornings a week, I would get my ass out of bed before the sun came up and just run. By July, I could run a 10K in 52 minutes. I was at the top of my FitBit leaderboard. Here’s a picture of me in my official race training t-shirt.

I found my new hobby to be extremely therapeutic until July 26, 2015. I was on mile 5 of a Central Park “loop” and my pace was slowing a bit. Since I had no idea what I was doing, I decide to haul ass up that DEADLY hill in Harlem. Not the one with the creepy cat gargyle – the one by the pool where you’re always like wait where TF did this gargantuan swimming pool come from?

“Fighter” by Christina Aguilera came on my #RunGoldbergRun playlist – the perfect power song. I take a deep breath and push it as hard as I can (that’s what she said). That is, until I feel (and hear) a POP/CRUNCH in the back of my leg where my ass and my thigh unite. I didn’t go down. I didn’t stumble. I just limp off to the side of the path and try to shake it off. Shake shake shake it off.

“You might have just tore your hamstring, you idiot. That’s what you get for loving Xtina so much.” I said to myself. Luckily I had my phone on me because I am a millennial, so I ordered an Uber to take me home because I am still a millennial as a conclude this sentence. The pain was sharp so I took some Advil and iced my hamstring. And by ice, I mean I took a frozen Juice #6 from a liquid cleanse that I never finished and sat on it.

In addition to being sidesplittingly funny, criminally adorable and having a heart of gold, I also am very stubborn; it took me a full week to make an appointment with a sports orthopedist. At this point, I can barely walk and have to work at my desk like this:

My Friday appointment rolls around and I arrive at the hospital to meet with “Bill” (which is not his real name but seriously, he did make me call him by his first name) – my sports doc. Lucky for me, he had two attractive young interns working with him who joined us.

They made me do a million things that I’m incapable of doing, like standing, walking, and living my life. But Bill is dope AF and does everything in his power to make things not awkward – given the placement of my pain (again, where my ass and leg become “one”) – things were about to get a little handsy.

Bill – “Alright, Sar. I’m really sorry to make you do this but you’re going to have to take your shorts off.” Me – “Are you serious?” Bill – “Yes, I’m really sorry. Here’s a piece of paper to cover you, but I need to see if there’s bruising.”

As I am taking my shorts off, I realize I am wearing the most non-existent and physician-inappropriate panties of all time. Okay fine, it was a 100% lace black g-string #NoFilter. Like, I am literally on a medical table in front of Dr. Bill and The Interns looking like I was dressed for my wedding night.

Bill – “Just try to relax, okay? There’s definitely swelling but I don’t see any major bruising. If it is a tear, your leg would be purple. I’m sorry, but we are going to need to check for gaps.”

What the actual fuck does CHECKING FOR GAPS mean? I take a deep breath as THREE SETS OF HANDS start checking for “gaps” – a feeling that still haunts my nightmares.

One of them presses on the exact spot where my Pelvy is and I scream my head off and my body goes into a seizure-eque shaking fit.

Bill – “I’m so sorry honey. Something is definitely wrong.”

Oh okay, now we are suddenly on the “honey” level. I text my parents and tell them to start planning me and Bill’s engagement party.

Once I finally gain back my dignity composure, Bill tells me I need an MRI. DUH.

Fast forward to 2 hours after my MRI where I get a call from Bill.

Bill – “Sara, it’s Bill. We need to talk.” Me – “Are you breaking up with me?!?!?!” (Yes, I really said this.) Bill – ::laughs:: “No, but there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your hamstring.” Me – ::goes off on a mental tangent where Bill sends 8 people from the loony bin to take me away for hypochondriasis:: Bill – “…but you do have a severe stress fracture to your pelvis. I’m so sorry but you can’t run anymore.” Me – “What did you just say.” Bill – “your MRI lit up like a Christmas tree. The back of your pelvis has a crack in it – it’s not uncommon in petite athletes like yourself. You’re going to need to be on crutches immediately for at least 8 weeks.”

Sorry Bill, but you don’t get it. I started running to make myself feel better, not to break any obscure bones. There has to be a mistake because I don’t want one more bad thing in my life RN please.

In total shock, I get in a cab and venture out to find crutches. Alone. After they are purchased, I get back in a cab and Seamless myself a grilled cheese because I fucking deserve it.

To say the next few months were “challenging” would be the understatement of the history of the galaxy. My body’s center was literally broken, making it hard to sit or stand or move or lay down or be a person. I lived alone and many of my friends were leaving so I had to learn how to do stupid shit by myself like shower and pour a glass of water. It is impossible to get around Manhattan easily on crutches. I couldn’t sleep because it felt like there was a dagger that was sharpened by a Top Chef SHOVED in Pelvy all times. I had to meet with a million specialists because there was a major concern that I had osteoporosis or some other disease since I’m lactose intolerant. I’m so annoying.

Not to go all “Motivational Speaker” on you, but in times like this you GOTTA just make the best of it. My amazing company got me an electric wheelchair for the first 2 months to help me get around my office, which honestly was so fun that it made the fracture worth it.

If you click here, you can see video evidence of this.

Spoiler alert: I ended up being on crutches for three and a half months before graduating to a cane for an additional three months. Since this post is already getting kind of lengthy, here is an overview of the things that happened to me during Pelvy’s recovery:

• I went to 2 MLB games and 1 NHL game (PS at one of the baseball games, we used my crutches as Limbo sticks at a bar!) • I went on quite a few dates (surprise, surprise) - all of which lead to second and even third, fourth and fifth dates • I was hospitalized for two days for stomach ulcers and an intestinal infection which I got from taking too much Advil (while still on crutches) • I had 2 doctors appointments a week, not counting my PT • I lost all muscle mass in my right leg • I went to a Broadway show • I went to DC and Las Vegas for work (while in Vegas, I drove one of those scooters everywhere without shame) • I went to London to visit Grace and came up with #BuckinghamPelvis (with my cane and my selfie stick) • I became incredibly poor • I went to every fancy ice cream place I could think of because #BrokenBonesAndIceCreamCones is a great hashtag • Most notably, my follow-up X-rays showed that I also have a spinal fracture because of course I have a spinal fracture

The moral of the story is this: by forcing yourself to put on a brave face, you end up actually developing a real one. It helps you claw your way back to the top. We MUST find the laughter and the light, you guys. It’s the only way.

Through patience, positivity, support and a TON of wine, Pelvy restored herself. My heart became whole again. I got another promotion. My brother is AMAZING. Gracie came home to me. My spinal fracture will affect my back permanently, which is something that is more or less NBD.

When you are at rock bottom, like we all hit at one point or another, look around you. There are hundreds of thousands of people you’ll pass who have been there too. Who may STILL be there. Who may fall at any second and break a bone or get their heart broken. The point is - you are not alone. We are NEVER alone.

And time, while sometimes excruciatingly slow, is actually the most incredibly healing thing. Keep your god damn head up. You literally CAN even. I believe in you so much.

To my friends, family and work family (who are one in the same) – thank you for consistently giving me your arm and your ear over the last 365+ days.

Happy anniversary, Pelv. I love you. I will cherish this creepy yet SO accurate pelvic bone necklace as a reminder of how far we’ve come.

#SauvMyPelvis #SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

SEVEN | THE PROFESSOR

You know how sometimes people spot a UFO? Or Big Foot? The ghost of their grandpa in a photo?

Well, that phenomenon is literally the exact same as matching with someone who is NOT a banker, a lawyer or part of a tech company on The Apps. A rarity. A mirage. Unique AF.

My 9-month on-again, off-again “relationship” with an almost 35-year-old asshole guy had recently ended (AGAIN), so I decided to get back on the horse, give my finger some exercise and revisit swiping on Bumble.

Which is why when “David” and I matched, I was in disbelief. He was a PROFESSOR with a doctorate who had written two books and was currently researching his third. (PS - you guys are really smart; you know his real name isn’t David.)

David went to essentially every Ivy League school in the country (and even all those fancy ones in the UK), won a bunch of scholarships and managed to remain really humble about his preordained successes. He was from New Jersey (but didn’t constantly gesture about it) and previously taught history and some other stuff at a huge university in the south. He was now in NYC doing research for the new book. Basically, David is an educated baller and I’m already intimidated.

I know you’re taking a break from whatever you’re doing, feverishly wondering what religion David is. Well my little latkes, he is a Jew. With a capital J. Not Jewish, but he is a Jew.

For all of the Rachels and Abrahams and Moishes out there who are freaking out at my bluntness, take a deep breath. My last name is Goldberg for cryin’ out loud – one of the most Jewish names outside of the homeland. Like, whenever I try to make a doctor’s appointment, I have to provide my date of birth so they can weed through the other Heebs with the same name to get to the right one.

Anyway, I usually unintentionally end up going for non-Jewish boys. So you could believe my surprise when a fellow member of “The Tribe” (omg I literally hate when people say that. I’m sorry…) and I clicked. Between that and the career choice, I was two-for-two on the “out of my comfort zone” meter. #YOLO. I’m excited - let’s do this.

You get it. “David” and I had a connection (and not just because I had good cell service - horrible #DadJoke). Our banter was utterly seamless; both parties genuinely appreciated the stories that we shared. We were VERY different and lived entirely different lives, which we found intriguing of one another. We texted for 5 and a half straight hours that first night - we were able to compliment each other through humor, which is my absolute weakness.

David and I talk for a couple more days and set a date for Friday, when he finally tells me that he is only in New York for the summer and is likely moving abroad to write another book or some shit like that. He says the following:

“Wait, do you have room for someone in your life for someone like me? I haven’t had the same address for more than nine months since 2002.

I bet I’ll fall hard. And you are going to shatter my heart into a million pieces and then watch with a bemused sense of detachment as I futilely try to piece them back together.”

I look up the definition of “bemused” right away.

Ignoring the fact that he said he was going to “FALL” for me, I instead worry that David’s unsurpassed intelligence is going to be the real issue when I can’t access Dictionary.com in my approaching face-to-face situation with him.

While I’m teaching myself new words, I decide to Google Dr. David’s full name to see what I can dig up. Whether you care to admit it or not, EVERY PERSON, dude or chick, Googles and social medias the crap out of the stranger they are going on a date with. It’s all we have.

Boy oh boy, did I hit the jackpot. A simple search brought forth the following:

• David’s Rate My Professor Profile (remember those days, ya old farts?) • A YouTube video of historians interviewing David about a specific parts of American History • A free excerpt of his latest book on Amazon (what?) • David’s academic biographies on prestigious .edu websites

I open an Incognito Window in Chrome start to watch the PBS-style video, where it immediately becomes clear that I’m not going to comprehend a god damn thing that David says. I pray that he was only implementing so many SAT words in this video clip since every other historian is AT LEAST 75 years old. Maybe he was just trying to stand his 32-year-old ground. As a 27-year-old who forces myself to wear below-the-knee skirts simply for professional respect, I totally get that.

Feeling like a mega stalker, I admit to David that I found some fun stuff online about his brilliance. He laughs and tells me that it’s hilarious that I Googled him, and that he Googled me too. Whew.

Friday rolls around and of course it’s humid AF. Honest to god, why the HELL is it always it so hot on the rare nights that I have dates? I am a big facial sweater (as in a person who sweats, not the article of clothing) and I don’t really feel like spraying my manmade water all over a harmless individual.

Unlike Matt, David picked a place that was 3 blocks away from my apartment – which normally would be super nice, but it was JUST far enough that I knew I’d be sweating when I arrived. I decide the only thing to do is keep a paper towel in my back pocket since I doubt I’ll be able to take a shower there.

Also, I forgot to tell you that David selected a HOOKAH BAR for our date since he was recently recovering from being sick and couldn’t drink too heavily. He did, however, check to see that the bar had Sauv Blanc before we went – an incredibly thoughtful thing to do, especially since it was unprovoked.

I leave my apartment building and emotionally prepare for both the damp walk and the inevitable pre-date feeling that will overcome me. As I am what you’d call an extrovert, I can tell you with confidence that I rarely get nervous around people. But I get the SAME horrible feeling in the bottom of my stomach before each and every first date - a short-lived yet intense sensation of panic, and a temporary yet all-encompassing worry of the potential awkwardness that lies ahead.

David texts me that he’s in the “back room” and to let me know when I get there so he can lure bring me to our table. I instantaneously regret not bringing a flashlight and some sort of weapon. THE BACK ROOM. What kind crazy-ass illegal nonsense happens in the back room of a hookah bar?

[Sidebar: I’ve found that guys in their 30s LOVE to make you feel like dating someone their age is significantly better than dating a guy in their 20s. They act as if some sort of immaturity curse is lifted from their souls at the stroke of midnight of their 30th birthday and they turn into the most protective and considerate creatures. However, this is just false. More to come on the specifics in a later post.]

I walk into the smoke-filled establishment and regret not bringing my gas mask, which is a lie because I don’t own a gas mask. I did consider ordering one on Amazon once, though.

And then, I see him. Pulling back a fuchsia-colored velvet curtain, David DOES A SPIN, leans his arm against the wall, hands me a glass of Sauv Blanc, raises one eyebrow and says “Well Well Well. Don’t you look classy, Sara.”

Back. The. Fuck. Up.

Why in the name of god did you have to do an actual spin? Did you hire a flash mob for me, and that uncoordinated spin was the signal for them to come out of every corner and attack my personal space with song and dance? I didn’t know that we were at a 1962 sock hop.

This is also the exact moment that I realize that David is very skinny. Like, he had a thigh gap. As a girl with a little more pack in my punch, I literally feel like Shrek standing next to him.

We go to The Back Room and it’s truly beautiful (and like 4% scary) – it’s dark (obviously) and there is couch seating that lines the perimeter of the space.

There is a dimly lit chandelier in the center of the ceiling and there are people everywhere just CHILLIN with hookah things and drinks. The girls to our right look like Kardashians and have great eyebrows and are Snapchatting up a storm. I secretly wish I could hang with them so they could give me a smokey eye.

There is a 900-year-old woman to our left who is sitting alone having some sort of dark-colored cocktail. She is clearly rich AF as she is dressed to the nines and MUST have a side piece who is her grandson’s age. David and I develop an elaborate and super detailed story about her immaculate Madison Avenue brownstone and her hat collection and her modest cocaine habit. We name her Doris, but we call her The OG. I LOVE DORIS SO MUCH. Bonus points to David for being contributing to my wonderment. Could the date be entering normalcy?

Meh, not so much.

I can’t explain it, but I felt like he was grading every move I made. He was v obessed with Judiasm and wanted to talk about it a lot. As someone who doesn’t know the difference between Passover and Rosh Hashana, I felt dumb. AGAIN.

Also, I kept accidentally getting distracted – I don’t know the definition of every fifth word David says, I’m dying to turn into talk to Doris, I’m praying that he eats more of our hummus and pita platter and TIME OUT A BACHELOR PARTY JUST ARRIVED.

The same hostess who seated us is now wearing a sexy little 2-piece and walks into the center of the room as the volume of the music cranks….and she starts BELLY DANCING. INSTANTLY, every member of the bachelor party takes out their phones and starts taking one million pictures.

Over the next hour, we alternate between 5-minute intervals of belly dancing, and then a “rest period” which basically is when the hostess/performer goes to a new prop. This escalates over time from bells, to a scarf, to a sword. I am not kidding you. SWORD.

You guys, I am literally sitting in a dark room next to the director of MENSA who looks like the “After” photo to my “Before” photo of a Weight Watchers advertisement, and there is a young woman dancing around half-naked with a SWORD approximately 3 feet away from us.

By the way, Doris has now joined the Kardashian girls’ selfie party and I’m on my third glass of Sauv.

David keeps getting up to pee (which is strange because I’ve now lapped him 3 times, as he’s still on his first Jack and Coke), but I don’t care because this allows me ample time to text Brigette. I let her know that I’m getting strange vibes from David. Like I feel like we should be going to Shabbat dinner together or he should be giving me extra credit instead of touching legs in an obligatory, date-like way.

The conversation finally dies down AKA he shuts up about being Jewish for one millisecond and we get up to leave.

Trying to prove he is a 30-something-year-old gentleman, David walks me home. When we get there, he says goodbye by literally booping me on the nose and mutters, “I love this little goy nose of yours, Sara.”

HE BOOPED ME ON THE FREAKING NOSE AS A FAREWELL.

I break into HYSTERICAL laughter that I evidentally have been holding in for three hours, thank him one last time, and back away.

I walk into my building and my doorman/best friend Noel doesn’t say a word. He clearly witnessed The Boop. He just looks at me and rolls his eyes. I roll my eyes back.

The next morning, I get this text from David. Actual screenshot below to admit into evidence.

I’ll give you a minute to let that sink in.

Turns out the above message was David’s special and extremely confusing way of saying that he wasn’t going to ask me out again. Since he is a genius, I think he realized we’re a little too different and I’m a little bit too Catholic for him.

In the meantime, Imma go find my inner-Doris and keep on keepin’ on.

#ShabbatShalom #SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

SIX | STARE DOWN

On my way to work the other day, I felt like an abnormal amount of people were staring at me as we crossed paths.

For 16 blocks, over and over again, I wondered what was causing the high level of interest. Were they curious to if I was going to work or school? Was it because I have braids in my hair and the chicks wanted to know if I did it myself? Was my self-tanner uneven again? Or maybe, just maybe, were these handsome businessmen trying to lock eyes?

Well my friends, the answer is none of the above.

Because it wasn't until I caught sight of my reflection in the Starbucks window that I realized that I had dried toothpaste ALL around my god damn mouth.

#SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

FIVE | A NICE GESTURE

Disclaimer: I am not trying to be mean in ANY stretch, but the below text provides chilling detail of the most awkward date I’ve ever been on. If you suffer from severe second-hand embarrassment, you may want to stop reading at this time.

“Matt” (again, not his real name) was a 30-something year old banker aka identical to every guy I match with on Bumble. Kindhearted and earnest, he explained how much he despised the finance world - Matt had started his own non-profit related to children with terminal cancer. A guy with a heart? Could it be?!?

He asked me out but was going on some trip so we’d have to wait a week. Whatevs. More time to text and establish a foundation, which usually helps to decrease awkwardness on a first date. We texted constantly and I got pretty excited to meet him.

The big day rolls around I asked him where he wanted to go.

His response: “Ever been to the Dead Rabbit? Selfishly, it’s 2 blocks away from where I live but it seems like a cool place.”

COME ON, bro. I live in Midtown East, and that place is in FiDi. There is an unwritten rule on The Apps that the first date should be somewhere central to both parties, and it was going to take me 45 god damn minutes for me get down there. But he had just gotten back from the trip so I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I’m extremely thoughtful and understanding.

We continued to chat throughout the day, and I noticed that everything he said was very centered around himself. His work schedule. What he was going to have for lunch. How tired he was from his trip. What time he was going to drop his bag off. How many emails he had in his inbox. He did not ask me one question about myself (which is honestly fine) but there was no neutral conversation at all. Matt was all about Matt. I felt a little bit weird about this for a few reasons:

First and foremost, from the bottom of my heart, I literally do not give a fuck about what you are getting for lunch. I have been sitting here for 5 entire minutes trying to think of something to care less about, but I actually can’t. There is not one fiber of my being that wants to know that you are going to go to get pizza, because I haven’t met you before and I have a real job and can’t be bothered by pepperoni vs. buffalo chicken slices right now.

Also, I don’t need a play-by-play of your entire day. We are going to meet in person tonight and can talk about it then if you want. Which I kind of hope we don’t.

ANYWAY. Cue bad taste in my mouth.

I get to the Dead Rabbit approximately 2 minutes after I said I’d be there and there’s a line out the door, so I text Matt assuming he’d be inside at a table because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Especially since I texted him before I got on the subway so he had a relatively accurate ETA.

…but Matt hadn’t even left his apartment yet. (Friendly reminder that he lives TWO BLOCKS AWAY. AS IN A 90-SECOND WALK. AS IN NEIGHBORS.)

I immediately get a bad feeling in my stomach that was not at all related to my lactose intolerance for once, and call my best friend Brigette who I had already alerted that I needed to go to FiDi for this first date. The following conversation ensues:

Me: “Brig, he still isn’t here yet. Should I leave? I should leave.” Brigette: “Sar, do whatever you want to do. But you’re already all the way down there. What’s the worst that could happen? Leave after one drink if he sucks.” Me: “You’re right, as always. And so beautiful and brilliant.” Brigette: “new phone who dis”*

*note: she didn’t actually say this but she was probably thinking it TBH because she is so funny.

After a few minutes of bullshitting with her, I make the executive decision to stick it out. Even though it’s 700 degrees outside and I’m sweating my balls off, I AM already all the way down here. And I mean up until today things were fine, right?

Matt shows up 17 minutes late. Red flag.

Forcing my gritted teeth into an angry smile, I greet him with a hug.

I am now realizing that this post should really be a Vlog because I need to act a lot of things out. So this will truly test my adjective abilities and descriptive writing skills. Let me try my best to explain this hug to you.

Our faces turned in the same direction so our cheeks were almost touching, but not quite. He was shorter than he said he was (red flag x 2) and I was wearing heels so we were almost the same height - essentially eyelevel. He kept his left arm pressed DIRECTLY against his side as if it was paralyzed, and takes his right arm to hug my upper body but he kind of had one arm around me with his hand resting on the part of my hair where a yarmulke would go. My arms were wrapped around his torso and his stiff arm, with the other one kind of by his shoulder. The hug lasts for about 4 seconds, which felt like an eternity as part of my soul died from the fact that he was CUPPING MY HEAD.

I should have left then and there. The awkwardness was radiating from our pores.

He laughs at how long the line is and leads me inside. The bar is INCREDIBLY crowded but Matt is determined to find 2 seats. We climb the saw-dust filled stairs, ALL THREE SETS, to look for a place to post up. But as I mentioned, everyone in Manhattan decided to go to the Dead Rabbit that night, so no dice. Matt keeps laughing about this. I try to laugh along with him but it doesn’t work because I am still severely, emotionally scarred from the hug.

Since we are human beings who take up space, we decide to leave and go to a less crowded bar. When we get outside, Matt starts to use his thighs as bongos as he frantically thinks of where we should go.

Me - You live right around this place, right? There has to be more bars around here. Matt - ::drumming on legs:: Hmmm. I don’t really know where to go. Where should we go? Me – I rarely come all the way the fuck down to this neighborhood so I’m not sure of any places. ::considers grabbing Matt’s wrists to stop the drumming:: Matt – ::more misplaced laughter::

Matt takes out his phone to look for a bar to go to, and I notice his phone case is one of those rubbery ones that is EXTREMELY stretched out and looks like it’s about to slip out of his hands at any moment. Not being able to handle more awkward, I suggest walking around until we find one.

We walk down that cobblestone street that has approximately 9 million bars, but Matt leads me into the pub that is blasting Teardrops On My Guitar. Red flag x 3.

Don’t get me wrong, people. I LOVE a good dive bar. I just am not in the mood to be somewhere that is being DJ’d by a 13-year-old girl whose crush didn’t put a valentine in her locker this year.

We sit down and the bar doesn’t have Sauvignon Blanc. Red flag x 4.

I order a Magic Hat, and Matt starts laughing again. Since there is absolutely nothing comical about ordering a Magic Hat, that is the exact moment I realize that he is REALLY nervous and that this machine-gun, high-pitched, clown-murderer laugh was not leaving anytime soon.

Our beers arrive and I go to “cheers” Matt, but he was watching the muted TV and didn’t see me raise my glass to him. Quickly, I back-peddle and try to take a sip before he notices this fail. Of course his eyes meet mine as soon as I put the pint to my lips, and he goes to cheers me back. Extremely similar to when you’re meeting someone for the first time, and you go for the hug and they go for the handshake. And then you both switch. And then you both switch back to what you originally were going for. I’m actually cringing right now.

I take 9 extremely large gulps of my hilarious Magic Hat and decide to ask Matt about his non-profit endeavor.

Matt begins passionately talking about the few children and their parents that he works with to write stories about their lives – something to define them beyond their terminal illness. In all seriousness, I think this is a wonderful and extremely heart-felt idea.

Once I realize how emotional of an experience this is for him, I try to direct my questions to the business-side of things. Asking about his creative process, the logistics around meeting the families, promotional concepts, etc. Matt chooses to ignore these questions and keeps going back to the feels.

At one point, Matt takes out his phone with the case that looks like it just underwent gastric bypass surgery and starts to show me the pictures of the children.

Let me stop here and say that I am one of those people who cried during the Super Bowl commercial with the puppy and the horse being best friends. So you can only imagine what seeing terminally ill children would do to my psyche.

Matt then lets me know that the little girl from his first story recently passed away, and starts reading me text messages that her mother sent him.

Matt begins to tear. Then I begin to cry. WE ARE ON A FIRST DATE, YOU GUYS.

Me – “Matt, it’s so amazing that you do this. But why don’t we please, please talk about something else?” Matt – “No, I want to finish her story.” Me – “Clearly it is making us both really upset, but if you insist.”

As I wipe the tears from my eyes, Matt spends the next several minutes explaining to me the horrific story of this little girl.

WE ARE ON A FIRST DATE.

Once I felt it was appropriate, I chug the rest of my beer, order another one, and excuse myself to the bathroom because I’m fully confident that I have mascara all over my face.

I take a deep breath, go back out to the bar and immediately ask Matt to tell me about his family – something neutral.

Out comes the phone with the case that looks like a used condom.

He starts to show me pictures of his sister. His brother. His brother-in-law. His parents. His cousins. The “funny” 2015 Christmas photo.

I don’t understand why Matt’s phone needs to make a cameo in every conversation until he finally puts it away and I realize that he suffers from Severe Gesture Syndrome, which isn’t a real disorder but I’m now determined to make it one.

The following gestures happened every time one of the below words or phrases was mentioned: “Pregnant sister” - uses both hands to make a round belly motion from his upper chest to lower waist, symbolizing a bun in the oven “New Jersey” - points to the Southwest corner of the bar (the direction of NJ) every single time he mentions his home state “Eating lunch” (I already let you know that Matt likes lunch, so there were two gestures) 1.Double hands eating a sandwich and taking a bite out of the sandwich, including chewing motion with his mouth 2.Fork and knife cutting of non-existent plate of food, including putting fork into mouth “Reading” – uses menu as book with finger gliding along the words “Texting” – pretends to be typing with two thumbs on iPhone “Baseball” – swinging a pretend baseball bat “Brain tumor” – brings back up the kids again, and gestures to the part of the head where the spine and occipital lobe connect

I’m sorry Matt, but why are you using American Sign Language? Do I appear as if I don’t know what texting is or what biting a sandwich means? Why are you being a talking mime? Didn’t I already ask you to stop breaking my heart about the childhood cancer?

Again, unable to handle the laughing and the inability to speak without moving, I excuse myself to the bathroom again, where I call Brigette who tells me to just LEAVE.

I go back out and Matt asks me the first question of the last two hours:

“So, you said you like wine right? Why are you drinking a beer?”

Because this bar doesn’t have any, buddy.

I start to discuss my love for Sauvignon Blanc and am cut off by the following sentence.

“My ex-girlfriend loves white wine. We used to drink it all the time in our apartment.”

Matt then spends the next 10 minutes providing me an overview of their recent break-up – something that I did not ask about. They just weren’t on the same page anymore. He felt like he wasn’t ready to take the leap with her. She was 4 years younger and was a little selfish with her fashion career.

I dig into my creative bank of excuses and literally utter the following sentence at the first chance I get:

“Sorry about this, but my best friend is a midwife and just birthed a baby so I need to go.”

I thank him for ruining my life the drinks and run outside to hail a cab for the 8-hour drive back to my apartment.

When I get back home, Matt sends me this exact message:

“Sorry if I seemed off, I think it was due to nerves and me being hungry haha.”

How are you hungry after all of those invisible sandwiches you ate?! Also, I have NEVER met you before so how can I know if you’re being off?

The next day, Matt texts me out of the blue to let me know that he and his coworkers are discussing if the edges or the center of a brownie are the best.

That was the last straw.

In my most polite of ways, I let Matt know that I am not interested in continuing down this path and wish him the best of luck.

We made it, my friends. You deserve a medal if you got through that without shivering from embarrassment.

The moral of this story is this. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably is going to use its human arms to act out being a duck. #SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

FOUR | BLOW

In addition to Sauv Blanc, I also drink a shitload of coffee. I pretend that I don’t have a Starbucks addiction, but my bank account says otherwise. I mean, I got my Gold Card before I got my first Credit Card which is the most basic thing I’ve ever said in my entire life.

Ya know what, I kind of feel better now that I admitted that.

I lost my shit when I went to the Starbucks Factory in Seattle, an experience I would imagine feels identical to the way a Jew feels when they go to Israel on birthright. Here’s a pic of me acting very cool at the Homeland:

Are we aligned? You understand that I go to Starbucks a lot, right? And you still accept me, right?

Anyway…

It was an unassumingly warm day, and since I’m v stylish, I was wearing a white t-shirt with a low back. Like a you-can-see-my-bra-but-IDGAF t-shirt.

I was standing on line at the store across from my office, glancing through my Instagram feed and listening to trap music like every other white girl at Starbucks does.

Minding my own business, I start to feel air on my back (which let me remind you is exposed.) I don’t think much of it, because air. Starbucks has air.

My thumb continues to effortlessly scroll through my phone, but the air stream is becoming slightly inconsistent. And as I mentioned, it was a warm day and this particular breeze was more of a “room-temperature” instead of a “refreshing cool”…

“What the hell is wrong with the air conditioner in here?” I ask myself in a British accent. Just kidding, but that would have been hilarious.

By now, the air is feeling very targeted. Very narrow. Kind of dampish.

It was then that I realized that it wasn’t the air conditioner at all.

To my complete dismay, I discovered that it was a portly man blowing on my bare back with his mouth.

He was dressed in All Black Everything - not in a “New York City” way, but more of an “I hate my parents” way.

I mean, a stranger was literally expelling his actual breath on my actual skin. Over and over with each exhale. As if I was a spoonful of scorching hot soup.

I try to move out of the line but I’m overcome with temporary paralysis. Honestly, how the fuck am I supposed to handle this situation? If I turn around, is he going to blow in my face? Is he going to scoop me up run out of Starbucks and hold me hostage in a dungeon somewhere? Do dungeons still exist? And if so, I better get my own episode of Forensic Files.

Most importantly, why are you doing this to me, sir? Do I look like I’m interested in a personalized breeze? Am I really that sweaty? Is this your modern twist on seductively fanning me with a big tropical leaf?

Thankfully, the clouds parted and the chick behind the register motioned for me to cut the line. I always knew baristas were sent from heaven.

Thankfully part 2, she already knew what I was going to order so I didn’t have to say anything. Because I was 100% certain that if I opened my mouth a screech would come out.

I averted my eyes for the next 3 minutes as they made my Venti unsweetened iced coffee. I shoved that green straw in the plastic top as fast as my little fingers could. And I never looked back.

#SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

THREE | THE SPEED OF LIGHT

It was a windy Saturday afternoon.

I was at a bar on the Upper East Side when I got a message from a dude on The League. It was an unriveting “how’s your weekend going?” Like any normal human, I acted like I didn’t read it and would assess tomorrow.

The same guy writes me me again about an hour later, trying to be a little funnier this time. Again, I saw it right away and didn’t respond. Sly AF.

It’s now Sunday morning. And he messages me a THIRD time.

WE GET IT. You want me to write back. Jeez bro, who sends THREE consecutive messages? (Note – 91% of the time, this is a red flag symbolizing desperation.)

Intrigued by his persistence, I cozy up with a Venti coffee that has too much ice in it and start scanning through his 6 photos. Let’s call him “Tim” (it’s the first standard white guy name that came to my mind) - I want to protect his true identity. Turns out that Tim is 6’2, which is my absolute favorite height. Bonus.

I finally complete Tim’s entire life and accept his marriage proposal reply to him. We message back and forth all day. Turns out he’s incredibly witty. Bonus x 2. And intelligent. Bonus x 3. How could such a seemingly great guy make a multi-message faux pas?

Anyway, the boring topic of work comes up like it always does, and Tim starts asking ODDLY specific questions about my office location – the cross streets, what floor I work on, if there is a terrace, etc. Freaked out, I pump the brakes on my response time. Which Tim notices and finally comes right out with it.

Tim: “Okay, Sara. It’s time I told you.” Me: “…that you’ve been stalking me for years?” Tim: “Yes, but also I think we work in the same office. Is the girl at the front desk named Chelsea?”

TIME OUT.

What the actual hell is happening right now. Yes, her name is Chelsea. (Hi Chels!)

I work for a 50-person production agency, and we lease out a small section of this said office to a 12 person data company.

“Tim” is one of those 12 people, and we’ve been working within feet of each for MONTHS. We share a receptionist, for cryin’ out loud. We have likely rode the elevator together. He’s probably heard me sneeze before. Needless to say, we set up a date for that Thursday because we are ESSENTIALLY COWORKERS.

My thoughts become cluttered – “Am I on TV and if so, will the series be available on Hulu? Is this what fate is? Do we say hi to each other IRL?” Meeting someone you randomly matched with online before you go out with them is unique enough, let alone in a PROFESSIONAL setting.

The next day, I did what any sane person would do – called Chelsea from my desk and asked her to tell me every single detail that she knows. She FREAKS out from excitement and starts gushing about how nice he is. Bonus x 4.

Text from Tim, 9:08AM - “…I’m here. Do you feel my presence?”

That’s when it started.

I write the following on a piece of paper:

“Tim”, Roses are red, Violets are blue, This is so effing weird, Bye.

Put ‘er in an envelope. Seal it. Give it to Chelsea to hand-deliver to him. Within minutes, I hear hysterical laughter coming from the other side of the office.

“Success” I mutter to myself, which is a lie because I don’t mutter.

Next thing I know, Chelsea is at my cubicle handing me back the same envelope that I just passed along to my future husband…

Tim Sara, Meet me at the elevator in 5 minutes.

::5 minutes later:: Sara, IN PERSON - “awesome, you really are 6’2.” Tim - “ …and you’re shorter but just as cute as I imagined.”

::cue fireworks and a hug that was a little awkward, tbh::

And thus begins the week-long, around-the-clock build up to our Thursday date, including the following: • Consistent note passing (I literally sent him a “large” size FedEx box with a printout of a middle finger emoji) • Coworkers from each other’s respective companies getting in on jokes • Office vs. office pranks • G-chat username exchange (which solidified the whole 24 hour a day talking) • A Wednesday night drunk dial turned 2-hour conversation, expressing mutual genuine excitement for the impending date

Finally. Today is here! THURSDAY, Y'ALL. I arrive to work and find a smiling Chelsea holding an iced coffee with the following post-it attached:

We will now pause so the saps can ~melt~.

pause

Welcome back.

Fast Forward. 8PM. Sauv Blanc. Laughter. Story telling. Question asking. Pickle Back shots. Holding hands. Yadda yadda yadda. 12AM. Sara gets in cab alone. Tim immediately texts Sara asking her out again. Sara says no. Just kidding, you idiot. Tim randomly runs into friend and gets nightcap with him. Sara goes to bed.

I wake up with a hangover in my heart and pep in my step, throw my hair in a messy bun and head to work where I eagerly wait for my post-date note from Tim.

But I didn’t hear a peep.

Around noon, Chelsea comes up to me and the following conversation ensues: Chelsea - don’t freak out, okay? Me - HE’S DEAD, ISN’T HE? I mean, uhh…what happened?! Chelsea - Tim didn’t show up today and his boss just came to ask me if YOU were here. Me - Oh my god, this is insane. Also, he shouldn’t be inquiring about that. MYOB, bro. Chelsea - …apparently Tim’s done this before. Me - Done what before? Chelsea - Just not shown up for work.

I furrow my brow. (LOLing at that.) How does someone, on more than one occasion, just NOT show up for work? I mean, I won’t lie and say I haven’t puked in the single bathroom between meetings, but I’ve gotten my sloppy ass to the office. I may not be the best at adulting, but I can hold my own.

When I finally hear from Tim, he tells me he wants to explain himself and asks me get together that night. TWO DATES IN A ROW. Is this guy super irresponsible? Am I totally naïve? Are we moving too quickly? Do I need to send him my ring size?

Fast Forward. 10PM. Sauv Blanc at a bar with BFFs. Tim comes and meets two of Sara’s BFFs. Tim tells Sara he feels like he made a bad impression and explains how his boss is furious. Tim told his boss he was drunk and overslept. Sara thinks that was an idiotic thing to say, and he should have lied, but Sara consoles Tim because she is an amazing person. They drink until 5AM. They talk about the future. They discuss values and goals and family and friends and life. They make plans to go to a concert together the following week. They talk about what restaurants they want to go to and what weddings they want to bring each other to. Tim tells Sara his secrets. Sara tells Tim some of hers. Tim says he’s never met anyone like Sara before. … Fast Forward. 9AM. Monday morning. Tim gets fired. Sara never hears from him again.

#SauvMyProblems

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

TWO | BREAKING NEWS

Sara Beth Goldberg of Manhattan, NY becomes first human being of all time to cut her finger open with a spoon.

Goldberg, 27, was innocently scooping frozen yogurt into a "Sisters Make The Best Friends" mug when the tragedy occurred Wednesday night.

She apparently had grown impatient while waiting for the vanilla bean delight to thaw, and misjudged both her own strength and the fact that spoons are seemingly safe objects.

When asked for comment, she replied: "I literally cannot with this right now.”

Back to you, Bill.

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

ONE | LITERALLY ME

Yo. I’m SBG and I’m pretty basic normal.

I’m 27 years old. I live in a studio in Manhattan that I can’t comfortably afford. I delete photos if they don’t get a satisfactory amount of likes on Instagram. I have no money saved up. My weight fluctuates. I think that than I’m busier than I actually am. I’m currently single and have online dating apps, which has led me to some both horrible and incredible dates. I obtain the weirdest injuries. I think that being an adult is hard and that taxes are impossible to understand.

Most notably, I have an especially high-interest in drinking, and find myself accidentally consuming copious amounts of Sauvignon Blanc on a near-daily basis. In fact, I own 30 wine glasses in my 452-square foot apartment.

Despite my constant self-deprecation, I do consider myself to be relatively wise for my age. I seek out the humor in all of life’s occurrences. I always look for “The Story” – What’s the takeaway? The lesson you learned? The thing you’ll never do again? The thing you say you’ll never do again, but then do over and over and over?

Hilarity is the most healing thing on earth - so I want to make you laugh, even if it’s at my own expense. We all have problems, but most of them can be solved with an eyeroll, making the best of them, and drinking a lot of wine.

XX