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sauvmyproblems-blog · 7 years

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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.]

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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

#newyorkcity #whitewine #funnystories #lockedin #millenial #adulting #sauvmyproblems

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sauvmyproblems-blog · 8 years

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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 #whitewine #winewednesday #manhattan #newyorkcity #nyc #newyorker #thingsihate #funny #lol

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sauvmyproblems-blog · 8 years

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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 #NYC #newyork #bumbleapp #firstdate

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