My little sister and I cooked dinner last night. I only got burned a little bit and the food didn’t get burned   at all. So I deem it an overwhelming success.

My little sister is sitting at the table behind me as I wash dishes at the sink. All of a sudden the fan blows my dress up. My little sister shrieks,

“I see your underwear!!!”

“Oops, sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re both girls. It’s a good thing your boyfriend wasn’t here.”

Get in there ladies.

I was wandering around Home Depot the other day. No, not my usual shopping hot spot, but in retrospect not the worst way to spend a rainy afternoon. There’s something about strong men in work-boots driving pickup trucks. And they happen to be Home Depot’s target demographic. It’s not me in my nautical inspired preppy ensemble trying not to touch anything dirty against my white jacket.

My shopping companion, attired in work-boots and a pickup truck, pulls out his list,

“Ok we need ‘L’ brackets, where would those be?”

If we were in Victoria’s Secret I could find my way around with my eyes closed, BUT we’re not.

I spot a guy in an orange Home Depot apron,

“Excuse me, where are the ‘L’ brackets?”

“Hold on.”

He pulls out his cell phone. Is he going to google map it?

I spot a giant pin on his apron: ‘Hi! I’m training.’

Next we need screws. I have never seen so many screws in my life. A whole aisle, floor to ceiling. They seem to be color coded. I’m asked,

“Now which ones?”

I’m sure this is a rhetorical question, but I want to help.

“I like the ones in the purple box.”

I continue to be extremely helpful. Two hundred dollars later we leave the store with an assortment of things that I’m told will become a kitchen island. My jacket is still white.

After spending time in several different departments of Home Depot. I’d say forget Match.com, stay away from the garden center and focus your time between hardware and tools.

I’m being a very bad blogger. I’m sorry. I was busy deep cleaning my apartment because it’s new roommate time. And new roommate’s mom time. She said we can always put her mom in the attic if she’s driving us crazy.

I’m going for a bike ride next weekend. I was asked,

“You have a bike right?”

“Right.”

“It works?”

“As of last summer.”

“Good.”

What he doesn’t know yet is that it’s almost 20 years old and it’s from Toys ‘R’ Us.

How else am I supposed to transport my dolls around?

The award for best worst internet blind date of the week goes to the crazy couple the other night. I know the week isn’t over yet, but it’s safe to assume.

The woman must have been reading through a list of things to never ever say on a first date:

“You go ahead and eat. I can’t, I’m like on a diet.”

“My ex and I connected on a physical level, but not like on an emotional level. I mean on an intellectual level. Well of course we connected on a physical level, but that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m very successful and I need to be with a guy who makes plenty of money. Like I was on a private jet last month.”

“I’m attractive, lots of guys like me.”

“The bartenders are listening to me. I’m very entertaining.”

“I’m not sure like I want kids. I’m worried I’ll fuck them up.”

She starts to drop as many f-bombs and “likes” as real words.

“I have like a lot of fucking issues. What are your issues?”

The guy speaks up,

“I have my issues like everybody else, I just don’t feel the need to farm them out on a first date.”

My bar is a blind date hot spot. If yours is going badly all you have to do is turn to one next to you and offer to swap.

The other night the bar was full. There was a fifty-year-old woman with dyed blonde hair at one end and another fifty-year-old woman with dyed blonde hair toward the other end. Both were equally attractive.

A guy walks in and approaches one of the women.

“Sarah?”

“No.”

From the other end of the bar the woman shouts, everyone turns to look,

“HEY! I’m over here.”

I just worked six nights straight at the bar. It went really well, but by the end, my patience for poor customer behavior was running thin.

People like to share things at my bar. It’s not unheard of for a couple to share a $7 glass of wine and split the bill two hours later. I don’t make out on this deal.

This past Friday was busy. People were fighting for seats. Two dads plunk their ten-year-old daughters down at the bar. In Cambridge you have to be old enough to sit up on your own and you’re allowed at the bar.

The dads order drinks and one girl orders,

“We’ll share a Shirley Temple.”

SHARING a SHIRLEY TEMPLE??? It’s $3, your dads can afford to buy two Shirley Temples AND what child in their right mind only wants half of a super sweet, cherrylicious soda with extra cherries?

I split a Shirley Temple. Guests hover nearby waiting for service. I have five other cocktails I’m trying to make. I pour sparkling wine into a champagne flute. It starts to overflow. One of the little girls yells at me,

“Excuse me! You’re spilling!”

She’s making a barrel-aged cocktail. We have those at my bar. I think she’s my next bar manager.

Yesterday I went to the dentist. She did a wonderful job. She even showed me new spots to floss: the teeth on the end without a tooth neighbor. Who knew?

 She asks,

“When was your last cleaning?”

“Two years ago? Ish.”

“Hmm. You have a lot of stains. Do you drink tea or coffee or smoke?”

“Coffee.”

“The stains I’m seeing are usually from tea. Are you sure you don’t drink tea?”

I’m sure. I mean I drink the occasional cup of tea say once a month, but I drink coffee EVERY day. If I need to cut out the tea, I will. She continues,

“Do you drink red wine?”

“Yes.”

“The stains could be from that.”

“Uh huh.” At this point my mouth is full of hands and equipment.

“If you cut out the coffee and wine you won’t get these stains.”

Uh. Yeah, no.

You’ll never believe what I’m reading. John Adams by David McCullough. That’s right, a history book AND I love it.

A couple weeks ago outside a coffee shop, I’m reading some quality chic lit when a passerby stops. He looks at my book and says,

“Is that-? Oh no it’s not.”

“What?”

“I thought you were reading a history book. A very good one.”

“No.”

“Do you like history?”

He is eager to have a history conversation. I’m going to crush his hopes and dreams.

“It’s ok.”

“Oh.” He wanders off.

I finish my novel and stare at the stack of books in my room waiting to be read. There’s John Adams. A girlfriend recommended the book to me and he’s been in my bedroom for the better part of a year, untouched. Why not?

Everyday I look forward to spending quality time with John Adams. I like his wife too. Never mind that a lot of the story is set right here around Boston. He even spent some time in Worcester. But as much as I’m in love with John Adams, history pick-up lines still aren’t going to work.

History jokes!

When it comes to any special occasion: birthdays, holidays, long weekends, I am very thorough, thoughtful and detail oriented.

When shopping for a friend’s July birthday in June, I found a perfect birthday card for my mom. Her birthday is in January. I bought it and saved it for seven months. If I needed to send a Christmas card right now, I could.

I’m always ahead of the Hallmark rush at CVS until this past weekend. Somehow, at 11am ON Mother’s Day, I found myself in the card aisle. I do not regret baking two cakes instead of shopping for a card.

In the past, when I’m three weeks ahead of Mother’s Day, I’ll spend a good 20 minutes reading card after card. ‘This one might be good. Oh this one is better. Now that I think about it, I don’t like this one anymore.’ And I’ll be near three or four other women doing the same thing.

At 11am on Mother’s Day, there is not a single woman anywhere near the Hallmark aisle. It’s full of men. And not the same three or four men, lots of different men. Each man walks up, grabs a card, maybe reads it and heads for the cashier.

I feel like I’ve been there forever and I’ve only read five cards. I did find a great one in under ten minutes, so maybe these guys are onto something. Although if I’d gone for the first card I picked up it would’ve told my mom what a great grandmother she is.

Mother’s Day was a success, although there was a small hiccup.

I decide it’s a good idea to bake a cake. I go to the store, painstakingly pick out cake mix, frosting, a different color frosting to write “Happy Mother’s Day,” and a different color frosting to decorate with. I’m on a mission.

I mix the cake batter. I take a taste. Mmm. I take another taste. Mmm so good. I forsake the whisk I was using in favor of a spoon. It’s so much better for eating cake batter with. I pour the remaining batter into a 9″x13″ pan. It looks thin, but maybe it’s going to rise a lot?

It does not. I ate way too much of the batter. I have made a cake cookie. I walk a mile back to the store and buy another box of cake mix. I try again. By this time I’m hungry again and start to eat the batter. It’s so good.

When I tell the story to a friend she asks,

“So you ate less of the batter the second time around?”

“No. I used a smaller pan.”

Cosmo magazine says that every woman should own at least one pair of animal print underwear. I take everything Cosmo says to heart and this is no difference. The good news is a third of my underwear collection is already animal print, 60 pairs or so. And that’s not counting underwear with dolphins, turtles or puppy dogs.

Back to the regular who’s in love.

He recounts his date from the weekend,

“She told me I’m an obese alcoholic.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I’m not sure it’s true.”

“No?”

“I am an alcoholic. But obese?”

You know we’re having hiring problems at work when I start dreaming about it.

We’re short a bartender. A guy, smaller than me with dark hair, did a trial shift a few weeks ago. It went well and he was supposed to train last night. It didn’t happen.

He was in my dream last night. Or rather another new guy was in my dream. I knew it wasn’t the right new guy, but no one else seemed to realize. The one in my dream was tall, blond and Australian.

The wrong new guy asks me,

“Where can I change? I’m not wearing any underwear.”

I rush over to my General Manager. I tell her,

“This isn’t the right new guy and he’s not wearing any underwear.”

“I thought he looked different.”

Friday night was a tough night at the bar.

I understand, if on a slow Monday night, when there are lots of open seats at the bar, you want to nurse one beer for two hours and tip me $1. Ok I might hope for $2, but it’s not the end of the world. On a busy Friday night, it is.

This past weekend I had several couples occupying bar space and not spending any money. People are lining up behind the bar. Seats are in demand. I have a mental list of who’s next if anyone who’s not drinking decides they’re done sitting.

Finally two seats open up. A man rushes into one of the seats. I tell him,

“I’m sorry, I have a couple that’s been waiting for a seat.”

“I’ve been here since eight o’clock.”

“I’m sorry, that couple was here before you. I will let you know when there’s a seat for you.”

“No way. I’ve been here since eight o’clock.”

He keeps saying eight o’clock like he’s been here forever, but I have no idea what time it is. I check. It’s 8:15pm. He has been waiting fifteen minutes. People have been waiting over a half-hour. I look at him. He’s not getting up. He tells me,

“Bars are first come first serve. There are no waiting lists for bars.”

Saturday night I head out for a very nice dinner date. The restaurant is super busy. There’s an hour-and-a-half wait for a table. We head to the bar. The bartender takes our drink order and asks,

“Would you like me to put you on the waiting list for the bar?”

The regular who’s having mild success with a match.com woman, comes in again last night. He sighs,

I don’t know. Google doesn’t have a lot of funny Iliad photos to choose from.

I’m off to play tennis with a real person…

First of all, to the guy across from me on the T, who scratched his crotch for half-an-hour, you should get that checked out.

Next, the other night at the bar, a regular who recently had some luck on Match.com, comes in. I ask him,

“Are you still in love?”

“Yes, but I have some concerns.”

“Oh?”

“She said she’s only a third in love with me.”

“That’s better than nothing.”

“She has another ‘object of interest,’ those are her words not mine. She says the relationship is in it’s hospice phase.”

“That’s vivid.”

“She doesn’t like to talk. I don’t know what to do.”

“Why?”

“Listening to women is one of my main seduction techniques.”

If all goes well I’m done screening prospective roommates. But I got a last couple good ones for you.

One guy tells me,

“I always put the toilet seat down and I make my bed.”

This guy is already better than the toilet using cat.

One guy would like me to hold the place for him. He’ll be ready to move September 1st.

And last but not least, a guy writes a very long missive. Don’t worry, it’s worth it,

“I like watching movies with a plot (Inception, Dark Knight, Troy, Fighter, Sunshine, Memento, Moon, ..etc)

I also like superhero movies. I am not really a fan of funny or scary movies but I will watch them with other people.