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Tag Archives: Sally

I wish I could marry Bret.

I’ve been having some recent bouts of what I had previously thought were “love-at-first-sight,” but turned out to be, well, not so much.  Maybe it’s my inner girl trying to claw its way out with thoughts of flowers, romance, and all that other bullshit, or maybe it’s just that I’m in a bit of a dry-spell, and by dry, we’re talking like sahara-fucking-desert.  Regardless of the cause, I’ve identified at least four “ones” over the past couple of weeks.  Of these four, two are from today (yes, I realize it’s only 9:30 am, but it’s been a good day), one was married, and the 4th was the most likely to be the one (he looked like he fell out of a thrift store and had the most amazing green shoes I’ve ever seen in my life), but that lasted all of one day.

The “one”s:

– green shoes (eh)

– umd phd candidate (married)

– purple tie

– guy in suit talking to our recruiter  (on second thought, probably not the one)

This leaves me with only one “one.”  The appropriate number of “one”s?  For now.

Immediately upon entering the elevator at approximately 8:22 this morning, I knew I had met the father of my children. (Gross, I can’t believe I just typed that. I was going for slight hyperbole and just made myself throw up in my mouth).  Here I am in the elevator, and in my peripherals I spot potential.  He’s tall (check), holding a motorcycle helmet (eh), brown hair (check), and rull hot (double check).  The jury’s still out on whether or not he has herpes or likes the Jets (equally terrible offenses), but I’m willing to give him a shot.  So, tall, brown-haired, motorcyclist smiles at me and compliments my pink bow (yes, I’m 5 years old).  Now I know he’s interested, because my bow looks ridiculous.  We converse for a few seconds before the elevator stops on the 4th floor; really, DAC, couldn’t put our office on a higher floor, so I’d have more time to talk to my soulmate? Thanks for nothing.  Our conversation ended with him telling me that he had brought a purple tie to work that day for the same reason I had worn my pink bow (to not look like we were attending funerals).  Had we been alone in the elevator, and not with two obviously annoyed old men, I would have held the door open to finish our conversation, but, alas, I had to let the antiques get to their jobs, which I’m sure are merely figurehead positions, because I am 100 percent certain one, if not both, of them has dementia.  And like that, he was gone… (What a fucking amazing movie.  Get on my level).  Moral of the story: I plan to spend the next forever (or until I get bored, so probably a week) trying to find my elevator boyfriend.  Clues: He drives a motorcycle to work, arrives around 8:20, might work on the 9th floor, is tall and hot.  Expect updates.

dear purple tie,

where are you?

sincerely,

pink bow

Peace out bitches,

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