Saturday, December 23, 2017

Bumbling Through Bumble, Part 2: I've got a match. Now what? Crowdsourcing my love life.

So yeah. Bumble

I've been on Bumble for a few days now. I haven't gotten many matches*, but I have gotten EVEN MORE advice from friends. 

From Olivia (the little shit): If the guy is holding a monkey in his profile picture, you HAVE TO SWIPE RIGHT. 

From Courtney: Don't mention that you can't say "Alexa" when you're wearing your retainers. 

From someone who wishes to remain anonymous: Maybe you should be more serious in your profile. 

Hmmm....that's the least helpful advice ever. Especially the profile part. If anything, I want to make it more 'me' because I'm pretty sure men just look at the pictures and don't actually read the bio. So I should definitely update my bio. I mean, if I'm going to be single forever, I'm going to be single on my own terms. 

Current version: 

Under-consideration version:

I'm a goddess disguised as a Star Wars nerd in Converse sneaks. I run on sarcasm and Diet Coke. I love to watch football (American), football (what Americans call soccer), and Spanish telenovelas. I figure I've got a 54% chance of surviving the zombie apocalypse - 72% if there are still tacos in the apocalypse to give me something to live for. 

*I haven't gotten many matches, but I have had some. It's kinda cool. I get that match notification on my phone and I get a little excited. And then I get a little nauseated because clearly what I've been saying in my opening messages to my matches hasn't been working. And suddenly a phone app has me second-guessing myself. I can't decide. I just don't know. WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY IN MY OPENING MESSAGE? 

That's right. Me, the girl who talks too much, the girl who talks for a freaking living, does not know how to open a conversation and/or flirt with a man. No game. I have no game. So I think I need suggestions (not advice, because my friends seem to suck at advice). 

Tell me how you think I should start up a conversation, and I'll use it if it's reasonable (by MY standards of reasonable you have a fair amount of wiggle room). And then I'll let you know how well it worked. 

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Bumbling through Bumble. Part 1: Being dumb enough to tell my friends I went on Bumble.

So, I did a thing. 

I went on Bumble. For those of you who don't know (Mom & Dad, I'm talking to you), Bumble is a dating app. I uploaded some pictures, made a bio, and sent my high hopes and equally-low expectations out into the world. 

Almost immediately, it showed me men in my area. So many men. Most of them didn't even bother to write a bio! For some reason, that really bothers me. But they did post pictures. So many pictures. And every one of these pictures made me think the same thing. "WHY DO MEN MY AGE LOOK SO FREAKING OLD?"

Naturally, because I'm idiot, I posed this question to Facebook with the following post:

And then things happened...just not on Bumble.

Right away I got a message from a friend from high school giving me tips on which apps are best for finding nice guys versus finding guys who want to hook up. (For the record, I'm looking for nice guys.)

Immediately after that, my college roommate texted me saying she wanted to set me up with a lawyer she knows! She said he's my level of smart, so she knows to play to my ego. He's roughly 10 years younger than me. Hmmm...I wonder how she would sell this same set up to him. 

Immediately following the roomie text, Olivia (the one I have previously identified as "being a little shit sometimes") begged me to let her write my profile bio. She also begged to let me HAND HER MY PHONE AND LET HER DO THE SWIPING. (She's a nervy little shit, too.) To my credit, I was willing to compromise. I let her write a draft for my bio, I showed her what I had written, then we combined the two (see below). She's not getting anywhere near my phone, though.

It's very me. It's also very good that I have pictures to go with that bio, or everyone would think I'm a nerdy frat boy.

Anyway, since my profile went live, I've had a couple of matches. And I've sent a couple of messages. I have NOT gotten a couple of replies. Or any replies, for that matter. That kind of sucks. It's also kinda awesome because, frankly, I'm so bad at the dating/flirting/talking to normal people thing I wouldn't know what to do next. I suppose I could consult Facebook again...

Monday, December 4, 2017

One of those 'train of thought' derailed days....Stranger Things Spaghetti Night

I hate going to the grocery store. (Side note, when I was little, Mom told me to never, ever say I hate something because 'hate' is an ugly word. And it is. And it's exactly how I feel about the grocery store. Sorry, Mom.)

As I was saying before I rudely interrupted myself, I absolutely hate going to the grocery store. It's partly because I was a cashier through a few of my college years, and I still have nightmares about never-ending conveyor belts of produce that I don't know the codes for and I keep having to call for a price check, and the veggies are followed by SOOO MANY old ladies with coupons for things they didn't buy, and I wake up stressed and sweaty....

Anyhoo, I mostly hate going to the store because it feels a lot like what I assume going into the Upside Down would feel like. (If you don't know what that means, you need to get a laptop, a Netflix subscription, and a free weekend.) I feel a sense of dread as soon as I pass through those automatic doors. I wander around, lost and forlorn. The lights flicker, and I just know that Winona Rider is trying to save me. Demogorgons (aka...jerks with shopping carts) come at me from every angle, and when I finally escape, I just want a comforting meal of frozen waffles, or, in my case, some pepperoni pizza. 

Tonight, I managed to escape with everything I need for a great spaghetti dinner, which is pretty much the only thing I cook. And let me tell ya, I cooked up what we in Texas call a "mess" of spaghetti...which is to say I made a ridiculous amount so I can eat leftovers for at least two meals. I've always been amused by "mess" as an quantifier, and while I've never confirmed my suspicion, I'm pretty sure the term "mess" is derived from the amount of clean up a large meal requires afterward. Which reminds me...

Dear Prego, 

Have you ever considered selling your sauce in plastic jars instead of glass? I only ask because I'm a bit of a klutz who tends to cook barefoot. 

Please think about it.

Your faithful customer, 


Friday, November 10, 2017

It's like my TV's on drugs.

I can't be the only one who thinks prescription medication commercials are weird. 

First, they show people who are unnaturally happy about having diabetes, arthritis and erectile disfunction, and who seem to really enjoy hanging around in his-and-hers outdoors bathtubs. (I mean, if those pills REALLY worked wouldn't they be in the SAME tub?)

Second, who thinks its wise that drugs are advertised to the general public, rather than, say, actual medical professionals?  I have no doubt that too many doctors have had to talk patients out of drugs they think they need after seeing them ob television. It wouldn't be even a little surprised if somewhere out there a doctor has had to explain to a female patient that NO, she does not actually need that fancy new medicine for prostate cancer because it turns out that women don't come with that particular organ. 

Finally, the drug names are equally weird. It's like the pharmaceutical execs said "all the good, normal-sounding medicine names are already taken. Let's smoke a joint and take some samples of the company's 'good stuff' and see what we can come up with. It doesn't matter what we call it, people will still throw their money at us anyway."

Wednesday, October 25, 2017


Today a friend texted me, "can I ask you an odd question?" Naturally, I said yes, and then pondered all kinds of crazy situations while I waited for them to reply with the  "odd" question...

Are they going ask me about moving to Alaska to work on the pipeline?

Or about if the on campus health center does confidential STD testing?  (FYI: it does)

Should they move in with their significant other?

How do you make a dentist appointment?

Should they get a puppy?

(Yes, I have been asked all of these things in the last year.)

The question turned out to be about some dates on the work calendar. On my 1-10 scale of "odd" that doesn't even register as blip on the screen. Working with college students has officially messed with my head.

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Duncan Hines can kiss my spatula

Everyone who knows me knows that I don't cook. It's not that I CAN'T cook; it's that I don't WANT to cook. And I don't WANT to cook because I don't LIKE to cook...and I primarily don't LIKE to cook because cooking involves doing dishes later. #DoingDishesSucks

(Well, damn. I just used a hashtag in a non-Facebook/non-Twitter/non-Instagram setting -  without even thinking anything about it until I reviewed this in the editing process. I also regularly use the word "adult" as a verb now, as in "I can't adult today." Clearly the time I spend around college kids has affected my brain.)

Anyhoo, on a recent trip to Hell the grocery store, I came across a Duncan Hines Perfect Size chocolate cake kit. Of course, now you're thinking, "Shelley must have gotten lost to ever end up on the baking aisle." And you're not entirely wrong. I forgot my grocery list for the 217th time in a row, so I was just going up and down every aisle in an effort to not forget anything - and it worked. I didn't forget anything because I bought practically everything. Including the Duncan Hines Perfect Size cake kit, which I will refer to as the DHPSPITACK (Duncan Hines Perfect Size Pain In The Ass Cake Kit) from this point. 

The next day at work I was telling Olivia (a sassy coworker) about the DHPSPITACK:

Me: "It's great! This kit comes with a small cake mix, a small icing pouch, and a 6-inch baking 'pan' so that I can bake a cake without having a full 9x13 cake to pig out on!" 

Olivia: "So you bought an Easy Bake Cake for grown ups?"

Olivia is a little shit sometimes. 

But again, I digress. 

After a week or so of being too busy or too tired after work to bake the DHPSPITACK, I finally had a free evening. I opened the box and started following directions. 

Combine the cake mix and dry goods by stirring manually = 1 bowl + 1 spoon

Blend the batter with mixer for 2 minutes = mixer

Pour into pan and put in the oven to bake for 39 minutes.

Then I grabbed the icing packet...which I had assumed would be a packet of actual icing that I would just squeeze out onto the cake. OH NO. It was the packet of chocolate powder to which I would add fluffy butter to make my own buttercream icing. (I'm #TeamButtercream, by the way, but that's a story for another day.)

So I washed the mixer and then softened and fluffed the butter with the clean mixer = 1 bowl

Added the chocolate power and blended/fluffed some more. This was actually harder than you think, because it doesn't take much butter to make icing for a 6-inch cake, and butter likes to stick to mixer blades, so mostly I had chocolate powder that was stuck to butter that was stuck to mixer blades that were just spinning for no good reason. There was a lot of starting and stopping and...

Lots of scraping butter off blades happened = spatula

I finally got the icing finished right as the oven timer went off. For those of you not paying attention, that was 39 minutes. It took THIRTY-NINE MINUTES to make the icing for a 6-inch cake! Easy Bake cake, my butt, Olivia!

By the time the cake cooled and I had the icing on it, I was so sick of the whole process that I didn't even want to try my petite pastry. I still had dishes to do anyway. The mixer (again), two bowls, a spoon and a spatula. That's not much, I know, but #DoingDishesSucks

Twenty-four hours later, after a long day of work and shenanigans, the DHPSPITACK looked more like a cake and less like a nuisance. I cut a small piece, aka half the cake, and gave it a try. It tasted like...every other chocolate cake I'd ever made. I was underwhelmed. 

The icing sure was good though.