The relationship whisperer
My number three dream job, right behind Professional Makeup Try-er On-er and Professional Throw Away-er [of Other Peoples' Crap] is Professional Matchmaker. For the record, I've been matchmaking - unprofessionally, of course - since before The Millionaire Matchmaker became a hit TV show. (That being said, I do love Patti Stanger and her Whip Those Douche Bags Into Shape personality. Patti, if you ever need an apprentice, call me!) Anyway, I don't know if it's because I'm a Jewish female or what, but I have been blessed with the matchmaking gift.
Well.
Okay.
Maybe one of my dear friends put it more accurately when she said, "Umm, Sarah, I just think you're really good at breaking people up."
And she has a point. Although my matchmaking has resulted in a successful marriage*, what I am more focused on is telling people when they're in a relationship with someone who's not a match. In fact, the first night I met the aforementioned dear friend, I told her I thought she needed to break up with her boyfriend.
If that seems harsh, it probably was, but my friend did ultimately break up with the dude and credits (and thanks!) me for it. So what if she thought I was a bitch when she first met me? We're friends now! AND she's no longer with her not-a-match boyfriend! It's a win-win. Clearly.
This tactic of telling people, "You need to breakup with that loser!" upon first meeting them doesn't always end in friendships, though. I have had people less than pleased with me for sticking my nosy nose into their business. But I can't help it! If I see a couple who's totally not a match, I feel it's in their best interest for me to tell them so**! They might think I'm a bitch, but in the end they'll thank me.
It's a lot of work being a matchmaker, let me tell you what.
*This is true. I set up an old co-worker of mine from high-school/college with a guy I knew in high-school. They even worked me into their wedding vows. You hear that, Patti? That's a 100% success rate right there!
**I'm not completely and totally socially inept. I hold my tongue in certain instances, mostly when I get the impression my "advice" could be misconstrued as, you know, rudeness.
A Working Blog Post Title Production*
Contrary to my initial fears, my garden appears to be growing. The basil isn't looking too hot - I fear the wicked winds out here might have carried most of the teeny-tiny basil seeds off into seed heaven - and the jury's still out on the Swiss chard and the carrots, but the corn, green beans, beets, and zucchini all appear to be flourishing. I was a little depressed about my tomato plants, which are looking a little yellow and dry, but this past weekend, my mother-in-law and Chris's grandma pointed out three tiny tomatoes that were a-growing! And then today after work, when I went outside to pay some love to my baby (my baby is my garden, yes, my life has taken a turn for the lame), I spotted another little tomato! Exciting times here, obvs.
Still on the garden track, since it's all I've got going on these days, we planted some roses. The pink ones are budding (is that what roses do? Do they bud? Or do they just, like, grow?) like crazy! So much so that I was able to cut off a bud and put it in my...wait for it...bud vase! The bud vase that I usually use to drink champagne out of! (Sadly that was not my idea; I stole that from my mom, who is way cooler than I am.)
To round out the riveting awesomeness of this post, here are a couple pictures of my garden. The first picture is from when we initially planted everything; the second one is after we put in a gravel path two weekends ago:
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We found out another set of neighbors is moving. Gee, I hope it doesn't have to do with me shouting obscenities in my backyard a couple weekends ago. I believe I was shouting something like [edited for content], "I PAY THE MOTHER YOU-KNOW-WHAT-ING MORTGAGE ON THIS HOUSE; I'LL PARTY IN MY BACKYARD IF I WANT TO!" (I party hardcore with semicolons, obviously.) I'm only kidding, though. Well, not about the shouting - that was most certainly something I did - but about that being the reason our other neighbors are moving. They actually live a couple doors down and likely wouldn't have heard all the ruckus. Anyway, another neighbor biting the dust is fine with us; as Chris said, "Hopefully they'll all move and we can rule the neighborhood."
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In case you missed it over at Style Lush Blog:
The post my mom thinks is my best: Champagne cocktails!
Two booze post in as many weeks: The Best Wine for Under Ten Bucks
All that drinking made my skin dehydrated: You're never too young for eye cream!
Hey look! It's all about my garden again!: Garden inspired recipes
Will I ever enjoy sweet potatoes? (Spoiler alert: Yes I will! Simply add bacon, drown in cheese, sour cream, hot sauce, guacamole, and fry between tortillas and they're delicious!): Reader Help: Sweet Potato Recipes
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*Chris just asked me what my blog post title was. I told him I didn't know yet, so he asked me what the working title was. Here you go.
Won’t you be my neighbor?
The other day we received a friendly little postcard from our real estate company, letting us know that another house in our neighborhood was using their [real estate] company to sell their [our neighbor's] house.
"Who's number 1030?" I wondered.
Chris, being the crack spy that he is, went outside to survey the other 12 houses' addresses in our cul-de-sac. (Not that it took a lot of investigative work mind you; we're number 1024.)
"It's Jennifer and Matt from next door," Chris informed me.
"Oh, Danielle and Bill?" I asked.
And then I wondered what I always wonder: Is this because of me? Now before you're all, "Geez Sarah, get over yo' self already!" allow me to explain to you that while Chris and I are awesome, quiet, rarely-home neighbors, maybe-kinda-sorta didn't come off that way from the start.
So. Moving is stressful, right? No matter the massive planning and packing that you do, you're ultimately stressed by the end of it. Especially when you're moving 500+ miles north from San Diego to Northern California with a stop in Berkeley, whose streets aren't exactly 29-foot-moving-truck-with-trailer-attached friendly. As I said. Stressful.
By the time we finally moved into this-here joint, after spending hours upon days packing and loading and cleaning and then unloading and unpacking and cleaning again, we were tired. And we'd managed to get our hands on some muscle relaxers (and if you're judging right now, I know it's only because you're just jealous that you didn't get muscle relaxers after you moved.)
And so there we are, sitting on the couch - me, Chris, and Chris's brother Drew - watching Pulp Fiction and drinking G&Ts (them) and Moet & Chandon (me) and thoroughly enjoying being...Relaxed.
And then the doorbell rings, and I look around like, What? Do I answer that? Is that what I'm supposed to do? Apparently it is. So I get up and answer the door and it's Jennifer/Danielle and her three small children, presenting me with a handmade Welcome to the Neighborhood! card and homemade cookies. And I'm very unlike myself in that I'm gracious and nice and all the other things I think a neighborly person is supposed to be. At least...I *think* I am.
And so after the graciousness, I thank Jennifer/Danielle and her little kids and shut the door and then, because I'm hiiiiiigh on muscle relaxers, start to laugh uncontrollably. And then the three of us start to giggle and giggle about how hiiiiiigh we are and OMG, do people really bring their new neighbors cookies? They must! It just happened! And then Chris, Drew, and I eat the entire plate of cookies.
And then the next morning after we all wake up, Drew nonchalantly mentions that our windows were left open. All day yesterday. And all night.
And then Chris and I are MORTIFIED. Jennifer/Danielle didn't hear us...Right? I mean, I said nice things...Right? And their kids wouldn't know what was going on anyway...Right? And OMG, we're those people...Right?
Which brings me back to a couple days ago, when I received the friendly notice from our real estate company and though to myself, "Is this because of me?" But instead I looked at Chris and said, "Maybe the new neighbors will be the crazy ones now!"
Worst! Date! Ever!
I know I've discussed my abhorrence of online dating sites' television commercials before, but I'm back to unload on you again. It's not that I have anything against meeting people online - whatever works, works! - but I just hate the commercials with a passion. Recently, it's been the one with the guy who says, with an air of disdain, that some of those other dating sites are like "an online bar." To that I say PSHAW, buddy! You CAN find a nice person in a bar, SO THERE. Now take your snooty-self off my television, ass.
That's not really the ad that's bothering me the most, though. It's the one where the girl gushes, "It was the BEST date I'd ever HAD!" While I'm certainly happy she had such an awesome date, I do wonder HOW it was the best date ever. I mean, where I come from, dates are dinner or a movie or coffee or drinks, right? Is there more than that? Okay, okay, maybe there's more than that, but that's not the point. The point is, Chris said, "Well, maybe she had a bunch of really terrible dates before, so this one being normal made it the best." Which got me thinking...Let's play the Worst Date Ever game! Here, I'll go first.
I was in high school, maybe 16 or 17 years old. This guy and I went to, ahem, Carl's Jr. (Famous Star with criss-cut fries and a Diet Coke, please!) and then saw Pleasantville (cue awkward Joan Allen bathtub scene, am I right?) When he dropped me off at home, he walked me to the door and said, "Of all the girls I've dated....PAUSE...PAUSE...PAUSE...You're one of them," and then proceeded to run to his car, leaving me on my front porch, absolutely stupefied.
Alright ladies, I dished the dirt, now it's your turn! Bring on your worst dating stories ever!
Beware of super secret biker gangs
Chris and I met in a bar and while that story - our story, so to speak - certainly deserves a post of its own, this is actually the story of our first date. Or, was it our second date? Shit, now I'm wondering if it could even be considered a date. Regardless, here's the story of how I became a part of the super secret bikers' gang.
As I said, Chris and I met in a bar and the following weekend, we met at that same bar again for a date (or not; see above confusion.) The next morning (SHUT UP, nothing happened...no really, nothing happened), as my friend Michelle and I were driving Chris back to his place, he mentioned how it was a nice day for a bike ride.
Allow me to interject here to tell you how much I'd always wanted a biker boyfriend. Don't we all, right? No, I really wanted a biker boyfriend. Like, to the point that when I was creating my list of What I Want In A Man, I almost added Rides A Motorcycle to the list. But then I decided against it, deeming it too vain or something (nevermind that Must Be Over Six Feet Tall made it to the list. Priorities, people.)
Anyway, so Chris mentioned how it was a nice day for a bike ride and I agreed and then he asked me if I'd like to go for a ride. And I was like, "You have a motorcycle?," which hopefully came out very cool and nonchalant, because in my head, I was going, "OMG OMG OMG I'VE FOUND MY BIKER BOYFRIEND! AND HE'S SIX-FOOT-FOUR, CHECK AND CHECK!"
Obviously, Chris did indeed have a motorcycle and so he said he'd come pick me up for a ride in a couple hours. Those few hours went by and as Chris's arrival time was nearing, I suddenly got a terrible thought: WHAT if the motorcycle was actually a crotch-rocket? Now, I did not then, nor do I now, claim to know anything about motorcycles, but I did know that in my vision, my biker boyfriend rode a Harley-type bike. Something about crotch-rockets conjured up visions of...I don't know...Small men. Small girly men.
[Being married to Chris, I've really gotten a lesson in cars/motorcycles/things with engines/things that go fast, and have since learned that crotch-rockets are actually really bad-ass. BUT STILL.]
During my moment of fret, I called not one, but two girlfriends, to discuss my options if Chris did in fact ride up on a Kawasaki (Would I refuse to get on the bike? How would I suppress my laughter? Was I a giant bitch?) Luckily, during the middle of Phone Call To Girlfriend Number Two, Chris pulled up on a "regular" motorcycle and so all was well.
As we were out on the bike, I kept noticing that when we passed other motorcycles on the road, Chris and the other rider would put their left hands down, oftentimes making an upside-down peace sign. What is this mysterious biker gang sign they're making at each other, I thought?
Well, come to find out, SADLY, all bikers are not a part of some super secret biker gang that requires a special hand signal. Nope, it's just their way of waving to one another on the road. Disappointing, isn't it?
Anyway, the bike is long gone; up in Portland with its rightful owner, Chris's younger brother, but now every time I see a biker on the road, I want to give them the special wave. Too bad they wouldn't be able to see it...Me waving from my car with DOORS and all.
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A PSA: Y'all know I don't like to get too preachy up in here, but I have to ask you to please be courteous of those drivers on motorcycles. I know they're sort of annoying because they can split lanes through traffic and always get the good parking spots (should I park on the sidewalk? Sure!), but they're out on the road without a giant hunk of tin covering them and if they get hit or go down, they're probably going to be seriously injured OR WORSE. It could be one of my brothers or my husband or even me on that bike, so every time I see I biker, I stay where I am, I don't speed up so they can't get through, I don't change lanes, and I don't cut them off. Motorcyclists are (usually) some of the best drivers, so if you stay put, they'll probably be out of you way in no time.
Before Jersey Shore, The Hills & The City, there was*…
Have I ever told you about that one time I was on an MTV reality show? Actually, I know the answer to that. I haven't. Up until now, I have preferred to push that memory to the back of my brain and have actually done a pretty good job of it. Like, to that point that once in a great while it will occur to me that I was on an MTV reality show and I'll be surprised: I was on an MTV reality show?! I had no idea! Oh, wait...
The blessed event was about eight years ago and I figure since it was almost a decade ago, it might be time to tell you all about it! Plus, I don't think I need to worry about the video winding up on the Internet**, since the only copy in existence (well, in my existence...Okay, actually, in my parents' existence) is a VHS tape. Thank you, VHS, for going the way of the beta! (Oh, who am I kidding, I still have a VHS player.)
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Without further ado, allow me to present...
...a Home Sweet Sarah Production...In association with House Party Films...
(Brought to you by Solo plastic cups, Nokia cell phones, and Natural Light beer):
"That One Time I Was On An MTV Reality Show"
I was 19 years old and attending community college at Harvard on the Hill, otherwise known as Bakersfield College. A friend of a friend - let's call him...Don - sat in front of me in Political Science. We would chat before and after class, exchange notes when one or the other slept in and didn't go to class couldn't make it to class for some studious reason. It was a friendship of convenience, more than anything.
One day he mentioned that he was going to be on a new MTV reality show that was soon going to be taping in Bakersfield. Over the next few days, Don kept pestering me to "audition" for the show, as well. Being on an MTV reality show wasn't exactly my bag and so I kept declining his offer. No thank you, decline. Not really my thing, decline. NOT INTERESTED, decline.
Somehow a producer for the show got my phone number (hmm, I wonder how that happened) and convinced me to come in for an interview/audition. I walked into the Radisson or the Ramada or whatever to find this "producer" sitting cross-ways on a chair in the lobby, talking on the phone with her boyfriend. (Oh, to work for MTV, right?) She and I had a very awkward interview wherein I probably came off as the most boring person ever, BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO BE THERE IN THE FIRST PLACE.
[Come to think of it, why WAS I there? Maybe it was the days before I had a cell phone or caller ID? Maybe I - quell horror! - actually had to answer the phone without knowing who was going to be on the other end, thus getting roped into it that way? Who knows. But either way, I went.]
So the interview was bad and I didn't get asked to be on the show, which was FINE WITH ME. The night of the taping rolled around, though, and a bunch of us decided to go to the party where the show was going to be filmed. In hopes, you know, of maybe ending up in the background or something. Haha, the background.
Once at the party, Don asked me aside and proceeded to tell me how much he liked me***. I didn't know how to response (HOW DO YOU RESPOND TO THAT?) and so I told him - with my red keg cup blocking my face - that I wasn't interested, that I had a boyfriend ("Look! There he is three feet away from us!") but that maybe we could get coffee sometime? Later. To discuss things. Later.
My friends and I left the party immediately after that and as I recall, it was near the end of the semester, so I (luckily) didn't have to see Don too many times after that incident. Oh, and we never did get that coffee.****
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*The show was called FM Nation and the premise was to follow college-aged kids from a "normal" town around for one Saturday night to see what "normal" kids in "normal" towns did for fun. In case you couldn't tell, it was a short-lived show. Bakersfield was the first of maybe four episodes total; I believe the second episode was somewhere in Nebraska or Kansas. Since FM Nation, MTV has obviously wisened up and realized shows in pretty places with pretty people and pretty music fare much better than shows about kids...Cow tipping.
**I don't THINK it's on the Internet. I've never checked, nor will I ever check...
***He actually "confessed" his love for me. Not "professed," but "confessed." And then later, he puked in a toilet with a litter box next to it. Imagine if I had said yes. Wait, let's not.
****Speaking of hot liquids, one of the other groups they followed around that night was a group of older (read: 21 year old) girls who went bar-hopping in downtown Bakersfield. One of the girls participated in a wet t-shirt contest and apparently the water they threw on her was hot. Burning hot. Scolding hot, as she put it. Haha, scolding hot.
We sher do have gud publik skools in Bakersfield, dont we!
Apparently I cannot lead something to water, let alone make it drink
The other night I woke up in the middle of the night absolutely PARCHED (could it have been all that coffee and champagne?) In my late-night 10:30 PM stupor into bed, it seemed I had forgotten to bring a glass of water with me. I woke Chris and asked if I could have some of his water, but of course he hadn't brought any upstairs either.
I laid there wondering what to do - there was no way I was going to walk downstairs alone to get water. I mean, there are boogey-men downstairs at night, right? So, I did what any independent girl would do: I tried to bribe Chris by saying I'd pay him ten dollars if he went downstairs and got me some water.
What's funny about this is that I didn't even HAVE ten dollars to give him. Hell, I didn't even have ONE dollar in my wallet; I think I had about four cents (I'm not kidding, sadly.) Not to mention the whole joint-checking account business AND the fact that I don't actually have a money-earning job...Well, you do the math.
Understandably, Chris declined my generous offer and told me to go drink from the bathroom sink. Which is kind of gross, yes, but dude, the boogey-man lives downstairs.
What’s the OPPOSITE of tooting one’s own horn?
All aboard Sarah's Self-Deprecating Train! It's first come, first served here at the Failure Express, so jump on, grab a seat, and enjoy the ride, will ya?
First stop: Vlog-tarded. After my faithful Internet peeps encouraged me to vlog (vlog vlog vlog!) our Christmas decorations, I got all ready and set up to do it, only realizing after I set my camera to Video Mode that it only records for 25 seconds at one time. One might check that before one commits to doing a vlog, might one? Oh, but not this one! Embarrassing and shoddy video blog FAIL. [Hmm, maybe not such a fail after all, when I think about it...]
The next stop on the Sarah Sucks Line: I apparently cannot work our heating/air-conditioning. It shouldn't be that difficult, right? I mean, I know I'm a little slow when it comes to anything electronic, but it's a HEATER/AIR-CONDITIONER, for god's sake! Those things have been around for decades, right? Well, I am rather inept at even the simplest forms of electronics, it would seem, as the only way I could figure out how to stop the heater was to remove the batteries. Maintaining a reasonable household temperature FAIL.
Arriving at our final destination, Platform Why I Am A Useless Human Being (For Today, At Least): In an attempt to redeem myself for the vlog mishap, I thought I'd take some pictures of our holiday decorations and just post them here* (sort of like exactly like what I did last year; apparently I also suck for never having any new ideas.) My plan was thwarted, however, when I picked up my camera this morning and in true Sarah fashion, THREW IT ACROSS THE ROOM. Because I'd been massaging butter onto my hands? No. Lotion? Nope. Body oil?! Negative. I threw that mo-fo because I am just that accident-prone. So simple a baby could use it point-and-shoot camera FAIL.
Alright, that brings us to the end of our journey! I hope your day is made better knowing that there's always someone more awkward than you are!
*If you still want to see some of our holiday decor, you can check out the Flickr set here. (I did manage to finagle the camera in such a way that I could take a few pictures. The camera, however, is still broken.)
Happy Thanksgiving! Several days ago…
First of all, I need to apologize for my lack of blogging. I don't know why I am even bothering apologizing for that. I mean, how many times have I apologized for that here and yet I NEVER end up blogging more regularly. Maybe I just need to accept that I'm a once-every-three weeks blogger?
[Which is funny, actually, because I've begun writing about five different posts since my last one and then, for whatever reason, I have abandoned them completely. Take this post, for example. I actually started writing this one BEFORE Thanksgiving and I'm only getting around to editing and posting it now. Which means I need to basically delete everything I wrote about Thanksgiving.]
Anyway, so I guess I'll try to be better. Or something. Maybe not. Either way, here are a couple updates for y'all...
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Thanks for all your input on The Great Skinny Jeans Dilemma! I sucked it up and bought a pair of skinnies from Old Navy and...I actually like them! They do not in fact make my butt and thighs look more ginormous than they already are, which is obviously great. As I predicted, however, they still are not tight enough around the knees/calves, so the tucking problem continues on. Either way, they're better than what I was working with before, so, it's a win! And, now that I've discussed the disproportionality of my legs more than I ever thought I would, let's move on.
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The Great Hair Intervention has also been rectified, as I paid a visit to San Diego two three (see? I had to edit that...terrible) weekends ago for, among other things, a much-needed visit to my stylist. I didn't do anything too drastic. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not much of a drastic hair-do-er. It stems from laziness, really; I procrastinate and procrastinate on getting my hair done, so I really can't be bothered with shorter styles or colored dos.
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Not that this is a giant newsflash, but Thanksgiving is was this Thursday. And I could not be was never more excited. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday ever ever ever. While this is not the first time I've hosted a Thanksgiving, it is the first time I've done so from a house. A house with a giant kitchen, can I get a woo-hoo!
[I had more stuff written about Thanksgiving and how excited I was, but four days later, it seemed a little pointless. Anyway, Thanksgiving was fantastic and once everyone in my family sends me their pictures, I'll post those. So, hey, family! Send me your pictures, will ya?]
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We used our fireplace for the first time this past weekend two weekends ago and before you ask, let me answer for you: Yes, it is a real wood-burning fireplace. I never knew there was a difference in fireplaces until I had several people ask me if it was wood-burning or gas - Aren't they all wood-burning?, I thought. After determining that we don't have the circle-knob-thingy by the side of the fireplace, I figured out that we have a real, wood-burning fireplace. This is better somehow, I guess? Something about the heat being produced? Well, I wouldn't know, because either way, if there's a fire, I'll scoot right up in its face and singe off my eyebrows to stay hot. I love fires.
Anyway, so the fireplace was nice for several reasons. Number one, as I just mentioned, I LOVE FIRES; number two, we are without a paper shredder and I had a stack of documents that needed to be destroyed; and number three, FIRE.
The not-so-good thing about a fireplace, however, is the cleaning. We forgot that we need one of those fireplace cleaner-upper kits and so we just let the ash pile up all weekend. In anticipation of Thanksgiving, I needed to clean every inch of this house spic-and-span, which included the fireplace. Chris mentioned that the ShopVac would be good for this, which I thought was brilliant. I mean, why get on my hands and knees and sweep when I can just suck everything up lickedy-split, right? Right? Hah!
As if I even need to tell you what happened, the stupid ShopVac exploded. Blew up. Ash was EVERYWHERE. So, not only did I end up cleaning the fireplace on hand and knees, but I also had to clean the entire living room twice because ash is a funny thing in that it NEVER SEEMS TO GO AWAY.
Related: I am not hosting Thanksgiving next year.
Why I shouldn’t be allowed in public
The following is a story I've been wanting to share for quite some time, but I've been too embarrassed to do so. Until now. What's changed, you ask? Oh, nothing, just that this is a pretty good story, and I think you'll be entertained. Also, it'll probably make you think, Whew! Glad that wasn't me!, and I feel like if I can simultaneously amuse you and make you feel better about yourself, then I've done my job.
A little over a year ago, Chris and I went to the mall to see a movie. (For those wondering, we saw American Gangster.) It had been One Of Those Days, you know, that day when nothing is going your way. People were driving slowly and poorly, it was overcast and drizzly outside, my outfit probably wasn't its cutest, my hair and makeup not cooperating...you get the picture.
As we made our way through the mall...
[May I interject here so that we can discuss movie theatres in malls? I think mall/movie theatre combos should be illegal. I hate going to the mall when I'm there for shopping, so I get especially annoyed when I'm there for a movie and have to battle all the mall-goers. I've found a good way to combat this is to do a little shopping before the movie, but we did not have the foresight do to that on this particular day.]
...We got stuck behind a gaggle of teenage girls who were meandering through the mall/movie theatre combo.
[Let's interject again to discuss teenagers these days, shall we? What's with all their meandering about? I want to smack these kids and tell them, Walk with purpose! And stop shuffling your feet! And pull up those pants! And don't do drugs! And I am a crotchety old lady!]
As we tried to make our way around teenage girl logjam, I exclaimed to Chris, "Gah! What is it, National Retard Day or something?!" And as the words made their way [very clearly] out of my mouth and [very loudly] through the air, they landed - not at the gaggle of meandering teenagers they were inteded for - but at the girl walking next to us. The girl who, as Chris put it later, very clearly had a physical disability. And she heard me (of course she heard me!), whipped around, and screamed, "What?!"
And so I did what any self-respectingcentered person would do: I made a beline for the movie theatre, very George-Costanza-Escaping-A-Fire-style, knocking over women and children and old ladies with walkers. And then I spent the remainder of my time at the mall/movie theatre combo hiding behind Chris and hoping FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, the not-retarted girl was not at the mall/movie theatre combo to see a movie. And, God, if she was seeing a movie, please please, please make sure she was not also there to see American Gangster. Which, for all intents and purposes, was a pretty good movie, albiet a little too long for my liking. But maybe that's just the embarrassment talking.
As I said, I hope this story entertained you and made you feel better about any insert-foot-into-mouth diseases you may be plagued with. Also, I think we can all agree that if those damn meandering teenagers wouldn't have been there, none of this would have happened.
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