do i start a child army or make sweaters from sheep's hair?

I turned 35 back in March. No big deal, it's just a number. 

But a little switch went off in my head.

- Will I start a child army? (My man and I just got a dutch shepherd beast, who eats everything in sight including my underoos. Plus, I have to pick up her big poop; kiddie poop tends to gain speed and superpowers, according to my sister).

He's got you convinced.
My little peanut does not deliver rainbows and unicorns.
More like diapers from the anti-christ filled with tear gas.

- Wasn't I supposed to be a high powered executive by now? According to movies like, 'Working Girl' and 'What Women Want!' --It's just getting awkward with my boss catching me writing on his white board delivering my latest marketing strategy to my barbie dolls. 

A favorite picture of me, mine.  This doesn't fly in the corporate world.
Luckily I'm not this bad but there are days when my ideas are a hot mess.

- I think I should be taking beer, better care of myself. I need hand cream, I need a good night's sleep, I have to try that clear liquid, water, everyone keeps throwing in my face, I need to stop ignoring stomach pains that feel like an alien baby. (refer to photo above).


-WebMD isn't my real doctor! OK but really, WebMD is my go-to, then superglue, then the ER. Not really a system I plan on changing.

Nothing to do with WebMD but if the site could also list
good hair dressers, handymen,  interior design layouts, financial plans, how to be cool...

In the effort to focus on just one thing instead of freaking out about everything...
I googled until I passed out one night and read about a cleanse.

Basically a bunch of rich people do it, and maybe hippie people who live Oregon. They make sweaters from their sheep's hair so they can barter the sweaters for bales of spinach. I also think people in California do it because CA is warm and you wear flip flops so obviously a healthy juice in hand looks better than hamburger grease running down your chin. 


I did it, for 7 days. Here's the quick rundown:


1. I had to carry 5 of them to work every day which was a little annoying,"Amy your water bottles are numbered? What is THAT about?"


2. I had to pee. A LOT. You'd think corporate bathrooms are all fancy and clean. No. They're not. Nothing skeeves me out more than someone talking to me after I walk into a stall. "Hey AMY pop by my desk and we can talk about some copy I need."


3. You can't eat cheese, carbs or bacon.


4. Your sense of smell becomes enhanced. Think Spiderman powers. You can literally smell which house is making burgers, or steak. And you'll know whether or not they throw A1 sauce on their dinner plates.


5. You can't eat cheese, carbs or bacon.


So, I'm back to where I was. Still forgetting to put cream on my hands and realizing at 11pm that I only drank 4 cups of black tea at my desk.  I eat bacon-- cheese and I have shared custody of my stomach, and WebMD tucks me into bed at night.  Oh, and I fixed that really bad hair dye job. So, for 35 I think I'm right where I need to be. Right?

He smells like dead squirrels

Before I start writing I think it's important you get a better grasp of my brain.

I usually wear headphones when I'm reading or writing to help keep me motivated (?). There's a 40% chance that I end up daydreaming. I think about philly cheesesteaks, why I ate 6 too many cookies for breakfast yesterday, I roll my eyes that my morning run/walk/crawl felt like total crap, and, is this how a 35 year old should act?. That's my brain and then I snap back to reality and have to re-read or re-write my mush into something decent.

Birthday present from my awesome boo. He acknowledged that my cheap wanna-be headphones
were actually causing my ears to bruise because they were too small. So he upgraded me
(which I think he now regrets because I sing much louder).

So while writing something important yesterday my brain started daydreaming about what I am about to write below. Will this be funny? Is this funny or offensive? But it's me, so if I write what I know, then I should be all good, right? So I write....

Have you ever gone to a party or a sports game, or plopped down to a meeting (yes you've done a combination of these social ventures). Someone walks in after...5 minutes later, 10 minutes later, even a half hour...regardless, you are comfortable in your social zone and someone comes by and screws with your comfortableness.

That dude smells like dead squirrel. Wait, did #17 get the ball? 

Crap I just missed that play!

I was at a soccer game the other night, playing the good girlfriend, watching and trying to capture video of my boyfriend playing indoor soccer. I used to go to games more frequently but work and reading for school have been beating my brain relentlessly so not only can I barely make an edible dinner but I have zero energy to sit on a bleacher. 

While I'm trying to pay attention, a few guys come in and sit down, prepping for their soccer game, which will start after this one wraps up. And the smell of dead squirrel takes over. Ok, maybe not dead squirrel. But you get my gist. Did he forget to shower this month? Oh, he found his hoodie in grandma's moth ball scented attic. 

It's that quick whiff that throws off your concentration. And , inevitably, the smell takes over important decisions
like lowering our taxes, stopping the war, or just trying to watch a soccer game.

It can be much more offensive. My boyfriend's brother and I have a running conversation about 'that guy with the stank in the gym.' We all know one person who turns those dreadful 30 minutes of trying to keep the pudgy belly at bay into a war zone of dodging machines so you don't dry heave. 

I'm not sure of the fuzzy background, but hopefully it's not my office cubicles.
Though, we should give this guy credit for at least applying deodorant.

I used to work out at the unfortunate same time as this crazy lady who would never wash her clothes. Instead her method was to blow dry her sweaty pants and shirts in the locker room. Can you think about that for a second? HOT STANK being blow in your direction. I really did try to imagine the stench being burned brownies or cake. 

It's the reason I feel the need to shower at night and in the morning. I don't want to smell like dead squirrel, for you, of course. I do everything like this just for you. I can't fix the grandma moth ball problem yet, that's a generation thing. 

Now, onto free lunch at work. It's baked cod. Will you sit next to me after I devour?

How to not eat free office candy

Work is tough, for anyone, and when there's free candy at your disposal, then when no matter what mood you're in, the free candy is there.

Here are survival tips I try but they're not tested and true. 

I still fail, in epic proportions.

1. Dress up like an executive.
I've gone thru the fat jeans phase (one year I wore a dress every single day, another year I wore carpenter jeans until they fell apart- I didn't say this phase was flattering), the hipster phase (italian girls and multiple peasant tops just make a person look pregnant, also hippy skirts made me look like a troll), and the super dressed up phase (dress as if I'm in a town car from 9am-6pm conducting mobile meetings-also this phase sucks if you're on a budget). There was the brief nose ring artist phase, but my Italian nose rejected the piercing (literally every morning my nose ring crawled out and died on my pillow).

I totally get this is custom for some cultures. However when my mother saw my teeny tiny nose ring, this is what went through her head. Her daughter would never land a job due to the metal from nose to ear.

The point is, in a fancy work suit you won't want to be shoveling free desk candy in your mouth because you'll look crazy. The downside is that you can definitely shovel candy in your mouth after everyone has left for the day. Then you're just a sad case left with a sugar high and really bad belly pain after. And if you're single, your make-out partner will question almond joy breath and chocolate in your teeth. Oh, one more thing, the cleaning crew at your job will definitely catch you red handed. And that moment will be an awkward one.

2. Bring snacks to work.
Yeah, you've read this in every magazine next to the candy section at the checkout counter. Your mom even bought you a cool lunch bag equivalent to a trapper keeper back in the days. No lunch bag is cool, period. It can carry steak from the most expensive restaurant and everyone within 20 miles of your cubicle will call you a dork. Why? I've been given and bought many myself. Oh and that handful of almonds at three o'clock to curb your cravings? Don't forget your palm needs to be the size of a barbie doll head. How's that going to keep you from knawing at your desk after you've been to 4 powerpoint presentations?

"Oh, I can have 6 1/2 almonds every day as a snack and lose weight? Why don't you just tell me to suck bark!"
The handful of almonds never works with me because then I eat the whole thing just to tick off my doctor.

3. Drink water.
I don't know about you, but I nicknamed myself CAMEL waaay back as a newborn baby. I thought it was a talent that I could go days without water. I'm not into soda or juices either so don't try to point the finger that I'm sluggin' clear pepsi in place of agua. I did think living on just diet coke and chicken would get me to lose weight (don't try to understand my brain)...so I invested in 7-11 big gulp cups and in 2 months had a few stomach ulcers. This most definitely put a splinter in my dating scene...I thought it was a dry spell with men, but really my bloated stomach and bad skin kept those oh so hot suitors FAR away.

Ok so what if I could trick my brain into doing water shots throughout the day? Ridiculous? Yes..but then maybe my writing will be more creative than just slugging back clear fluids from the latest Target water bottle.

3. Buy the candy you don't like

Ew gross I don't like peppermint patties so I will definitely buy 3 bags of them for my office candy bowl. Oh wait, I think I have bad breath and I have a meeting in two minutes. I GUESS I'll just have to eat one to hold me over. What's that? Sugar? I feel a rush? I'm dancing and humming in my chair. OK I'll eat just one more . . .

I bought heart shaped peppermint patties just a few weeks ago. No WAY would I touch these, lame candy. I would rather peanut butter and chocolate. But understand, your arch enemy will find a way to piss you off enough to eat any form of chocolate.

Maybe I should shut up.

My dog, although beautiful and covering me with buckets of saliva any time I walk in the door, is turning into the beast I am when I first wake up. She, Kaya, has separation anxiety so to avoid finding out if she'll be stronger than the Incredible Hulk and chew through her cage, I'm hiring a trainer, to come to the apartment (it's that necessary). I also don't like cleaning up lots of pee. Big dogs mean MORE pee.

The cute beast sleeps.

My job, overwhelming and sprinting after deadlines, is still a job in this godforsaken  economy. If I saw myself 3 years ago complaining, I'd have the nose of Mickey Rourke..beaten down after years of punches.

My godson, rooting me on to get work done because he needs more toys. I can't possibly deny him.

My boyfriend, rough and tough and fabulous (he likes the movie The Fast & The Furious which was almost a deal breaker upper)- just lost his father. It's an emotional roller coaster that I've never been on and I consider myself lucky in that respect. I go home at night balancing invisible cartons of eggs because I don't want to open my big, fat mouth and say something that might set off fireworks ("Do you mind taking out the garbage? Wait, no, sorry, I'll do it, I know, it's my garbage, I stink, I'm sorry, I got it.")

Me, balancing eggs. My glasses are pretty much the same.

So, last night, sans bottle of wine (I was really tempted but a hangover on Wednesday when I'm babysitting my godson the same night would just sprout 10 new grey hairs) I passed out, absolutely exhausted and a little whiney. This morning I woke up and heard the local angry walker (he chants and walks) with this morning's mantra being,"I am NOT an ASSHOLE. I am NOT an ASSHOLE." I laughed...life's way of putting things in perspective.

The angry walker, but he usually wears sweats while he's chanting.

Your sarcasm is not alone...MINE might be though . . .

I recently attended a friend's bridal shower. Having not been to one in a year, I was looking forward to the standard games: bridal bingo, crossword puzzles focusing on love and cake, and of course, the free food.

"I bet you all can't wait to watch me look surprised as I open gifts I pre-registered for!"
(See? I bet you think I'm being rude...sarcasm doesn't translate to bridal showers.)

Knowing my love of booze, most of you will be shocked to hear that I've cut back significantly as I'm attempting to really hate myself and eat healthier/be a better runner. Yes, the hang-over runs are one of my favorite past times, but running with an extra 10 lbs on my frame is not. 

I love talking about working out, I love reading about working out, I love making playlists
that encourage me to get outside and run. But inevitably this is the face I make the entire time.
WHY? WHY was I not blessed with good genes that give me the body of a supermodel,
yet allow me to eat guacamole by the gallon? 

This side note is important because once I got to the bridal shower I had one glass of red wine. That one glass was enough to rev up my sarcasm of which my table enjoyed but maybe not some of the other girls.

You don't even know me and you get that this is CLEARLY NOT ME after 1 glass of wine. Of course, I WISH, but even a genie in a bottle would topple over at that request.

Me = after 1 glass of wine. Red or white has the same effect. 
Where are those pigs in a blanket at?

1. Bridal crossword puzzle -my friend's sister and I decided to look for other words not related to love/weddings/rings when we started our crossword. We found:
nostril
rue
rude
ore (which i kept repeating that those 3 letters made me think of oreos)
As I shouted out our 'finds' there were some faces of confusion and rolling of the eyes.


2. Bridal questionnaire. My friend loves purple. And I appreciate a love of color. So when it came time to answer what the bride's favorite color is...I screamed,"ORANGE!" To which a bridesmaid said,"Why would you say that? It's not orange!" It was as if my sarcasm got 'the hand to the face.'

Bridal/Couple questionnaires are NO joke. Even if there are stickers, hearts, or crayon designs. You take these bridal shower tests as if you just sat down for standardized testing. 

3. Cheating on bridal bingo could be ok if everyone around you is drinking/cheating as much as you are. Think of the game 'Wheel of Fortune'  the common letters people pick for the bonus round are: R S T L N E. This oddly makes me think of restylane which kind of shows you where society's head is at  (c'mon, wrinkles?). Back to bridal bingo. Just like Wheel of Fortune, this is an easy bingo game. You can easily write in:


Plates
Place Settings
Dish Towels
China
Bedding
Towels
Linens
Cake Knife (trust me on this, there's an old person that always buys this for the bride)
Bar accessories (wine charms so no one gets drunk off of someone else's glass, who cares, it's WINE!)
Serving Platters


I personally put a happy face in some of my squares as a 'free' bingo X. I also left some boxes blank so I could fill them in at my leisure while gifts were being opened - cheating. Make sure everyone at your bridal shower table is cool with this cheating idea, otherwise you'll get the 'rolling of the eyes' or the 'you can't fill it in' verbal NOT OK and end up feeling like an idiot. 

Not my bingo card. Mine had a lot of cross-outs, happy faces (like the free little heart in the middle of this one) and very messy handwriting which I blame on my 2nd glass of red wine.
It was a shiraz, I couldn't say no.

4. Taking photos. If a good friend asks you to take photos of the afternoon with her digital camera, it's best to DO YOUR BEST. I don't recommend taking pictures of your tongue, your empty glass of wine, and half eaten red velvet cake as I did. To balance out how much trouble I would get into, I did take the typical photos (opening of the gifts, my bridal bingo cheating card, the centerpiece of purple roses on the table, my cute pencil with cupcakes and a pink eraser on it, the bride's shoes, and numerous photos of people chewing, yappin' and drinking). 


5. Face cake, don't request a piece of the bride's face in front of the relatives. They just won't get your humor. First of all, I love my friends to pieces. And I love cake. I'm going to request at my funeral that my family put my face on the biggest sheet cake because any amount of flowers or fancy pants fondant cannot compare to face cakes.

I hope the rest of the aunts, mother-of-the-bride/mother-of-the-groom/fellow friends, cousins, etc had as much fun as I did. If red velvet cake was the option for the bridal shower, this could mean big things for the bachelorette party and even bigger things for the actual wedding! That is, if I'm still invited. I hope.

I'm hoping this sad puppy face gets me out of any trouble I might be in. But c'mon, cheating
on bridal bingo and screaming out the wrong color can't be THAT bad. Right? Right?

I just might get fired for sharing. . .

This is #1 in my series of 'Short n' Sweet'. Which means, I'm getting my homework done and you get to suffer less without the longer stories... for now.

What is this about? My choker? No, that was a rental. My amazing rabbit fur?
No, that was a rental and I'm pretty sure it's not fur but a dustball of hooch.
My makeup? No, that clearly is a mistake. This is about . . .

I have a lot of hair. A lot. It covers my head, my arms, legs, armpits, and certain ex-boyfriends noted,"Damn you even have hair on your back." Note: EX-BOYFRIENDS.

Yes, I'm Italian, and was lucky to get my father's coloring so all my hair stands out...more-so in the winter months when I'm pale like the file cabinets I am surrounded by.

Way back (around the age of 12), whenever I took a shower, a lot of my afro would shed. Don't worry. When I try to explain this (and why do I even bring this up in conversation) people freak out and tell me I need to go to a Dr. Yes, ok, maybe I need this year's blood work but my hair shedding is totally fine.

So like a gecko, every time I hop in the shower I lose a toupee's worth of hair. TOUPÉE you say? I dreamt in the 3 minute showers my mother would allow that one day I would open up a toupée factory.

TOUPEÉ: please pronounce this: too-pay. As in my idea to pay me lots of money.
And no, this is not my dog, he is much higher class than this and if he were to invest in a TOUPEÉ,
it would match his darker complexion.

I realize now that a factory was a bit too ambitious. A factory should house at least 100 workers, conveyor belts, a PA system and a big office with windows. This all seems a little 'much' once you hear about my idea.

Ok, but instead of little delicious chocolates there would be TOUPEÉs on the conveyor belt.
Get what I'm saying?

So back to my 3 minute showers. I figured I would save all of my shampooed hair and start making toupeés that would rake me in millions.

I took showers daily (7) X hair shed (a bunch) = a good 2 toupeés a week. 

The overhead of the factory would just wipe my savings out so the idea stayed with me until last week. What about toupeés for smaller beings? Such as a mouse? Did I really take the time out of deep conditioning my hair last weekend to save the leftovers and shape a Donald Trump toupeé for a mouse? Do you really think I did that? Stage a photo shoot? Trim the loose ends?

wait for it...

wait for it..

First model 'Mouse Mop' modeling the Donald Trump comb-back.

So company names: Mouse Mops, Rat Rugs, Vermin Toppers? How do I reach my clients? Direct Mail? SEO copy? This blog?


I'll clarify right now that this idea came sans wine. So as much as that should put my parents at ease, they are shaking their heads at what I come up with...sober. I mean, when I took the toupeé off the mouse, he looked so bald. It was kinda sad.

To Make Out or Foot Massage

Question: I'm not sure why I'm asking you because it seems like you're high school years were more awkward than mine. You started telling me about your high school dance and left me hanging. What's the deal to dealing?!


Answer: Me, more awkward? It's true. I'm sorry. But you need the full scope. So sit back, relax, and don't drink all my boxed wine. Here we go.....

I'm pretty sure there is a picture of the boy, Germany,  but I'm also pretty sure I can't post it. Not yet. Not without a few lawyers, my parents written and notarized approval, plus a ski house in Switzerland with an unending supply of almond cookies so I can hide out for a few years. Just look at this map and pretend it's a boy.

Can You Regret So Soonly?
Yes, yes you can. And it's OK. I inadvertently invited Germany, to my high school winter dance, 'The Snowball' and within moments of him stepping into my parent's hallway the evening of the dance, I had a feeling of regret. Normally I would think it's because I snuck candy from the 2 month old Halloween stash, but no, this was deep regret.


Germany just looked overly excited. And that should be a 'cool' feeling for a high schooler. Especially for a girl so naive and beyond inexperienced in the world of boys. But not me. I was a-ok with boys, boogers, cooties and everything else that required imaginary doctor's shots staying in one mindset. Gross and no thanks. I wanted to make out with men/boys that were unattainable. So before I get more awkward, (is that possible?) get comfy with my list of dream boats.


Amy's List of Dream Boats
**In no particular order in case any of them 'happen' to see this list. I believe this is listed in chronological order starting at my first crush, age 4. Do I still have a shot with some? Probably, but maybe that's not something to gloat about.**

1. Gunther Gebel Williams: My first crush and I still adore/love/dream about him. Unfortunately, deceased. Kinda kills the mojo. --  Let me explain my undying love. He is a LION TAMER. Ok boys? Notta one person I've ever dated could tame me, OR a LION. I mean, most boys I dated were allergic to cats. Also, Gunther, wore outfits like Liberace, but again, please refer to his job. LION TAMER. And he's got 12 pack abs, and he tames lions. Granted, I was 4 years old when I first saw him, I promise, once I get my hands on a poster, I'm still going to frame it and hang it in my home. Trust this.

2. David Copperfield: And this is exactly the image I had in my head from kindergarten till about (cough) 8th grade. Forget rock stars, I wanted to kiss a man who was MAGICAL. There is a bit of a pattern (for all therapists that want to ring me up and enroll me for an upcoming thesis). The biggest selling point about David is that he is from my hometown of Metuchen, NJ. Which in my young, devoted mind, meant there was a chance we could date and go home to our parents after eating pizza.
Also, my father apparently met him at a company meeting. I walked around with the picture for a year convincing friends that David levitated and turned my father sideways. I practically slept with that polaroid under my pillow. Little did I realize, it was just my dad standing next to a sideways cardboard cut-out of David. Double sigh.

3. Bruce Jenner: This is not the poster I had hanging in my room, but you get the point. Bruce Jenner was dreamy. My cousins and I went to a carnival (which was a treat in itself because this meant us having fun, not doing homework, or anything holy related, AND eating fried dough). We played a ring toss game and instead of a goldfish that would die hours later, I got a Bruce Jenner poster. It's him in tight black jeans, a black t-shirt, standing in the jungle (totally realistic) next to a black motorcycle.
D R E A M Y. I had no idea he was an athlete until years later. From the ages 9-12, Bruce was just a blonde haired hottie that lived in a forest with a really cool bike, and somehow always kept his jeans clean.








And The Awkward Dance Begins
So there you go. There is a longer list, but I don't think you're ready for that. And honestly, after looking at this list, neither am I. Did Germany really have a chance the night of 'The Snowball'?


A few of us gathered at my parent's house for pictures. I ogled at my friend, Stephanie's awesome choker. It seemed badass and was almost a government issued necklace back in 1993. The only bad-ass looking thing on me was the fact that I was still addicted to shaving my eyebrows and both of them looked like they were crawling off either side of my face.

I have 2 very close friends in this picture and I might just lose them after a few more posts. 
Like most high schoolers had keggers whenever their parents were out of town--I did not. Instead, like a chubby Italian girl, I had Christmas brunch parties. My parents trained me to socialize like a 45 yr. old. I'm in the middle, in red,
and if you look real close, you can see the runaway eyebrows. 

Germany, Stephanie, and the rest of the gang with amazing eyebrows took photos in front of my parent's fireplace. I did my best posing in my maroon sofa dress  while also awkwardly ducking Germany's hand on waist. Again, you'd think I would be excited about a guy inching his way closer, in fact, I'm even cheering for myself right now, but no. That knot in my stomach was the size of a stale mall pretzel covered in honey mustard.

Mom's 70s Leather Jacket Is Like A Body Condom

My parents thought nothing would complete my look better than my mom's cream leather Carmen Sandiego trench. Honestly, if I could get my hands on that jacket now I'd wear it through the summer months because it's retro cool. But back in high school = no thanks. 

I begrudgingly put it on and once in the sleek brown Ford Taurus, it became a lifesaver. 

No, this isn't my brown Ford Taurus. But it's pretty close. Such a resemblance to my recent purchase of my Hyundai Sonata, don't you think? It's like life keeps hitting me full circle.
Reference back to God vs. Amy wishin' n' hopin': God 889 Amy 2.

Mom's 70s Leather Jacket Is The Body Condom I Needed

On the way to the dance, Germany and I sat in the back seat. Score? No! His damn pinkie kept inching over to my side trying to touch my left hand. It was almost as annoying as my sister pushing her barbie doll shoes and coloring books on my side of the seat whenever we went on long trips. And my sister, just like Germany, did it on purpose. 

If I had a special power at that point I would've chosen to become invisible, and if that was asking too much, I was hoping that staring at the sleeves of my mother's Carmen Sandiego jacket would've gotten the leather fibers to slowly extend past my wrists to cover my hands and fingers--far away and protected from boy cooties.

Since neither special power would come to my rescue I awkwardly (are you surprised at this point?) became a very concerned back seat driver validating my father's street moves in making sure we got to the high school. 

"Oh dad, you're right, this left turn is better than going down Main Street and hitting two additional lights. Smart move."

Pretty rockin' right? I think a homeless person is sporting this, nowadays.
But seriously, if I pass the new owner, it'll be more like,
"Are you kidding me buddy?  You have my mom's jackets and her slender legs. I can't compete. I GIVE UP!"

Mom's 70s Leather Jacket Was Forced Into Coat Check

If you're having a high school dance in the school cafeteria, what better way to 'class it up' than by having a coat check in the hallway? The $15 per ticket didn't just go to the Doritos, Pretzel Stix and DJ. This 'Snowball' went all out to make sure students and their dates felt as if they were attending one of the nearby high schools. Better yet, 'hire' underclassmen to check your coats and as you're walking away, laugh at your maroon sofa dress and stalker date. Ok, ok, I'm obsessing, but cackling from a 14 yr. old is hard to ignore.

Doritos Are Worth The Overdose But My Tootsies Hurt

The dance was fun, I hooked arms with my two best friends and made sure to never leave their sides. There were about three slow dances and to reassure my parents, I kept the holy spirit and all of his closest friends in between Germany and myself. The distance between us was about the length of a golf club, and with my arms outstretched and locked-- I burned the calories from my doritos overdose to make sure Germany couldn't inch closer.

No, this isn't how I danced. This is me and one of my sub-in dreamboats. My cartoon hair seems much more manageable than my real life hair. 

This is exactly how I dance.  And I wonder why I don't get so many wedding invites in the mail these days.

But My Tootsies Hurt! 

Back to the reason why I started this post in the first place. I was complaining about my toes hurting from my new heels as I stood with my friends for almost the entire 3 hours of the dance. Germany, being the appropriate stalker date, suggested,"Amy, if you sit in the backseat when your dad drives me home, I can massage your feet."

Did you read that clearly? Let me write it out for you again.

"Amy, if you sit in the backseat when your dad drives me home, I can massage your feet."

PANIC. I'm not good at lying, any one of my closest can tell you that. Whatever I'm feeling is written all over my face. How Germany could've missed my fear and shock is somewhat surprising. The lighting in the cafeteria wasn't exactly a Hollywood set, so I'll give him that excuse as a pass. BUT WANTING TO MASSAGE MY FEET? I find dating men nowadays is awkward enough with new quirks (stay tuned), eating habits (I'm Italian, don't get me started), and unfortunately my circle circle dot dot cootie shots have expired. But rubbing feet in high school? RUBBING FEET IN HIGH SCHOOL?

I would say this was an epic fail for Germany. But he persisted and years later reared his head while I was in college causing me ulcers over a Valentine's Day weekend. If I had only known this back in high school I might've had a Mexican family adopt me as I studied abroad.

Needless to say the 30 minute drive home from the dance to Germany's house was more silent than the night before Christmas. My father kept eyeballing me in the front seat as I focused on listening to Light F.M. 

Wherever you are Germany, I wish you the best. I admit, I wanted to keep dating you because you offered to fix me up a while volkswagen beetle. It was sweet but I just couldn't swap spit. (Sorry Dad, but aren't you glad I didn't take up the offer for a free car!?).

By the way: future dates, please, no feet.