We've Moved

You can now find my musings (as well as all these old posts) at thatSarahKlem.com.

Day 19 - Now with Less Snark

So, again, there is some hubabaloo on the site about something I wrote. I want to clear things up. And to reduce the miscommunication and bring it all down a level, I am going to try to do this without relying on sarcasm.

This could get ugly. And by ugly I mean boring as I'm not sure what kind of writer I am without my snark.

Day 17

I know. It has been entirely too long. The problem is, once I put that book down, I struggled to pick it up.

It was always around, taunting me. Taunting me from my bedside table. Teasing me on my coffee table. Calling out to me from inside my pocketbook, “Tatiana! Read me! You have blog readers curious about what additional nonsense lies inside these pages that wills slowly drive you to madness.”

Finally, after remember one of the new rules I learned in “The Happiness Project” (because I can never read one book at a time) “tackle a nagging task” I picked up a highlighter, a notepad and this god-forsaken book.

And oh boy am I glad I did. I forgot how much fun it can be to laugh at idiots.

For My Dad on Father’s Day

What follows has more curse words than is typical for me, but it is a post for my father and he would want it that way.

Like many in America, I heard about the recent pew study finding more than 40 percent of households are being supported by women.

I can’t say this surprised me, though the total shit-storm that erupted because of it did take me back a bit. And I was going to post a rant about how screwed up some of these douchebags are, especially after watching Megyn Kelly (really? Can we see a birth certificate as I don’t buy her mother named her Megyn with a y) handed two of these assholes their hats and I found myself cheering for her. But since it is Father’s Day, and my dad has a secret crush on Megyn, I decided I would be nice.

Instead, I think I am going to take this opportunity to tell you a little something about my family. My unholy, unnatural family.

My mom was the primary earner in our house.

Forgiveness

An incredible thing happened to me recently. 

A few weeks ago I was sitting across from my friend Nicole as she went on and on about the One.

Nicole and I haven’t been friends for very long, and friends who haven’t known me since college or spent a night drinking wine with me on my couch discussing all of our past mistakes don’t know about the One. Mostly because I can’t sum our history up in a cute word or even a novella. 

So, as she extolled the destroyer of my innocence, I nodded and smiled and did everything I could to hide the fact I didn’t have 20 (or 20,000) questions.

Eventually, as is the case with all pain, my body eventually numbed, and I could stop faking my inner peace and actually start listening to everything she was saying. Which is when the something astounding happened.

The year before it would end for the and the One, Alanis Morissette released her song Thank U. Twelve months later, right about the time we stopped talking to each other, the song was on heavy rotation in our gym -- it is possible our strength trainer was also going through something at the time. Two lyrics really struck me as I snatched more weight than a 21-year-old girl should be capable: “How ‘bout me not blaming you for everything.” And “how ‘bout how good it feels to finally forgive you.” 

More than wanting the One to love me the way I loved him, I wanted to feel those things.

And, because you know I got through the stages of break-up with the One many years ago, I did eventually stop blaming him for every bad decision I made after he broke my heart and even managed to forgive him for not wanting to spend the rest of his life with me.

However, sometimes, mostly on nights when I can’t sleep, or when I hear our song or am watching Sliding Doors, or just finished beating myself up because I can still recognize him from behind, from 30 feet, I still blame myself for falling for him in the first place.

I hurt for so long and didn’t trust myself for even longer. And on those early mornings, in my bed, I think about how it all could’ve been different if I was just smarter. When my heart is throbbing under my sweaty tank top, both from running and his proximity, I shake my head and whimper, “You did this to yourself, Tati.” 

But, sitting across from Nicole, listening to her say the same things I used to say to my friends all those years ago, I realized two things: (1) my very smart, successful, attractive friend was falling victim to the One’s charms and, (2) it was time to forgive my 19-year-old, naive self for doing the very same thing. 

What is Marriage: A Review of the Book that Is Meant to Change My Mind About Gay Marriage

So, as some of you know, I agreed to read “What is Marriage? Man and Woman: A Defense.” At first, I was going to write an answer to the whole book at once, when I was finished. But then I found myself yelling at the book. A lot. And so I started thinking about live tweeting my reading of the book, but that seemed like a lot of work. Plus, I like to drink when I read. And I learned (the hard way) drinking and tweeting should never mix. 

So I decided to live blog (sort of) the reading of What is Marriage: Man and Woman: A Defense. Since I’m not that far along, I would suggest you all buying the book and reading along with me. But that would mean giving these two guys more money. So, maybe next time. Oh, I know, we can all read the Millionaire Matchmaker’s book together. I don’t mind lining Patty’s pockets.

In the meantime, here we go:

The Best Laptop Ever (In Memoriam)




Me and Steve during happier times.

For those of you who follow me on Twitter or like me on Facebook, you were expecting the first in a series of blog posts about that marriage book the anonymous commenter told me to read.

Of course, if you follow me, then you also know tragedy struck this weekend. My laptop, Steve (he also liked to be called Magic Mac) died.

Did you all know I called my laptop Steve?

I give a lot of inanimate things names, however I don’t really use them. But when I was working from home for the year, I often spoke to (and of) my co-worker Steve.

Keep Philadelphia Beautiful, Guys

So, now that it is finally warming up on the East Coast, I think it is time to address something that has long bothered me when I am running on Kelly Drive.

No, not the crazies, or the horn honkers, or the high school rowers who walk six across on the path. I’m talking about something I can actually do something about. 

Guys. Running. Without shirts on.

I understand running is a sweaty activity, and when the mercury climbs you want to be wearing as little as possible. So, if the PECO building is flashing a temperature above 90, I will give you guys a pass. I'm even a little jealous.

Eighty-nine degrees and below, fellas, and I'm telling you, cover it up.

And this isn’t just for me. It's for you, too.

A Moment for Boston

Rue La La is selling these tees
if you are interested (proceeds benefit
the Emergency Medicine Fund
at Massachusetts General Hospital).

I have a couple of posts due to you kids, but as a runner, I felt the need to address this first.

I sat at my desk yesterday afternoon fighting back tears. I don’t know it if was all the calls and texts asking me if I knew anyone running Boston, or my sister emailing me about how happy she was that I didn’t qualify for Boston this year, or the tweet I read from a reporter passing folks on the street in Boston on their phones all saying the same thing: Mom, I’m okay.

Yep. Just typing that makes the tears well up.

Regardless, like many of you, I was saddened by what happened at the Boston Marathon yesterday.

Then I was angry.

This Symbol Means I Support Marriage Equality, Not That I Love Bacon

There have been a number of times in my past when I wished I was gay. Most of these times coincide with being hit on by a hot, accomplished, funny female and wondering why I can’t simply be attracted to her.

But never in my life had I wanted to be gay more than last week.

See, last week, as you all know, the Supreme Court heard arguments to strike down both Proposition 8 in California and the federal Defense of Marriage Act. Like so many others, I changed my Facebook profile picture to the red equals sign.

Why Didn't He Call?

Show of hands: Growing up, who asked their
 parents for this phone? Keep 'em up if you got it.

Guys. I think I’ve been pretty helpful over the past couple of weeks – show of hands, how many of you took my advice about Valentine’s Day.  All four of you? That’s what I thought. So, now I’m going to ask you to help me solve one of the great riddles that has perplexed women since Alexander Graham Bell first asked Mr. Watson, “Can you hear me now?”

Why do you ask for our phone numbers and then never call?

Now, because this is something I have been researching extensively for the past 20 years or so, I will tell you, I understand in some instances it is a play to get in the panties. You’re out, you’re talking to a woman you wanna bang and in an effort to close the deal, you ask for her phone number, hoping she will take this to mean you aren’t just looking for sex and will take you home to make the beast with two backs.

And for every time that has worked for you, I say well-played, sir.

It Gets Better, Preston

The post from the other day got me thinking – no, not about how I’m setting myself up to fail – but about young men in general – and no, not that way you perverts.

Clearly, Preston (the author) is hurt. His girlfriend got tired of sitting around the house with him and out of the blue dumped him for an older guy who has to wear a suit to work every day. Preston didn’t see this coming and so after a night of heavy drinking, he took his pain out on his keyboard.*

I’ve been there, Preston. I get it.

How Women Set Themselves Up To Fail

Wow. I mean. Wow.

So, Theresa sent me a link on Facebook – I’m still debating posting it – of an article on how women set themselves up to fail.

First, I think it is a great show of maturity on my part that I’m not nearly as angry about this post as I would have been, say two years ago. From the beginning when he calls all women crazy (yes, those are the first three words of this post), to the part where he tells me, I (as a woman) have been brainwashed, to when he points out that we (women) all lose our looks after 26 (no brainwashing there, Preston), I didn’t scream or punch the back of the neck of the guy sitting in front of me on the subway, or use the eff word, or even throw my phone down in disgust.

Mostly I just laughed, because I feel terrible for this poor, simple, 20-something (my guess and hope as if he is in his 30s, then I feel scared for our future) idiot.

Recovery and Moving On

Well, Single Ladies, we made it past President’s Day. How’d we do? Did you drink every time a family member asked you about your ex at Thanksgiving, get drunk and finally stand up and say, “You know what? You can all go f*ck yourselves.” Grabbed the bottle of wine off the table and later pass out in your childhood bed? Did you sit in one weekend in December, eating all the cookies you made for co-workers and cry through all the made for Hallmark holidays movies that were less about the holidays and more about finding love in time for Christmas dinner?  How many times did you check your phone New Year’s eve for a text from you-know-who?

And I’m not even gonna ask about last week.

Bizarro Valentine’s Day

My father isn’t afraid of many things. He’s a former Marine who owns a lot of guns and quite frankly, if you don’t know him, looks terrifying in a big, angry sort of way.

One thing that does scare his socks off is my independence. He fears my not needing anyone will lead to my never finding someone and spending my life sad and alone. This manifests itself in many ways, most notably on Valentine’s Day when my father sends me a bouquet of flowers so he doesn’t have to picture me sitting at my desk, fighting back tears because I’m the only girl in the office who doesn’t have a Valentine.

And while I could definitely do with fewer talks on the back porch of my parent’s home about how he would really like me to find someone, I do love getting flowers from him every Valentine’s Day.

I mean, what girl doesn’t love to get flowers?

It's A Wonder People Ever Get Together in the First Place

Maybe it is all the conversation hearts I’ve been consuming -- I’m so glad they don’t make those all year round -- but I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships lately. 

Don’t worry, I’m not thinking about getting in one. I’m still a perfectly happily single woman.

Still, it is on my mind (and constantly mentioned in my horoscope), which is how I came to be reading a blog article on tips for dating for men.

A Valentine's Day Primer - Chapter Two

As a commenter and a couple of my guy friends pointed out -- there are a lot of women out there that hate Valentine’s Day and insist they want nothing to do with it.

 

These women fall into one of two categories. She has either a) been burned by this bullshit holiday in the past and is pissed she ever put any stock into the whole candy hearts and flowers industry. She is still smoldering and doesn’t want to get hurt again. Or, b) she's testing you.

Fortunately, you don’t need to know which type you are dealing with to know what to do.

Valentine's Day: A Primer for Men

At the Wawa (for those of you not from the Philadelphia area: this is a convenience store with the absolute best coffee ever. Also, back when they were still in the city they were a perfect place to pick up a hoagie after a late night of drinking – not that I know anything about that.) this morning I was reminded (by the display of candy hearts) that Valentine’s Day is right around the corner.

Now last year, following this most glorious day, I overheard a co-worker telling another co-worker about how excited his girlfriend was when she opened her Valentine’s Day gift. In his words, her excited was comparable to someone handing him keys to a vintage Camaro.

And what was this gift that inspired such excitement, you ask.

Yoga pants.

Poor boy. He saw what his girlfriend looks like when she’s faking it and didn’t even know it.