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JUL
29

The Poster-Size Boyfriend Picture Fiasco

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Whenever I see people post pictures of themselves looking totally cute, I roll my eyes. It’s so tacky. Anyone who wants people to see them looking totally cute seems like they have something to prove. Or an ulterior self-serving motive.

It reminds me of the time a couple Christmases ago when I wanted to give my boyfriend a framed picture of me to keep on his desk at the office. Of course what started in my mind as a simple 4x6 ultimately turned into something the size of a small poster; a collage of our travels with a picture of me in the center--black and white, slight smile, wind blowing in my hair. It really didn’t occur to me that the now gargantuan thing wouldn’t be feasible to display at work until he told me it wouldn’t be feasible to display at work. I had to settle for the top of the stairs in his house. Which is the moment I realized my motive had more to do with the foot traffic the picture would get at his office, and people being reminded of this solid, witty, and at times (like the time in that photo) adorable presence in his life. The only person who ever saw the picture at the top of his stairs was me, and what good did it do to look at an adorable picture of myself?

Which brings me back to my original beef. And as for the picture on today’s post, I got nothin'. No explanation except that I've been in NYC the past several days, and to me this picture sums up how I feel about NYC, and how much a part of it I feel when I’m there. The buildings, the bakeries, the history, the hubbub. The taxis, the subways, the street signs. It just makes me happy, and so does this picture. (It also makes me look totally cute. Deal with it. Besides, it could be worse. It could be poster size and displayed on your office wall.)

MAY
22

Stupid Grass. Stupid Mower. Stupid Spring.

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I'm taking a break from new-book-just-out activities to bring you this important seasonal message: I hate cutting the grass. I know. It's so silly. Especially if you were to see the size of my yard. But cutting the grass is by far the worst part about spring. Especially since this is the first spring in 3 years that my boyfriend (now my ex) isn't around to do it for me. Not that my favorite thing about him was that he did all my yard work. It's just that my favorite thing about him was that he did all my yard work.

So picture this. A couple of weeks ago I realize I can't put it off anymore and go get the mower out of the garage. I manage to get the thing started, but it sounds pretty bad. I'm shielding my eyes as best I can with one hand in case the whole thing blows up and pushing it as far ahead of my body as possible. Halfway through the yard, it dies. I solicited help from the man who was cutting the neighbor's grass, and all I gathered from his diagnosis was there was a bunch of grass clogging the innards of the mower. Nevermind that this is sort of, um, I don't know, what a mower is designed for.

I watched a video explaining how to fix what it seems likely that the problem is, and although I did locate the appropriate bolts and levers, I was unable to fix it. Or, let's be honest, even get anything to budge at all. And this week, my grass out of control once more, I can't even get the thing to start. It instead makes a horrible, cry-of-the-banshee noise every time I attempt it.

Bottom line, I'm not sure what single girls are supposed to do...except for get some cats, buy a Snuggie, and let the grass get so long that the city sends threatening letters using words like "unsightly" and "final warning." Come to think of it, a Snuggie sounds pretty good right now.

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