Happy Wednesday, first official day of this new endeavor being taken on by me, Miss Sassy Pants. That’s right, I’m sassy. Don’t hate. Today is not a very special day, but I have been thinking about starting my own blog for quite some time, and finally have something to kick-start this jank. I haven’t been able to decide if what I would write here would even be worth reading, but through some positive feedback from my loving friends (all of whom I know were not lying, since they have no problems telling me when I’m being absolutely ridiculous), and of course some support from my fam, I decided to give it a whirl. I love writing and my job (which will remain nameless…you know, this being on the world wide web and all) does not involve any writing, unless it looks something like this: <<def evalInstance = new Eval() evalInstance.setldpSsoId(evalInstance?.id)>> Any idea what that means? No? Right, me either really. Well truthfully I’m picking it up slowly, and not ashamed to admit I wrote that, and I know what it means. Point is, I need an outlet, people! Code is not sassy! So here we are.
Today, some of us young’uns went to good ol’ Jason’s Deli for lunch. I love Jason’s Deli because no matter which particular branch you go to, there are working men everywhere. Yes this is a good thing. Ladies: take note. Ok it’s mostly a good thing. Today it was not, because all of them were >40 years of age, OR I work with them and know far too much. Sorry guys, it is not sassy to date someone from work. I mean maybe it could be, but not today. So here’s what happened: I’m in line with 3 other people, I order my *massive* baked potato with yummy butter, cheese and bacon, hold the sour cream and green onions please, thank you Mr. Mumbling Register Operator. I get my water. I sit down at a table next to the rest of our crowd, which is 98% dudes that already have a lot to make fun of me for. They’re about to get more fuel. So I sit down, put up my number in the holder-thingy so I can get me some baked potato! I loved being served. No more than 2 seconds go by, and here comes Mr. Can-I-Take-Your-Order…a dashing gentleman with wrinkled khakis WAY too large for him, matching Tims, and –this is the best part– a mustache. Yes ma’am. So he stops at the table and says, “Excuse me, miss?” (Pharrell, anyone? Hollaa) I politely (it’s sassy to be classy, remember this!) say, “Yes?” He says, “I just want to know – are you taken?” I’m a little confused by this question, so I say, like an idiot, “Taken? I’m sorry?” Duh! The correct answer in all situations, unless his name is George Clooney or he resembles James Marsden, is “YES! I’m so in love, you couldn’t possibly have a chance. Sorry!” Instead, he repeated his question, and I stuttered “Um. No. Yes. Not really.” OH. MY. HEAVENS. What is happening to me right now!? I mean he does not resemble anyone remotely good looking that could possibly win me (or any other sane girl) over within the first 5 seconds of laying eyes on them. Now I notice that all the dudes at the next table, with whom I work, professionally I might add, are watching this debacle unfold. Now my face is getting a little warm. So he asked me if I’d be interested in hanging out sometime. No really, I’m not lying. I said, trying again to be nice, “I’m not really looking, thanks.” Translation: Get away from me, you mustached creeper. So of course he says, “Well neither am I girl! It’s all good!” No it is not. “I’m reeeeally not interested,” I say, while seeing the dudes at the table reeling with laughter. Keep in mind I’m alone at my table now. “Alright,” he says, “Well my name is Jason.” Holds out his hand. Apparently “I’m not interested” means “yes let’s keep talking” in creeper speak. In my head I say, “OMG is this YOUR deli!??! COOL!” JK. I shake his hand and say, “I’m Miss Sassy Pants, thanks for saying hi.” And finally the torture is over. If I could paint a picture, or if someone had whipped out their blackberry and video’d this jank, I mean YouTube instant hit. Bon Qui Qui, who I LOVE (she is so sassy! right!), would have nothing on this guy. Dude was straight up “Can I have your number??” Except he didn’t have one pant leg rolled up.
Summary: Gentlemen, listen up: Mustaches are not ok, unless you are >50 years old, OR your name is Tyrod Taylor. His is so good, I don’t know how he does it. Must be those dimples. Ladies: Mustaches are not ok on your man, and no matter how much time goes by, your coworkers will ALWAYS remember the time you got hit on by the creepy register guy. And send you emails about it all day. You must be strong, and you must stay sassy!