Monthly Archives: April 2010

Happy Friday Peeves!

Yes that’s right ladies and gentlemans, it is Friday and Miss Sassy is thra-to-the-illed. Because I am having such a peachy awesome day, I am bestowing on you loving readers a comprehensive list of my pet peeves for your enjoyment. I know, you love me.

1) Bad drivers never used to irritate me so much. JK they’ve always irritated me, and anyone who’s ever been one city block in my car knows I party like it’s 1999, aka RAGE whilst on the road. I love the word whilst. So this past week, someone must have put out a bulletin that read something like this:

“Attention All Bad Drivers: Please drive extra bad and slow this week as Miss Sassy will be in a hurry / not wanting to die in a car wreck every day of the week. We aim to make her as late as possible to work and put her life in danger on the reg. 3rd prize to the person who makes her scream out obscenities the loudest, 2nd prize to whomever can make her face the reddest, 1st prize and free week long road trip in an RV goes to the talented a-hole on the road who makes her so angry that she actually cries on the way to work. Deadline is Friday, April 29th.”

I awarded all of those prizes this week to numerous people, including the RV.  It’s in the mail yo.  And yes, I know there are bad drivers everywhere, and being late to work is my own fault, blah blah blah. BUT when I can make it to work in relatively normal work traffic in 3 minutes and you cause me to take 15 whole minutes to get .5 miles, you have MAJOR ISSUES and should not be driving. Examples include but are not limited to the following: not using a turn signal and cutting me off 3 times, driving 20 in a 45 zone, slamming on breaks for absolutely no reason, forgetting which side is the accelerator, and lastly my favorite of all, stopping at a green light. Also, unrelated to actual driving ability, I do not understand how some people can be completely reclined in their seat so that their head is only visible in the backseat window and yet they can still see over the dash…puzzling.

2) All the rest of my pet peeves have been washed away by the good news that I can leave early and go lay out on my back deck. Thanks boss. No I am so not writing this at work!

So for today, enjoy my rant about bad driving and know that if you are a bad driver we probably can’t be friends. Plus everyone knows being a good driver is sassy so get on it girl! More pet peeves to come by next Friday I am sure.

Everyone look alive out there this weekend! You never know when you’ll meet your true love or new bestie. My advice: practice your sass in the mirror before you use it in the wild, and for crying out loud don’t be an idiot on the road. Smooches.

Don’t Stop Believing that it’s Any Way You Want It and Remember Me to Be Good to Yourself

I know I go on and on all the time about boys, the gym, men, and trifeness involving boys and men at the gym, and today will be no different. You’ve read enough of this drivel to know boys/men/gym consume my life when I am not eating or sleeping or working 60-70 hour weeks. Which actually leaves very little time to think about boys/men or go to the gym but somehow I manage. Oprah calls it multi-tasking. For example: I am watching Iron Man while I write this. I am that talented that I can spew out this here entertainment WHILE entertaining myself separately. I mean, ya’ll, this is MSP.

But back to the boys and men. So tonight I was hanging out with Journey while doing my [awesomely intense] workout. Here’s a little revelation I had today: it is hard to pick up a dude or get picked up at the gym while working out. That is unless you are super duper forward and walking right up to dudes. So save walking right up to some dude while he’s getting gorilla’d, and as long as he’s not interrupting me on the butt-buster (yes girl, give it a try), it is hard to pick up a dude or get picked up. And I know this because maybe you don’t recall but I have a bit of a staring issue (it’s not a problem, I don’t need therapy), and I will, without reservation, take a good long look even if I’m caught. Girl Can’t Help It. But it seems to be difficult for any guy, boy or man (unless he’s 45+, apparently that’s the golden age that staring back and wiggling eyebrows is ok. Only the Young please.) to respond in any way. Since I started going to the glorious gym with glorious looking dudes (mostly…see previous entry regarding those tricky 50-yarders) I have smiled plenty of times and gotten minimal response. Maybe it’s me. You know, that whole, he’s just not that into you thing. Typical. I’ll Be Alright Without You. But ya’ll. Don’t Stop Believing! Because today, it was the cutest smile I’ve seen in a while. And no, he didn’t ask me out or make any kind of gym small talk, but he smiled back and said hi. Now I ask you, is it really that difficult? No, I’m not looking for my future husband every time I walk in that door (or any other door), and I know we’ll probably go our Separate Ways, but it is nice to at least see some civility. So hey guys, boys and men, say hi to that small frizzy haired girl next time you see her. She’s nice, and she’s just trying to be friendly. Don’t be intimidated by the leg lifts, promise she’s not stronger than you. Plus you’ve got a nice tush, and like I said earlier, Girl Can’t Help It.  And lastly, pat yourself on the back if you made all those Journey connections. Ya’ll Journey is the best to workout too. Just don’t sing too loud, that draws the wrong kind of stares. But hey, Be Good to Yourself.

Moving on to another topic that has just occurred to me. [Side note: Robert Downey Jr. is pretty hot for an old dude. Yeah I’m still watching. Future husband, if you’re reading this, I wouldn’t mind if you looked like him, in any way, when you get to be that old..] Last week, I heard the phrase “Don’t be a stranger,” at least 5 times. It was said to me three times, I saw it on TV once, and I overheard someone saying it at work. Here’s my question: wtf does that statement even mean? I suppose it depends on the circumstances. So here’s the circumstances. You’re a guy (shocking, more boys), we’re chatting, and as a departing greeting you say “don’t be a stranger, Miss Sassy.” To which I reply………what exactly is an appropriate response to that? I really can’t even think of anything. I mean even the sassiest comment I can think of just doesn’t seem to cut it. So hey dudes: please don’t use the phrase “don’t be a stranger.” Because if you want me to stay in touch with you, or be extra friendly, or call you, or write on your facebook wall or some jank, then come out and say it. Do not expect me to take “don’t be a stranger” as an invitation to initiate anything other than friendship with you. End of the day, I’m still the girl, you’re still the dude and last time I read up on anatomy, you’re the one with balls.

And that’s the sass lesson of the day folks. Smile at those pretty (and non-pretty) girls at the gym, and a simple “see you later” will always do. Keep it real ya’ll.

How To Pick Up a Guy with Questionable Sexual Preferences

Last night Roomz and I ventured out into the wild that is dt Rals. Tuesdays are ON FIRE let me tell you. Just playing. But seriously we did go out, and I’m proud of us because we stayed out until 1am! A record for me of late, as I am fast turning into an old lady who goes to bed no later than 10:30pm. Feisty. Anywho, we met some friends (yes, friends! I found some!) at this cool bar called the Flying Saucer, where they were having weekly Trivia night. Super fun, totally unrelated to the story. So we’re chatting it up and one of my pals brought up Miss Sassy Pants! This here blog loves to be mentioned in everyday convo because it means more readers and typically fuels the fire for some good sassy stories to share (spread the good Sassy news people). Which is exactly what happened here. I was saying that I am sort of boring lately and haven’t had any good stories or triflin messes to share…and my sweet little Roomz reminded me that I haven’t shared the gay waiter story! Oh yes. Now you’re hooked. So now Miss Sassy will commence to explaining How To Pick Up a Guy with Questionable Sexual Preferences. You know, for all those times you just aren’t sure.

Let’s rewind to the first weekend after I moved to the Rals. So picture it: Just met Roomz, know nothing about Raleigh, tired from the first week of work, stressed a bit from all the projects I was assigned, probably feeling a bit overwhelmed, not on my game. So Roomz’ friend GBFF, who we can all infer from his nickname is gay, comes to visit this weekend. We all go out to dinner to PFChangs, and while waiting for our table at the bar, all take notice of a particularly good looking waiter. I mean really good looking. Tall, dark, and handsome, mysterious, cute smile, total package. And he’s not a 50-yarder, which is a plus. So GBFF points him out first, saying that he’s hot stuff, to which Roomz and I instantly agree. BUT is he gay? GBFF thinks yes, I said no, Roomz couldn’t decide. Eventually we’re seated, unfortunately not in his section despite trying our hardest. Throughout dinner we all get our stare on, discreetly of course, and may or may not have drawn attention to ourselves while simultaneously eye-flirting with him throughout our meal. Honestly I don’t remember, but it’s entirely possible and probable. Then the end of dinner roles around and GBFF is stuck on this guy. I mean rage-at-the-machine in love with him because he is so ridiculously good looking. But what to do? It’s not a typical pick-up scene. He’s busy waitering, we’re busy with our teriyaki, would probably be rude to interrupt him taking orders at his table and ask him what sign he is and does he live nearby. Not to mention the fact that we still can’t decide if he’s gay or not. Conflicting gay-dar readings do not a concensus make. So Roomz comes up with a brilliant plan, grabs a cocktail napkin and pen from my mom-bag and writes the following:

Are you gay? If yes: GBFF, 919-555-0000. If no: Roomz, 919-555-0001.

Except she used their real phone numbers, duh. Then, when we had all paid our checks and were ready to leave, she bravely walked up to Mr. Hunky Waiter and presented him with the little note. Ballsy little gal! We walked out of there giggling like fools, vowing to never return to that particular PFChangs if neither of them got a phone call. Which they didn’t. What makes the story even better is that GBFF’s parents visited the next day and wanted to go to PFChangs for lunch. Clearly that didn’t happen.

The moral of this story is that sassiness comes in all shapes and sizes. While Miss Sassy does not personally give out her phone number to strangers or even good looking men in bars or restaurants anymore (unless it says “Mr. Perfect-for-Miss-Sassy” on his forehead), it is sassy to act if you like what you see. Because you never know where the next adventure will start. No, you probably won’t marry Mr. Hunky Waiter, but he might be a nature enthusiast just like you! And maybe he’ll take you out a couple times and you might get some fun flirting in. Why not? Do it while you’re young people because eventually you’ll be a creepy old guy or a wrinkled too-tan cougar. But always always always, as I always say always, maintain the class. Sass – Class = Trash. And trash smells bad, even from 50-yards away.

The 50-yarder gets me every time!

You know when you’re out somewhere, maybe doing something innocent like shopping, and you’re looking around and suddenly you spot a good looking somebody. You are standing just far enough away that you can take a good long look and not get caught. Nice bod, good looking hair, and it’s just far enough away that you’re guessing on facial features but with the lighting and shadows, it looks just right. Now, who really picks up a chick or a dude while shopping…no one. But let’s say you’re in a bar, and add beer to the equation. NOW that person across the bar is smokin’ hot and you can’t take your eyes away. You’re telling all your buddies…”OMG Stacy look at that guy down there! I SO want him, he is the picture of perfection!” [No, I have never used any of those words whilst at a bar, nice try] Or, “Dude, chick is bangin. Check it.” Yeah, clearly I’m not a dude so I have no idea how it really goes. Maybe it’s more like “Yeah, I’d hit that,” which makes what’s about to happen even worse because now what you’re about to hit explodes into ugliness! Because here he/she comes, walking you’re way, maybe being coy and heading for the bathroom or doing a frat lap or something around the bar (in real life, seems like there’s no frat lap anymore which is a shame because I always liked that part of being at TOTS) and he get’s closer…and closer…and BAM. The ugly slaps you in the face! Shit! How did that happen? And now, Stacy and whatever dude you shared your find with is laughing hysterically at you as you both watch in astonishment at how ugly this person is in actuality and up close. I know what you’re thinking now…surely this has never happened to you Miss Sassy Pants! Your radar is so good! False.

Anecdotal proof: Rewind a 5 years. I’ve just graduated from high school and am at the beach with some girl friends for “beach week.” Holler to underage drinking. JK we didn’t drink obvs! So I have this friend, she’s a little hard of hearing and so when we’re sitting on the beach checking out dudes (what else is there to do?) we obviously can’t yell or talk loudly depending on how close they are, so we come up with a code word: Grapefruit. Don’t ask, just go with it. So when you see something worth looking at, as a courtesy to the other ladies, you announce his presence by yelling: “Grapefruit!!” And then indicate his position using the clock system (a tale as old as time…pun intended). So one day I see “red shorts guy” as he was dubbed. He’s about 50 yards away or more, but he looks pretty solidly built, super tan, brown hair with sandy sun-highlighted hair blowing in the wind. Baywatch lifeguard material from afar. So the alert goes out: “Grapefruit! 10:30!” So we’re watching, and he gets a little closer and a little closer still…and he’s not even that close to us, still about 25 yards away when it becomes painfully clear that he is at the very least over 50. Yes. 50-yard extreme foul on my part. Thus, MSP’s grapefruit alerting privileges were revoked and it took a couple years for that joke to go away.  No doubt by resurrecting it here I will catch more flack for it. So I like older dudes, whatev…JK again…I might like my men a bit older but 50+ is so not my scene, unless you own a yacht, then we’ll chat. Digression.

This 50-yard catastrophe continues. Last week I was out with some coworkers again, and there were these two pretty ladies sitting a good distance away. I pointed them out because obviously I have good taste in cougars, but was politely corrected that they were indeed 50-yarders. Upon further examination I accepted the correction as fact and we moved on, a little disappointed. The gym also causes me to be victim to the 50-yarder. Of course there can’t possibly be 50 yards in between me and every dude in a muscle T but the sweat in my eyes (and the sheer determination to get jacked) clouds my vision and so pretty much everyone there except the grandpas looks like a hottie. Tonight at the gym I was sorely disappointed numerous times. As in at least 15 times in a row they’d walk by or I’d walk by and get a closer look (no not on purpose, you judgers) and instantly avert my eyes. It is sad! It is also awkward when Judgement Face comes out of nowhere and they see it when you walk by. Remember when I said the JF cannot be stopped? Still true.

The lesson to be learned here folks is simple. 9 times out of 10, you will not find your happily ever after at a bar. So when you see that cougar or cute boy across the bar, let them stay there. When you walk by the bench press or pull up bar, take in the sights with your peripheral vision, because I’m telling you it looks better from there. Once you focus, the fantasy is shattered an all you’ve got to think about while you’re doing crunches is ugly. And ugly is not nearly as motivating as smokin’ hot, even if it’s an illusion.

A Hokie heart is the biggest heart of all

Today is a special day. 3 years ago it was a really sad and scary day, and the days that followed were some of the saddest, most surreal, and loving days I’ve experienced. I know I usually try to make ya’ll chuckle at my funny little stories (remember Jason’s Deli? that ish is funny) and keep this here blog light and fun. But today I’m taking a mini break to remember some things and say some things. Today is a day to remember, reminisce, maybe cry, and definitely laugh at the innocent happy and funny memories that were there before and take joy in appreciative happiness that came after.

3 years ago today, I was up early (JK it was 10am…not early) throwing on boots (the warm fuzzy kind that go with sweats, not cute ones) and a hoodie, prepared to be late for Econ at 10:10. Then some emails alert us that there’s some crazy shit going down on campus and maybe we should stay away from windows. So now I’m a little annoyed (having been through the “crazy man loose on campus” once before back in September) and worried that I might lose that sorely needed extra credit being given in class today. Econ was so not my thing. Anyway, hours go by and we slowly learn that the unthinkable has happened. Unthinkable, because who, really, would suppose that something like that could ever happen? In Blacksburg of all places. Tragedies we often think about were more like…getting hit by a drunk driver, or maybe getting into a car accident. “Dangers” in Blacksburg consist of normal college dangers – drunk boys, drunk drivers, alcohol poisoning, girls alone on campus late at night (idiots), slipping on the ice, and getting blown away by the ridiculous wind. Those are all manageable dangers. We take a calculated risk to drink and not poison ourselves. We take a calculated risk walking home from TOTS or driving home when we shouldn’t. It is a reasonable risk to walk to class in ice and snow if class is not cancelled. But we do not even think of – never even occurs to us to think, there are crazy people out there in this little town. Maybe I should wear a bullet proof vest to class today. Unthinkable. Hours and hours go by, and what was unthinkable is now unfathomable and surreal and not really sinking in at all. It’s real but it’s weird real. We hug each other and cry, cry alone, use a million boxes of tissues because we can’t stop crying, take a different stairwell downstairs to avoid walking past that room that used to be occupied. We see others on campus  and don’t smile or greet them, because in their eyes we see what we are feeling. There isn’t anything to say because it’s not like other tragedies. It’s not like when a family member dies and you go to the funeral to support that person. It happened to all of us and we are all sad and we have all lost. So there is no “I’m sorry for your loss”, or making casseroles for that one family, or condolence cards. There are just hugs. And hand-holding. And singing. And candle lighting. And of course there’s some Go Hokies chanting and cheers.

This thing that happened to us, it was awful. It is not something anyone should have to go through, much less the parents and families of 32 students and professors, and their extended Hokie family of 27,000. That’s a big family! And that’s what we are, and if anything, this awful thing made us more aware and more thankful and more happy to be apart of that family. Family – the kind you share blood with – I will always love no matter what. It’s the rules. But Hokie family is different. We chose each other before this thing happened, and now we are bound by the love that has come from this awful thing.

So to all my family, those with whom I share holidays and hereditary OCD (you know who you are), and those with whom I have hilarious stories from TOTS: I love you, you lift me up every day. We are all far apart now and no longer living in that tiny town of love together, sleeping on each others couches, eating MJs fruit snacks and Pringles, ordering Pokie sticks at 3am, or going to hilarious parties in that cleanest of clean fraternity basement. But I carry you with me, we carry Caitlin with us, and Hokies everywhere are living for 32 today, and all days.

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

-ee cummings

NYC kicked my sassy ass. And I loved it.

This past weekend I ventured from my small little Southern city to the big bad city of New York to visit my dear friend and colleague, Queen Liz (she studied in London and has a sweet tattoo of a coin with The Queen’s face, it is sweet. Thus, Queen Liz. I know, you’re impressed with my creativeness). She and I had been holding down the female fort while working in the ex-capital of the Confederacy and now that we are apart, each struggling in mostly male-dominated working environments, I miss her dearly. So we planned a visit! Thanks to Raleigh-Durham International Airport and Philadelphia for making a 3 hour trip more like 7, but the up side is I didn’t have to drive. Anywho, I finally arrive around 9pm on Friday and we ventured to some area of the city with Murray in the name and went to this adorable little eatery called Cask. If you live in the city or are visiting, I recommend it. It was super chic and delish. I recommend the Riesling. Whatever it was went really well with our crab cakes, mozzarella flatbread, and mac&cheese with truffle. Yum. We said screw you to our trainers, ate to our heart’s content, got a little buzz, and miraculously found the right train to take us to her chic pad in Stamford.

Saturday I was hoping to do some shopping (I mean, am I breathing? Duh) but we ended up sleeping half the day away (which is just as glorious and much better for our bank accounts), hanging out at her cute little condo, and spending a good few hours getting ready for our evening out. Flashbacks to college days when we’d spend the whole Saturday “getting ready” for DT and still not making it anywhere before 11pm. Good times – shout out to all my old roomz. Thanks for letting me borrow 5 shirts only to return them all and wear something of my own. Obviously nothing has changed, as I brought about 5 shirts of my own to possibly wear but ended up wearing one of Queenies shirts anyway. Oy. Whatev. So finally we’re ready to go, venture to the train station and barely make the express to the city. It’s slightly anticlimactic since we’re all rushing and in a hurry only to relax on a 40 minute train to our destination. The next fun adventure was the subway. I must admit that the subway really makes me feel like a country girl, although deep down I’m really not (I think the suburbs puts people in this weird in between…I’m not a city girl and I’m not a country girl, but seriously who want’s to proudly exclaim to be a suburban girl? Not as exciting) because it’s way complicated, way busy, no one smiles, and everyone is pissed and in a hurry so get out of the effing way! And now all you NYC residents are scoffing at me saying I just don’t get it and it’s so easy, blah blah blah. 1) You live there, so bugger off, 2) let’s review how long it took me to figure out I-64 and I-295 in Richmond (one of the simplest interchanges ever), not to mention the 64/95 interchange and I-195 and Powhite Parkway and holy crap I couldn’t go downtown to save my life until like last year. I’ve improved since then, thank you very much, but the subway is a different creature. PLUS the 1 train was not making it’s usual stops so me and Queenie were a bit confused. Anywhooooz, we finally made it to the right station and luckily ran into her friend T-Rex (I am full of creative nicknames right now!) and, feet already hurting, clicked our way to….

The BEST Tapas bar I’ve ever been in. You know, because I’ve been to so many. But seriously, never have I had better sangria or more delicious tapas. And there was no chips and salsa with queso or little Mexican waiters walking around with 9 plates of food stacked on one arm. Mr. Smarty Pants and his sweet gal/my hot friend Miss Fancy Boots (in her fancy boots, obviously) met us there and we 5 enjoyed a long and luxurious meal, mostly consisting of sangria. My only complaint is that they turn down the lights so much you can’t freaking read the menu. I mean seriously I almost broke out my new iPhone (thought I’d throw that out there) and turn on the flashlight app. The upside to the dim lighting was that we all looked beautiful and perfect. Dim lighting always makes skin look clearer and makeup jobs better. So, thanks. I think I’ll leave the detailed meal breakdown to Mr. Smarty Pants, as he is better and more thorough, and more serious about reviewing meals and discussing pairings and whatnot. I am simply hollering at the sangria and dim lighting which helped my complexion. Sassy.

By the time we left there, I’d say we all had a significant buzz. Queenie, T-Rex and I said farewell to my dear pals and headed to some tiny restaurant to meet another of Queenies’ friends, who just so happens to be on a rugby team. Yep. So we walk into this tiny Indian restaurant, which is maybe the size of my bedroom (small), and are greeted by 30+ rugby men. Not boys, men. I immediately start salivating. JK. But seriously, it was a sight to behold, and being that this particular place was BYOB (?!?!?) they were all ham-boned, as my friend the Senator likes to say. Liz and I might have been one of 4 chicks in the whole place, so the ratio was top notch. Eventually one of them stood up to make a very sad attempt at a slurred drunken announcement which sounded something like “Heyyyyyy alskjlwiheoirwehklsahklhogtinan!!!!!!” Which apparently translates to, “Hey, let’s move to the next bar!” because that’s what we did. And let me tell you. This next place we went to was SKETCHYYYYY sketch, but in a totally charming and non-scary kind of way. And it was a huge contradiction. They were playing country music (the old school kind, not Keith Urban or Taylor Swift), had cowboy boots glued to the ceiling, a juke box, and……Goth bartender chicks. And they were not cute by anyone’s standards. I don’t care if you like your girls a little heavier in the middle or sans curves or any kind but these girls were just UGH like wow. THEN we went to yet another bar, and don’t ask me how we got there because I don’t remember, simply because it’s been a week and I just didn’t retain that detail. Regardless, we went to this third bar, had some tequila shots, played beer pong (right?! in a bar!) and, shockingly, missed the last train back to Stamford. Which means we had to stay over at one of Queen Liz’s friend’s places (awesome apartment on the 57th floor with a legit view of Manhattan…$$$). I’d go more into this part of the story except it gets SO much less sassy from this point that it’s really not worth sharing. Bottom line is, I bonded with the porcelain throne at the apartment (shut up), and then dominated a super comfy air mattress for all of 4 hours before we caught a morning train back to Stamford. Epic. Also side note for those of you that don’t know, trains and planes are a terrible idea when you are hungover. Miss Sassy does not recommend it, and can assure you it was not a sassy situation whatsoever. It was pure trifeness through and through. I mean ultimate walk of shame people.

In conclusion: love me some NYC, love me some Queen Liz, sarcastically love me some hungover flights, and will be lovin me a second visit in the near future. Perhaps I’ll remember to keep it a little more sassy next time and lock down the tequila.