I don’t even want to go to work, you guys.
I think my coworkers are jackassy enough to make me a sympathy card.
Youktastic- The new word for ultimate, shoddy, heartbreaking betrayal with a side of suck that can best be expressed by the cult classic, Bloodhound Gang.
I didn’t mean that. That was harsh.
Yeah. I think I meant both of those.
I’m going to go eat ice cream for breakfast.
PS- signs your boyfriend is starting to get it:
“Well, at least you got to see him one more time before he, you know.”
You know that girl at the office with the crappy boyfriend? She complains and complains and complains about his drinking. Is like, mad at how he drunkenly vomited all over the curtains, but he promises not to do it again? She’s going to break up with him this time, swears she is, on account of all the leering he does at every girl but her. And yeah, he slept with her sister, but he bought her a candy bar this one time, so she’s going to give him another chance. And another one. And another one. And so what he pointed out the asstasticness of that girl’s jeans at the bar? It’s just part of his undeniable charm. Did she mention the new cologne he wears? It has some masculine name about horses. And he bought her these new shoes, see? Sure they still have the store’s magnetic antitheft strip on them, but that’s because someone forgot to remove it, obviously.
Girl at the office, I never got you until today. I never got you until I read this.
He didn’t mean it, I cry.
He’ll change for me, I scream, but you can’t hear my muffled screeching due to the ice cream and regret. Gooey, gooey regret.
I know I’ve said this before, Youkie, but you do this, and it’s really over. Stolen shoes and chocolate bars will get you NOWHERE this time.
I forgave you for screwing Tom Brady’s sister. But this tests my humanity and turns me into a bad Rihanna reference.
Don’t pander to us, Youk. It won’t work this time.
I’m going to turn it off. The emotional switch. Done. Off. Like Stefan did that one time in “The Vampire Diaries.” Except for real because CW shows (apparently) do not reflect reality (I know, right?). I officially don’t care anymore. Really. See? I’m blogging about how much I don’t care.
Because I don’t. I don’t care AT ALL.
I HOPE you turn into a Yankee. You heard me.
I can see it now. You and Joba Chamberlain, singing to each other on a fire escape.
Except it will be “Youk, you’ve got what I neeeeed…”
I’M SO CONFUSED.
And I had to tell Matt today. I mean, he knew about my Youk thing (who DOES NOT know about my Youk thing). He was looking at my computer and clicked on the last Google News alert I’d been on and it was Kevin Youkilis.
“Really?” he says.
I explain to him about what’s going on. And he- ah, how sweet and naive- says, “If Kevin Youkilis goes to the Yankees, you and my dad will have something in common.”
His dad is a Yankees fan, see. But I’ll get to that in a future blog.
No, I explain. That’s not the way it works.
And I told him about Johnny Damon.
He gets it now. He’s been very quiet for the past hour…
I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.
And Matt is not here. And I’m home alone. And there’s no one here to cheer me up. It’s like, 3 in the morning. And I stayed up late working on this gingerbread house that kerploded. And seriously. I need a hug or something, because this is brutal. Seriously. My gingerbread house, first of all, was NOT gingerbread. See, I cheated. I got what I THOUGHT was a kit at Walgreens. It turns out it is a chocolate house. Where you have to melt chocolate and mold it. And cool it. And stick it together. And that is stupid.
Chaos ensued and now I (and my counter) am covered in chocolate. And my little candy people are covered in chocolate. It’s like a chocolate Mt. Vesuvius blew up all over my chocolate Pompeii and my candy people are little chocolate fossils for future sugar architects to uncover generations from now. This is how the candy people lived, they will say. See? This guy didn’t even have time to leave his house when the chocolate volcano kerploded. Good thing that sucker is dormant.
They need a hero, that’s what they need. A-
It’s like God is listening to my internal monologue because Google just brought tidings of great joy.
Did you guys SEE this?
That’s the happiest thing I’ve seen since “The Situation” bashed his head into a wall in season four of Jersey Shore.
I miss Pedro. And Mike Lowell. And Kevin Youkilis. I think Bobby Valentine is keeping him captive somewhere. In like, a dungeon. Or a really big box. And he’s created a robot. A Youkbot. And that’s what might go to New York. The Youkbot.
Sleep? You ready for me yet?
“They really wanted me up there for the eight-year anniversary,” Damon said. “I was like, ‘Eight years sounds weird. If I can play, suit me up. I’m still in shape. I’ll be there.’ ”
And President Ross Perot leads a parade of…
Down an interstate made of…
While Joba Chamberlain and Kevin Youkilis exchange best-friends-forever bracelets and Bobby Valentine skips by in a Santa hat wearing seventeen of these on his fingers…
And we all breathe on rainbows instead of oxygen…
Then yes. That will totally happen.
Thanks for the laugh, Johnny boy. I sure hope I get cable by the time you’re on Celebrity Rehab. Because that’s something I want to see live.
What do you think rainbows taste like?
So, in order to make this blog work, I’m going to have to reformat. Like, seriously. I’m going to have to blog about things other than baseball. Because, for the first time ever, there’s more in my life than Stankee hate.
Wow. That makes my previous life sound sad.
There is more in my life than the Red Sox.
I have hobbies.
Does working count as a hobby?
I shall distract you with this Christmas cartoon. Ooooooh…
So. Instead of just blogging about Kevin Stupidilis (that’s not working, is it? I am so lost!), I will also blog about my life.
Did you hear crickets? Did I hallucinate that?
Fear not. I’ll still blog about baseball. But I can’t do that thing where I get so obsessy that I throw napkin holders at people in bars. I can’t do that again. I’m all. Um. Adult and stuff. And, apparently, when adults are by themselves at bars, they don’t throw napkin dispensers at people. Did you know that a lot of adults don’t go to bars to watch the games by themselves? Did you know that?
So, I’m trying this adult thing. And that’s going to be an increasing factor with this blog. I shall share revelations as I learn them about this adulthood thing. Like, for example, did you know that wine glasses break in dishwashers? And that you have to get your tires rotated?
I’m learning a lot. And seriously, if you have any adult tips, please share them. Because learning that you’re supposed to get your tires rotated is something I would have much rather learned from you than from my four bald tires and a Durham parking lot.
I am home alone this weekend and trying to be like, domestic. I bought a Christmas tree. And, in an effort to be sentimental (which I can sooooo be. sorta), I bought an ornament for $1 that has this spot where you can personalize it, right? And, in permanent marker, I wrote “Matt and Lauren’s First Christmas.” Cue the awwwws. Come on, please? I’ve never gotten an awwww. Especially not at Christmas.
That’s kind of a big deal.
See, I’m not a holiday person. There are holiday people. And then there are antifalalalala people.
Antifalalala people are that way for many reasons.
Maybe they worked in retail and heard the same elevator rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock” eighteen times a shift.
Maybe they were a mall Santa on the weekends and are tired of smelly pants.
Or, maybe, like me, their mother didn’t take them to daycare. Instead, she took them to her job, a radio station that played only Christmas music and then, when they grew up, they were dumb enough to go into radio- specifically a six station conglomerate with a boss who loved “Jingle Bell Rock” so much that not only did he play it after Thanksgiving- once he tried to play it for the month of July because he was under the errant belief that “Christmas in July” is a thing. That boss was Jewish, fyi. And “Jingle Bell Rock” is the dumbest song since “Tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree,” which, by the way, is a really dumb song.
Anyway, I own a Christmas tree. Well, it’s a box, actually. Did you know that they don’t come in tree form? They come in box form? And, although the box shows that the stand is in four pieces, it’s actually in three pieces because it counts the trunk as the fourth piece? See, without this blog, it might have taken you an hour and an angry 1-800 call to figure that out.
I have this image, see, of Matt getting back here tomorrow and being so impressed with my domesticity and my nestingness. I think I’m wearing an apron?
Maybe I’ll make cookies.
I can bake cookies. I can bake the hell out of some cookies.
Oh. Right. Christmas tree.
Here it is.
It looks really peaceful there, doesn’t it? It was not peaceful.
Apparently, Ellie is afraid of Christmas trees. Terrified, actually.
I put the tree up. I put candycanes on it (because they were $1 and ornaments were $4). I turned the lights on. I didn’t have a star, right? But I did have a Santa hat. So, I cleverly (so clever, thought i), put the Santa hat on top of the tree and marveled at my cleverness.
Ellie comes out of the bedroom to see what’s going on. She jumps back in horror and starts to bark.
And… you get the idea.
I turned the lights off. Still barking. I petted the tree and said, “wow, what a not scary tree!”
It works on dogs.
She keeps barking.
Holly wanders in (a lab. Matt’s dog. She lives with me now too. See how grownup I am?).
She hears Ellie barking.
She has no idea why, but obviously doesn’t want to be left out.
Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.
In frustration, I decide, screw it. Back in the box.
I pick up the Santa hat because I am going to take down the tree from the top down. Silence. I put the hat back on. Barking.
My dog thought my tree was Santa.
My dog hates Santa, you guys.
Does this mean I won’t get any presents?
SHUT UP, ROBINSON CANO.
NO one wants to talk to you. No one. No one except Scott Lauber, apparently.
“I’ve gotten a chance to talk to him and he’s a nice guy,” Cano said today from David Ortiz’ celebrity golf event in the Dominican Republic. “I’ve had a chance to meet him at the All-Star Game, and he always seemed cool in talking with everybody. There’s some guys that, you know what, the way they play the game, you say this guy’s not a nice person. But he’s a great person.”
I KNOW he’s a nice guy, Cano. Stop acting like you can even SPELL Youkilis.
And, sure, Robinson. I’m sure Youkie and Joba the Nut would hold hands and skip through the forest. If that forest lives in your brain with what is obviously crack, Robinson Cano.
Seriously, Robinson Cano. Why are you still talking? You have problems of your own.
David Ortiz, can you stop inviting people that annoy me to play golf?
And Kevin Youkilis? Can you quit with the puns? You are making the situation worse.
“The White Sox had pinstripes and nobody ever commented on that,” he tells NY Post.
EVERYONE commented on that. EVERYONE.
It’s really sad when the only one that offers you any amusement on your Friday is Scott Boras.
What a weird world it is today, Soxies.
There really aren’t words.
Well. They are. But I am an adult now. And I’m trying not to SAY those words, see.
I’ve had some time to process. To process that thing. You know. The one I will LINK to, but not say out loud.
There are a lot of emotions right now. Anger. Heartache. Anger. Despair. Anger.
And to find out this way.
I was working a corporate event on no sleep and a hallucinatory caffeine buzz. Go back to office. Open email. Get a “haha” email from a coworker with a Link. This link.
I know what this is, guys. It’s me.
It’s my new job. The new job where I’m making actual money.
The kind you read about. The kind people put in banks.
Like real banks.
Not the kind your sister rules in plastic when you play monopoly.
Like a bank with papers. And ids. And signatures. And cash.
See, I think it’s clear what this is about.
Kevin Youkilis does not like working women.
He is threatened by a strong, career oriented woman. Career women who don’t have time to 100 percent fawn and cry and scream and curse and be fun. Working women who are busy doing things like ironing shirt collars and working and driving and putting actual gas in their car (like, the kind that fills it up, not the kind that goes to the halfway point. The kind that you pay with on the card because the $60 hold on your account won’t compete with your water bill). I’m finally happy and fulfilled and he just can’t stand it. He wants me all to himself, see. He thought he’d pitch a fit. Leave me for the fricking White Sox. Thought that would bring me back. It almost worked, Youkie. It did. But then another project came along and I got busy and… and…
Nope. Still can’t say it.
You’re like Mr. Banks from Mary Poppins. “You know how Mr. Banks hates the cause…”
I would think that you would be proud of me, Youkie. My readers are. Seriously. So many of them have emailed me to see if I’m okay, alive (a few thought the season killed me). They EMAILED ME. They didn’t send me a nuclear bomb of vomit. That’s what you did to me today, Kevin. You sent me a nuclear bomb of vomit.
In the form of…
Nope. Still can’t say it.
I don’t think he’ll do it, guys. I don’t think-
Seriously. I am happier than I have ever been. I have an amazing boyfriend. I-
Oh God. That’s it, isn’t it? You think just because Matt moved in last month (Matt moved in last month! I live with a boy! I live with a boy and sometimes I wash dishes! Well. Um. I have washed a dish! Um. It was a cup. Um. I have a dishwasher. Um. Well. I threw the plastic cup away. Um.) that I don’t have room in my life for you. You did this, Kevin Youkilis. When you left me for Chicago.
What? You didn’t think I’d move on? You didn’t think I could find someone else? Someone taller? Um. SOMEONE WHO CAN REACH THINGS AND CHANGE LIGHT BULBS AND LISTENS TO TAYLOR SWIFT WITH ME SOMETIMES DURING CELEBRITY REHAB COMMERCIALS?????
You NEVER listened to Taylor Swift with me, Kevin Youkilis.
Maybe I want you to go to…
Nope. Still can’t say it.
I’LL CHANGE! I will quit my job! And wear an apron! And wash your dishes!
You know what, Youkie? Do what you want. You’re irrelevant. And your feet are stupid.
Anyone who can’t support me and my career and my goals and dreams (I have goals and dreams now, guys!) can go to…
I didn’t mean that.
YES I DID.
I can’t say it.
You know who can say it?
As for my readers,
I miss you.
I miss baseball.
I do not, will not, won’t ever… MISS BOBBY Valentine.
Oh. And regarding Farrell news, I DO have a statement.
(Interestingly enough, the above link references the job I have RIGHT NOW)
Won’t be another two months. I promise. The nonfunny truth is, my job is really hard. It is really wonderful, but really hard, and required my complete focus. I’m starting to get a grip. Stay tuned.
In the meantime… be happy for me?
And ignore this Youkilis news. It shall go away. Yes. It shall.
He wouldn’t do that, people.
JEB WANTS this to happen. HE SAID SO ON FACEBOOK.