Middle-Class Matchmaker: With A Low Success Rate

I am sure everyone is more than familiar with the Millionaire Matchmaker, a third-generation matchmaker who has claimed her own spot on Bravo. Pairing her plethora of female beauties with socially-inept/awkward/smelly/workaholic/overly-confident dbag millionaires.

Not that I watch endless hours of matchmaking reality (seriously, it’s real).

Or hold mixers that I invite my entire friend groups to in hopes that I can then force them onto one another.

Unlike Patti Stanger, I have one of the lowest success rates in match making history. I have not dedicated my life to pairing off all 700+ of my Facebook friends. If they really needed someone to date they could go to the sleaziest source possible: Match.com. Rather, my single friends must succumb to my continual social pressure to date each other.

And it’s really not forcing, more intense encouragement fueled by direct comments, constant questioning and extensive texts. Also, less of a mixer type environment and more of a ‘whoops, you both stopped by at the same time — let’s drink!’ But who’s paying attention to the details?

I like to think that each of my matches has the potential for the long-term. Not that I put a ridiculous amount of time, thought or true consideration into these pairs. BUT both parties are almost always single…

Foyfriends don’t count. (Foyfriend = Fake + Boyfriend) If it’s not FBO — Facebook official, keep up. Who are you? My mom? — it’s not real.

I can say with great confidence that not only do I have an extremely low success rate, I also have found myself saying ‘oh get over it’ on more than one account, since as it happens when you cross-mingle friend groups in an attempt to balance your social calendar out for sole personal gain and you fail miserably – said failed attempts can create someone awkward situations (ye!).

(Did I just admit to you that I try to set my friends up for my own personal gain? Nooooo….)

My first attempt was almost too perfect. D stopped by and K was over..could it have been fate that they were both single? Or pure serendipity? As most of you know, I am obsessed with all things of a serendipitous nature and convinced myself that said pair could not fail.

Wrong.

The next try was much more successful, however can I truly credit myself when it was S that called and asked my permission to take out K’s sister? Sure can, if it statistically helps me. If at any point things between them end, I refute all responsibility.

I am not sure about the next non-couple…as once again I really was not that involved in the whole process. Regardless, they know each other because of me…which could be good or bad depending on how you review the tapes.

And now that I sit down to think about it, I realize that I am a miserable 2 for 3. To make it even worse, three of the six people involved are related. I am sure that since all six of you read my blog, and four of you are probably annoyed that I publicly outed your failed relationships — please wait to thank me later.

Caution: Vodka Required

Are you an out of work actor? Did you almost make it as a dancer then
fail miserably? Did you not get enough of the club this weekend? Do
you dream of one day understanding how to do an accelerated strip tease?

Well then, friend, Zumba is for you.

Last Wednesday I had my first Zumba experience. I started my workout with N at kickboxing — a class that gave me a healthy ka-pow of reality. As it happens, I am less coordinated than I have always thought and jab-punch-cross-turn-knee’d myself into confusion for an entire hour. I sweated. I learned combo moves, just like old school Street Fighter. I even threw off the overly-know-it-all next to me’s rhythm, sending her into a spiral of confusion. Overall, give me a few more practice rounds, and I will be upper-cut/round-house kick/jump/arm/hobbling with the best of them in kickboxing.

But Zumba. Oooooh Zumba…how you tortured me. N describes our
instructor as ‘great.’ Me on the other hand? Well, you have all heard
my feelings on my devil hot yogi, so I am sure you are thinking I am
going to take this that direction. WRONG. Nay, she was not the devil.
She even forewarned us that her style had hip-hop roots and sometimes
she didn’t talk so really ‘try to follow along.’

Background for you: I have trouble with the Cha-Cha-Slide.
Specifically the Cha-Cha part. This does not bode well during a Zumba
class. I have included the link for those of you unfamiliar with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZv62ShoStY
“>Casper’s Cha-Cha-Slide.

During my experience, I believe said instructor was trying to say
“left foot” but her annunciation was muffled by the PARTY that was
going on around her…however “sexy time” was more than
understandable, and I learned where everyone goes to drop it like its
hot while sober.

I’m not entirely sure that it’s healthy to consider a vodka-tonic pre-workout, however in this case it might be necessary. I always thought I was not only a competent dancer, but also a confident one. Never failing to flock to the dance floor in uncomfortable shoes, could it be that my Brooks were holding me back? Constricting my already wobbling ankles from the ability to roll, twist and slip at their will? Or maybe my sports bra was keeping the girls from moving freely? Maybe it was that the workout room provided space to move/slide/sexy time around without using another body as a bumper guard.

Because, really? There is no way I have vodka goggles about my dancing ability. It’s just not possible.

Is that a CROWN?!

Today while I was at work, keeping a watchful eye on all the important news headlines (you know the ones I mean: Facebook, Gmail and my iPhone) I had a birthday epiphany. Tomorrow while I am reminding anyone and everyone of my birthday with a repetitious “IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” I will have no way of pictorially conveying this via emoticon.

That’s right, I said emoticon. How will you know I am wearing my princess crown? Even though it is an assumption you should make since IT’S MY BIRTHDAY.

And when I try to Facebook you to remind you that you forgot the most important should-be national holiday, will you truly understand the severity without said Princess crown emoticon? Probably not.

So I want to know who I need to call to make this happen. It’s 11:30…giving me somewhere around 29-minutes to get it figured out. Yes, the probability is zero. Don’t kill a sistahs dream, it’s NOT your birthday*.

While I am on topic and you are busy creating emoticons, what about a nose-goes? I constantly find myself losing text battles. Maybe I am a push over, or MAYBE if we had a nose-goes emoticon I wouldn’t be constricted to arguing then quickly folding.

Now, please excuse me — I have to go polish my crown before midnight.

And find my sash.

*If it is, in fact, your birthday, making you my birthday twin – HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Attention Target Addicts

Tonight while I was doing a typical round-about through the Holy Grail of all shopping establishments, K and I debated on Target’s actual hours. Turns out, they close at eleven. Eleven PM! It’s like Christmas-come-early in the Lara household tonight. WEEE!!

Nothing about perusing the aisles of Target at 10:30 pm on a Monday seemed out of the ordinary to me. I am the night owl who yearns for the holidays simply for the extended shopping hours. I swear I am the most productive any one person can be after 9 pm. So, doing laps to combine entertainment, a shopping fix and obvious workout (it was too drizzly to walk the lake) seemed completely normal.

Until I got the following text:

“Wait you’re at Target NOW?”

Crap. My obsession has been exposed. Maybe if I play dumb he’ll never realize that I am dodging the question. “Huh?”

“You said you’re at Target again…like right now?”

As it happens, the “I can’t hear you, I’m going through a tunnel” doesn’t work via text message. Something about the signal working and the person on the other end actually receiving the text in a decent matter of time. Avoidance is probably your best option here.

Target is the one-stop-shop that no one can refuse. If you’re immediate response to this was, “I can” then we probably aren’t really friends, and if we are I’m faking it. (Speaking of faking it, I saw a girl I went to high school with there tonight. As our paths crossed, no contact of any sort was made. Pft. Some Facebook friend she is.)

It’s two floors of extensive homeware meets ‘designed by [insert designer I’ve never heard of before] for Target’ meets everything but produce grocery shopping…all of which equals a mecca of happiness in my world.

And it was here that K and I realized we may, or may not – because let’s not jump to conclusions, be a combination of impulse shoppers…also known as addicts. While avoiding a simple “Yes, I am at Target,” K slinked over to the cart with a box of Kashi, which she clearly needed and was obviously on her Target list under ‘argyle socks’ (YAY for MY birthday!) and above ‘book for Mom.’ As I piled in a few G2’s, because you never know when dehydration can hit even though it’s probably a Sunday morning (lush!), on top of everything else I deemed ‘needed,’ K had an epiphany.

“We need to go. ASAP.” Turns out, what’s NOT normal is trying to figure out how you can utilize pastel-colored, bunny-shaped Marshmellows. Or the butterfly cookie cutters next to them. Oooooh Target clearance, how I love thee.

Did I need eggs? No.
Did I buy a cartoon of eggs because they were only 10¢? Yes.
THEY WERE 10¢!! Again with the clearance.

Now, as it happens, friends/pals/champs, I am exhausted from all of the walking/escalatoring I did earlier tonight.

What’s escalatoring? Yes, it is exactly as it sounds. And no, I do not ride the escalators as a mean of entertainment…although now that you mention it, I will probably be the mom that lets her child try to run up the down escalator. Why? Because I find the hampster-wheel effect extremely hilarious, and well, if s/he’s fast enough it will be an ice cream worthy feat. If not, I can always adopt-out.

Escalatoring is essential during your Target-tour. It’s inevitable that you will forget the sponges, convince yourself they are on the floor you are headed to and then realize that no, in fact, they are on the floor you just left.

Way to go genius. (Read: me.)

Because of this, you want to master the art of riding the Target escalators. Getting your cart to go up the cart escalator without jamming it. And managing to avoid that dang child that is running the opposite direction in hopes that her asshat of a mother will buy her ice cream.

For all of you that are wondering, no, my mother never let me do this. Rather, there were extensive escalator rules that a child known to go rogue such as myself was reminded of frequently.

Tax Free Tanning

Recently, the Obama administration passed a controversial health care bill – wait, don’t get your granderwear in a twist too quickly because that isn’t what I am talking about today. Today, I want to tell you plain and simple: I am pro tan.

It’s true, dear stalkers, I enjoy my skin a shade at least three-times as dark as it currently is..more of a light caramel rather than a light white.

One: Don’t judge me. I live in Seattle, it’s March and my skin hasn’t seen real sun since September.
Two: I most definitely do not go to tanning beds.

Which is why Obama’s 10% tanning tax doesn’t bother me in the least. If you didn’t already know, in addition to being a clever writer and the most fun person ever, I am also quite a shopper. Taxes are obnoxious, tacked on at the end of your purchase, making your already spendy-trip that much spendier. Ugh.

However they are necessary. Or something.

And now, they are annoying sorority girls everywhere – dreaming of a SoCal life all the while pretending like they are supposed to be that color when it’s barely 40-degrees out and raining. All. The. Time. Let’s not get started on their hair color, but really? You had to go MORE BLONDE?

Quick tip: You can avoid that extra $2-$3 pretty easily. Stop trying to accelerate your imminent skin cancer, and get that color for free poolside. What’s that? Yes, poolside. I am aware that these close seasonally, and if there is no sun out this method is less effective.

News flash: Unless you live somewhere where the sun it OUT and you can comfortably wear a swimsuit outside, you shouldn’t be a dark shade of tan. To be quite frank, you are making me feel whiter (yes, a me-problem, I know) and to be even more honest, you look like an over-cooked chicken. Your teathery-skin and deep, dark color is clearly fake…so much like your implants, we all know you’re lying.

Considering that tanning beds/salons will never be a seasonal option, I think it’s best that you take all that money you want to spend on tanning and put it in a jar. Then once you feel like Casper, count your money and book a trip somewhere warm. First thing you can do once your plane lands is get a tan.

And guess what else? Now we are stimulating the travel economy. Everybody wins. I bet Obama is going to be thrilled with my genius plan. Stimulating travel, while decreasing the use of human size rotisserie cookers. It’s just too bad Ron Popeil isn’t around every time you climb into one of those contraptions.