Why Being a Single Gal Can Actually Be Sad…

Ok, for the most part on here…when I say “sad” I don’t mean it like…

Creepy. As. FUCK

Creepy. As. FUCK

….I more so mean it like… Continue reading

The Missed Connection We All Wish Was About Us…

So I have seen a few friends post this on facebook, and it literally is the most amazing missed connection that ever was. It almost makes you want to smile at all the strangers you see in case you can make a magical connection with them, but then you realize you have been doing that anyway….and it usually turns out to be a full on monet. Oh you know what I’m talking about…


And now on to the most wonderful missed connection that ever was:


Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT

Missed Connection – m4w

I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.

I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you’re looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.

Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you — maybe pretend I didn’t know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, “Hot day.” It all seemed so stupid.

At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it — a biography of Lyndon Johnson — but I noticed you never once turned a page.

My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn’t get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.

I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.

Still I said nothing.

We took the train all the way back down — down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.

Still I said nothing.

And so we went back up.

Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I’ll talk to her before Newkirk; I’ll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.

For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I’d get text messages and voicemails (“Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?”) until my phone ran out of battery.

I’ll talk to her before daybreak; I’ll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we’ve passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, “Well, this is inconvenient,” but I couldn’t very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed — why hadn’t I said “Bless You”? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.

There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She’s reading her book, I thought, she doesn’t want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we’d immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we’d both think: Young Love.

For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you’d glanced at a neighbor’s newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.

One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn’t done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.

It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.

When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.

But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.

I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.

  • it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Posting ID: 3985247459

Posted: 2013-08-06, 6:50PM EDT

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There Might Be Some Actual Truth to The Crazy Cat Lady Theory

There Might Be Some Actual Truth to The Crazy Cat Lady Theory

So the upside to not going out on weekend nights and working, is that I get to hear super informative stories on the radio (I’m kidding….cause these things really don’t equate). But in fact sometimes I do hear really interesting things on the radio. Yeah, the radio….and it isn’t even satellite.

The other evening on my ride home while all my other friends were probably out drinking away their weeks and meeting the men of their dreams (hahah….a hilarious notion in Los Angeles), this story came on about Parasites. Gross, I know. Someone was actually talking about putting these worms he poops into people’s stomaches to cure disease. Um, no thanks. But then this story started called “The Scratch” about a woman who was pregnant and was scratched by her cat.

The Scratch (full audio…it’s radio, so no image DUH)

So if you don’t feel like listening to the above, basically this woman gets scratched by her cat, and the problem is that he has poop in his paw. (making a gross thing like a cat even grosser…eww). And the real problem is that the baby can get very sick if the mom gets toxoplasmosis. So the woman consults an expert, who explains that toxo doesn’t want to be in her, it wants to be in cats. But when cats poop, the parasite exits in the poop (sorry this is gross, but I have my point, I promise). And commonly, the expert says, the cat will poop outside, a rat will eat the poop and that is what most often gets infected with toxo.

457px-Toxoplasma_gondii_Life_cycle_PHIL_3421_loresBut this is where it gets super interesting. The toxo travels to the rat’s brain and takes over the Amygdala. And for those of you that don’t remember what the Amygdala is from the amazing Ashley Judd/ Hugh Jackman film, Someone Like You, the amygdala is involved in the processing of emotions such as fear, anger and pleasure. 510GM8WNCQL

And what the toxo parasite does by controlling the amygdala in the rat is tricks the it into thinking it is attracted to cats! Meaning that when your cat brings a dead rat into the house, it’s probably not because it was chasing the rat down….rather the rat was attracted to your cat!

So what does this have to do with cats and people? Well, they aren’t entirely sure yet, but there is some believe that Schizophrenia is linked to this toxoplasmosis in humans. Now if you are like, what??? This makes no sense, let’s think this out for a sec. Piece by Piece. Now for a recent example of Schizophrenia in the news, I point to Amanda Bynes. We all think of Amanda Bynes as normal, as the funny girl on All That!, and somehow Colin Firth’s daughter in What a Girl Wants. But lately she has been doing things like burning random people’s driveways and her dog, throwing bongs out windows, and the worst offense, walking outside with these wigs.


So think of it this way, let’s say a person got a cat, which then infected them with Toxo. It could then make them feel like they loved cats, always had to be around cats, had to get more, and more, and more cats!!!! Well, pretty soon that could be the crazy lady with 25 cats, who talks to them like real people, only things her cats matter, and thinks dogs are out to get her babies (her cats). And, oh, maybe that Tom and Jerry are real?


So fair warning, if you already own one cat, and are about to get another…..maybe get checked for a parasite before you become the little old lady with a billion cats that everyone thinks is nuts….that person that just is a little bit too into her cats!images-2

How I Reclaimed My Youth (AKA Got Busy With A Cowboy)

It’s clearly been awhile since I’ve posted, which is a combo of a few things:

  1. In the recent months as a babysitter, my target age range has been the under 7 year old set
  2. I work nights when most people go out and
  3. I guess I can be a little lame at times….
Yes, this exists. And I know a lot about it.

Yes, this exists. And I know a lot about it.

Continue reading

Instagram….for all the Sad Single things I do

Now you can see them all! Follow me @SadSingleGal. I would embed it in to the blog, but wordpress hasn’t quite caught up to 2013 with that….

Screen Shot 2013-05-05 at 10.44.56 PM

Click me and check out my instagram page!!!