Tonight I don't want to write about how I enjoyed non-cheap bottles of wine with twenty other people while stuffing my face full of hors d'ouevres having such a good time that I forgot to think about that one boy who should have been there (sap). So instead, it is Reminisce on an Old Entry Day. Here's one from exactly a year ago.

What do a priest, a socialite and my mother have in common?
They've all tried to set me up on a date.
Or at least, throw a frickin' bone at me. Oops, no pun intended.
That's right. In the past week, I have had these three people ask me that question dreaded by all Singletons: "So. How's your love life?" Never mind that I totally pilfered that bit from Helen Fielding, it was horrid. At least I am now given three Plans by which I will successfully find a mate, as duly prescribed by those same three people.

Plan A. The Priestly Path.
He lives near Coventry and I guess his neighbor is this Italian dude. Mama mia! Never mind how I got into this conversation with a priest in the first place ... he brought it up! Anyway, he said he would like for me to meet his friend, because he's pretty special. Okaaay ...

Plan B. The Sourceful Socialite.
Her son is pre-law at OSU. First time I met him, he was in a towel, just out of the pool. Nice.
When she told me he was spending 9 weeks in Oxford next year, I immediately thought, "Duh ... maybe we can hang out!" and then it clicked and I realized, Radiohead Oxford, England Oxford. Makes sense. So then she said, "I'll have him give you a call. He'll be home in about three weeks." Yeah, sure, as if anybody listens to their mothers anymore. I'm not getting my hopes up for this one, and besides, if it doesn't work out, he's got a brother. Just kidding.

Plan C. Mother, May I?
One of her friends has a son, blah blah blah, you all know how that goes. Let me reiterate what I said in Plan B: when moms bring up 'luuuurve', we all go deaf. Or at least, I do.

I think for now, I will opt for Plan D. But instead of Vodka and Chaka Khan, I choose green tea and Starsailor.

Update: Plan D is going on just fine.
Here's another one from April 28, 2002.

[:from me to you, peggy sue:]
A coupla things:
1. I cannot find the remote, the clicker, the channel-changer and I am quite peeved. Pissed. Also: pathetic. But you know, my TV makes this annoying clicky sound whenever I manually change the channel or turn up the volume, so you see, I am just a TV connosieur.
2. You know that one cousin/neighbor that swears by putting toothpaste on a zit? Yeah, they're on crack. It does leave the skin minty-fresh and fluoride-clean, however. Not that I've ever tried it, either.
3. I know that I've expressed my wish to decrease my blogging, but hah, that ain't gonna happen anytime soon. I think it about it this way: I'm just making up for the time over the summer when I will have a life. Then y'all are gonna miss my random kookiness. You knows it.
4. I am listening to my "Summer Ibiza" CD. Granted, I've never been to Ibiza, but I assume this is what they play there. It's on because it reminds me of summer, my favorite season, and of Ibiza. God, I love that place. Did I say Ibiza? I meant California.
5. About oh-point-five seconds right now (coz that's how fast it takes me to type, no shit) I will finally get my ass to the shower and then return to the wonderfulness that is my soggy Econ book. Why is it soggy? Might be because of the thousand tears that I've shed over it the past three months. Okay, I lied. More like past three hours. By this time tomorrow, I will be rid of it -- forever [cool echoing effect ensues...].

Update: 1. I found the remote. But then that wasn't the problem, the TV was on the fritz. So I ended up chucking it (the TV and the remote) when I moved out, which I regret now because I could've made something of it (like one of those cool aquariums-in-a-TV). With my addiction to date and reality shows, I am obviously still a connosieur of TV.
2. I've moved on from toothpaste to ice.
3. Hmm...
4. I still love that CD. Still haven't been to Ibiza.
5. A year later, all I remember from that class is my professor's nasty long fingernails.