It’s raining, it’s pouring, the Boyfriend is snoring… and keeping me awake!

Life, at Casa de Goodman, is good right now.

I’m thin, I’m happy, and I’m cohabitating with a guy who likes folding the laundry, sharing the cooking, emptying the dishwasher, walking my dog when it’s cold out, and organizing the kitchen. Aka all of the stuff that I suck at/would rather jump off a cliff than do. He even thinks I look better without makeup than with it (okay, so his vision clearly sucks, but that’s okay by me!), and for some completely and utterly inexplicable reason, he loves me for the total weirdo that I am.

There’s just one teeny, tiny, itty bitty, little, inconsequential-to-anyone-else-but-potentially-insurmountable-to-me problem.

He snores.

Loudly.

Every night.

And I’m the world’s lightest sleeper/an insomniac on a good night.

Houston, we have a problem.

Especially because no sleep for Sara is the approximate equivalent of no tv and no beer for Homer Simpson.

So, like with all of life’s great problems, I turned to my mother for help. My father is a chronic snorer, and I knew she’d have a solution for me.

Unfortunately, I forgot about Operation Mama Goodman Wants Grandchildren, so her answer was to suck it up and deal with it.

Thanks mom.

Next, I tried talking to the Boyfriend about finding a solution.  He claims he does not snore.  Despite the fact that he snores so loudly that he often wakes HIMSELF up with his snores, then looks at me and says, “Did you hear something?”  At which point, he claims it was our upstairs neighbors, whom I firmly believe are either rolling a boulder Sisyphus-style across the floor every night or else are engaged in the BEST game of Raiders of the Lost Ark EVER.  (If it’s the latter, I so want to go play with them.  If it’s the former, they just need to cut that crap out.)  But that’s never what actually jolts him awake in the middle of the night.  It’s his snoring.

It was time to solve this problem on my own. I already have a white noise machine, but the Boyfriend is louder than that. Actually, he’s louder than the combination of my white noise machine, the white noise app on my phone (used for travel), an oscillating fan, and a rabid platypus giving birth to a full-sized rhinoceros. Which meant that my first solution (earplugs—but the super cute, Holly Golightly-styled tassel ones, dahling) was ineffective.

And, as my best friend constantly reminds me, I look terrible in orange. So plotting his death, while satisfying at 3am when he’s sprawled like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man across the entire bed, with Rosie sleeping on my side in the sliver of space left for me, and snoring louder than the Concord’s sonic booms, is out of the question.

Plus, I’d miss him (albeit not his snoring or bed hogging) if he was gone.

But this is really a safety issue. Not just because I’m even more sleep deprived than usual and am therefore far more statistically likely to fall asleep at the wheel, make soap, start an underground fight club, and/or shop for shoes I don’t need and can’t afford as a form of stress relief. But because when the zombies finally attack, we won’t survive the first night. They’d hear him snoring no matter how well we hid and then Rosie and I would be devoured as well. And that is simply unacceptable.

I read online that snoring is most common when someone sleeps on his back. So even though I’m the world’s least cuddly sleeper, I figured that telling him I wanted to cuddle could fix the problem.

It did not. It just meant that he was snoring directly into my ear.

And apparently he can’t breathe when I put my pillow over his face to muffle the sound. I kind of felt like that was his problem, not mine. But he disagreed, and I wasn’t trying to fight. These are the sacrifices you make for a successful relationship, people.

I contemplated the idea of trying to convince him that a gag would really be a sexy role-playing thing as opposed to a method of forcing nose-breathing, but I don’t want to open that door. No offense to anyone who’s into that stuff, but it’s just not my thing. AT ALL. Let’s blame Pulp Fiction for my aversion to anything along those lines. But when it’s being forced on Marcellus Wallace, I just don’t find it appealing. And neither does Marcellus Wallace.

So I tried gently waking him up when he starts to snore. At which point I was mauled by a wild bear. Or at least that’s what I thought was happening, because he does a pretty good impression of a mauling wild bear when woken unexpectedly mid-snore. Some Bactine and a Tetanus shot later, I won’t be trying that again.


Then I had a Dorothy-with-the-ruby-slippers kind of revelation. I’ve always had the ability to make him stop snoring. I just needed to figure it out for myself.

It was so simple! I have a dog. And that dog has a bark control collar! No, not the shock kind. I couldn’t handle that (on Rosie. It might be funny on the Boyfriend. No, it wouldn’t. But it would be HILARIOUS on someone ELSE’s boyfriend. Note to self—suggest shock collar to someone else who has the same problem). She has the kind that sprays her in the face with water when she barks, which stops the barking, makes me laugh hysterically, and sends her to hide in terror under the bed.

Perfect.

Of course, there are two problems with this solution: I probably still won’t be able to get a good night’s sleep because of the insomnia issue and the Boyfriend definitely won’t be able to get a good night’s sleep due to the being sprayed in the face with water every time he snores issue.

But on the plus side, remember how good Brad Pitt’s abs looked in Fight Club? There are benefits to not being able to sleep I suppose. You’re just not allowed to talk about them.

I was dumped by a male stripper who I wasn’t dating. Just a typical Sara day…

I am single. Yes, at my age. Shut up.

Being single, however, isn’t the end of the world because I was never the girl who was desperate to get married. I don’t have a dream wedding (okay, I say it’s Rabbi Elvis in Vegas, but mostly because I honestly don’t care about that crap). I never put a towel on my head and pretended it was a veil. And at weddings, when the bride throws the bouquet? You can find me cowering in the corner, rocking like an autistic child and chanting, “They’re just flowers. They can’t MAKE me get married. They’re just flowers.”

But I AM dating. Which, as I get older (not old, older. Call me old and die), gets harder and harder to do because I’m starting to think that the guys left in the dating pool are the crazy weirdos who no one else wanted.

 That or I am just somehow a magnet for psychos, who have smelled my blood in the water and are circling me like rabid sharks moving in for the kill.

For example, I got dumped this weekend.

By a male stripper.

Who I had never even gone on a date with.

Yes. For real.

I met this guy about three weeks ago. He was hot. He was tall. And despite the first two qualifications, he was Jewish! AND he wasn’t even related to me (I’d begun to believe that the only tall Jews on the planet are in my family. We are generally a short, hairy, gold-loving Hobbit-like people). Clearly he was soul mate material. This was fate. Beshert, if you will. So I gave him my number.

He calls the next day (which I now recognize as a sign of crazy. Normal guys wait a day or two. But following the How I Met Your Mother Hot/Crazy Scale, we were still in the acceptable range).

We start talking and he mentions a photo shoot that he needs to leave town for. I laugh and ask, “What? Are you like a model or something?” He tells me yes, I crack a Zoolander joke, conversation continues. But he’d mentioned a law degree, so I ask what his real job is. I mean, he was cute, but I wouldn’t think he was cute enough to be professionally good looking.

At which point he tells me he’s in “entertainment.”

Now I’ve been around the block a few times. I once dated a guy who told me he was in “sales,” which actually meant that he was a drug dealer. So I hear “entertainment” and a little warning bell goes off in my head.

“Entertainment? What does that mean exactly?”

Long pause.

“Actually, I’m a stripper. And, in the interest of full disclosure, most of my modeling work is nude.”

Okay, so he wasn’t going to be my soul mate. Yes, I’ve been offered jobs stripping. And yes, I’ve had guys ask me to do nude modeling. The difference here is that I laughed in those people’s faces because I have ZERO desire to do either of those things. You want to see me naked? Buy me dinner and, at the very least, feign interest in my books, Bruce Springsteen, and Rosie. Sticking cash in my underwear isn’t gonna do it for me. Sorry boys.

But I’m pretty open-minded. I was willing to keep talking to the guy. Strike two came when asked me to come watch him strip that night. Um, no. And when I said that I had plans (which, okay, I didn’t, but sitting at home with Rosie and Netflix ranks higher than going to a male strip club. Seriously. Not my scene), he asked for my email address.

Why did he want that? Oh, because he wanted to send me nude pictures of himself to use for my “private girl time.” Yes. He actually said that. Guess how long I stayed on the phone for after that? Did you guess less than 10 seconds? If so, you guessed high!

I got off the phone, texted my seven favorite people on the planet and told them the story in all of its hilarious glory, and thought that was the end of it. (Note: almost all of my girl friends wanted to know why I didn’t get the pictures to show them. Sickos. I love you, but you’re dirty, dirty girls!)

But no, that’s NEVER the end of it in Sara-land! I live in a world where people will drive down from New York City just to call me an inappropriate name in a record store (happened last month and let me tell you, it was SUPER fun).

So Friday night (three weeks after our one and only phone conversation), he called me and I got an earful about what an awful person I am. Apparently I’m fake and dishonest for ignoring his phone calls (he never called between that first call and Friday’s call), not answering his emails (never got any emails either, even checked my spam folder), and for leading him on when I never had any intention of being with him. Then he told me that while I may look good, he’s done with me and we’re over. Which confused the hell out of me because I didn’t realize we were under. But okay. Peace out, crazy stripper dude.

I’d love to say that it’s them, not me. But getting dumped by a stripper who I never went out with was so not strange to me that I’m starting to realize it has to be me who is attracting the crazies. I don’t know exactly what it is about me. Maybe there’s a crazy pheromone and I just give it off. Maybe there’s some Statue of Liberty like sign above my head that says, “Give me your crazy, your unbalanced, your huddled masses yearning to stalk me…”

Whatever it is, I think I’m going to start requiring a full psych evaluation before I give my number out to the next guy. So if you want to take me out, but see the axe-murdering monkey demon that lives in your closet on every card of the ink-blot test, don’t be surprised when you get a fake number from me.

It makes great fodder for my blog and all, but I’m getting tired of getting dumped by guys I’m not even dating.

The real origin of Valentine’s Day–hint, look at its initials

And it’s that oh-so-wonderful day of the year when I want to punch most people I see in the face.

No, I don’t mean every day that ends in “y” (am I really that cranky that often? Geez… I might need anger management!). I am, of course, referring to Valentine’s Day.

I know, I know, surprise, surprise, the single girl who’s probably going to die alone with seventeen cats (which is truly a fate worse than death, because as anyone who knows me knows, I REALLY hate cats) hates Valentine’s Day. But I’m about to break girl code here and let you guys in on a secret: most girls hate Valentine’s Day even more than you do.

Before I explain, I do want to point out that there are two major groups of girls who are exceptions to this rule. The first group is easy to spot because they have WAY too many stuffed animals in their bedroom. They also have an abnormal attachment to the color pink and have at least one picture of a kitten on their wall. And they’re over the age of six. If you find yourself dating one of these girls, you’d better go all out for Valentine’s Day.


Like seriously, flowers, giant stuffed bears, candy, jewelry, engagement rings, a yacht ready to take you to a Greek isle, etc. Even if you’ve only been dating for a week. Anything less than this will result in a temper tantrum that would make the apocalypse seem minor. But I have no sympathy for you in this case. Because you ignored the warning signs and CHOSE to date this girl in February. You made your own pink, stuffed-animal lined bed. Now enjoy the suffering that Valentine’s Day entails for you. And just think, you get to do it all over again in 364 days.


The second group of girls who love Valentine’s Day are the girls who are in a relationship but have primarily single friends. The reason that these girls love Valentine’s Day so much is the same reason why they torture their friends with ridiculous hazing activities as soon as they are engaged and pick seventeen of their closest friends to be their bridesmaids. It’s because 364 days of the year, they’re jealous of their single friends who can come and go as they please and don’t have to deal with you leaving the toilet seat up. So when they find one day (or two, if it’s a year when they’re getting married) to feel superior, they love it. So if you’re with one of these girls, you’re expected to treat her as if she were the pink/stuffed-animal/kitten loving type of girl, or else face the consequences.

You’ve been warned.

The majority of us, however, recognize that it’s pointless.

That being said, if you’re in a relationship, you’re still expected to make a tremendously flashy show of how much you love us. Not because we need that reassurance. But because we’re hugely competitive and if Suzy from the cubicle next to ours gets a better present than we did, she gets to lord it over us for the next year. And we do NOT want to let that happen. So just like diamonds and penis size (sorry—just being honest here!), when it comes to Valentine’s Day gifts, bigger is ALWAYS better.

But now that that’s out of the way, let’s take a moment to mock the holiday’s origin. According to Wikipedia, which, as we all know, is NEVER wrong, Valentine’s Day began in 1832 as a day on which all sexual partners were expected to be able to confess to any “delicate” diseases that they may have picked up without retribution. Hence the initials, VD. Which, for those of you born after 1980, is what people used to call STDs.

In fact, this is where Valentine’s Cards came from. Because some people didn’t want to flat out SAY, “I want you to know that you may now have Chlamydia.” So they tried to come up with clever and witty ways to warn their partners that they were probably now infected. That’s also why candy, flowers, and presents began to go with those cards, because it’s harder to get mad at the person who gave you syphilis if they also gave you flowers.

(Not really. I think I’d be just as mad. But in theory, I guess the presents could help. In theory.)

So it’s a little-known fact that the first “Roses are red, violets are blue” poem REALLY read, “Roses are red, violets are blue, a hooker gave me the clap, and now you have it too.”

The classic card that Ralph Wiggam gave Lisa Simpson saying, “I choo-choo-choose you,” originated as “I choo-choo-chose someone else first and wound up with crabs.”

Not quite as sweet, but far more informative.

Even William Shakespeare’s classic “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,” didn’t start as innocent as it wound up. He originally said, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? After we fooled around, it burns when I pee.” (It’s true, ask Wikipedia!)

More modern sentiments of love came from these older Valentine confessional cards. Contrary to popular belief, 50 Cent took his “I love you like a fat kid loves cake,” from Emily Dickinson’s “I love you like a fat kid loves cake, but unlike you, cake never gave me herpes.”

So how did we get from confessing the diseases gathered from infidelity to the supposed most romantic day of the year?

Easy. A little company called Hallmark launched a massive cover-up conspiracy so all-inclusive that Amelia Earhart’s last flight, JFK’s assassination, the Roswell aliens, the extinction of the dinosaurs, and the disappearance of the Mayans are all a part of it.

I’d tell you more, but then Hallmark would have to kill me.

In fact, since I started writing this, Wikipedia’s Valentine’s Day entry has mysteriously changed to some made-up story about “Saint Valentine.” Right. Because THAT sounds real.

In summary, it’s a pointless holiday. But I’ll take flowers, candy, jewelry, shoes, or any other presents you’d like to give me any day of the year. Including today.