The Art of making it Through a Monday After Sunday Funday

Sunday Funday starts with Brunch. Get out of bed and put on a statement outfit head to chosen destination and get the day rolling. Things start escalating at different levels.

After consuming a wide range of alcoholic beverages … cider beer (pairs excellent with the hangover), vodka grapefruits (splash of cran), mimosas (obligatory),  sangria (why the hell not), shots of DRs (your feeling ill after all), coffee (+ baileys and whiskey obviously), a few beers, and finally chardonnay (nothing like ending the day with 1-5 glasses of chard, am i right?) some how, it’s 7AM and your alarm is going off, wait, no, that’s not your alarm, who’s phone is this? Oh, you found a Sunday Husband! No time to think, no time to ask questions this is where you need to step into go mode, you’re late and on a mission: 1. get coffee 2. get to work. I like to approach this utter confusion by taking a quick shower and throwing on something extra professional. Looking put together gives me the confidence I need to face the day. My coworkers will never know I spent 8 hours sitting on various Southie bar stools yesterday, while I am spending 8 agonizing hours sitting in my office chair convulsing and simultaneously texting/snapchatting my friends about it. Today isn’t going to be productive. Make a list, what NEEDS to be done. Do it. Get lunch, come back to work, and read various blogs for the afternoon. Sounds simple, it’s not. The work place is going to seem like a battle field, spoiler: you aren’t winning! Your boss is going to want a 1:1 meeting, oh great. Earlier today I almost fell  asleep in a meeting with my boss and he asked if I was OK, and suggested I have a coffee… at the end of the meeting he actually said “I will go buy you a coffee”. So I’m sleeping in my bosses office, But I have on a really nice j.crew pencil skirt, my theory is out the window, the outfit isn’t actually helping. The day will have ups and downs, mostly downs. 2:00 PM, oh three hours left, I can make it! 2:10 PM, two hours and 50 minutes left, I’m nevverrrrr going to make it. 2:11 PM my head is so heavy I must rest it on my desk.

Eventually, the moment you thought would never arrive, arrives.  IT’S 5:00 PM.

I can feel soft flannel of my LLBean pillowcase against my cheek and my down comforter wrapped around me, providing the perfect amount of warmth. How fast can I walk that mile home? I feel so weak. Somehow, I will muster up the energy, motivated by the thought of taking the god damn skirt off, climbing into bed and embarking on a Netflix binge!

Congratulations, you made it… 4 days until the weekend!


Chapter One: Introduction to Husband Hunting

I guess start with some general background information….. 20something who is now closer to 30…

I have recently joined my single friend in what we like to refer to as “Husband Hunting”. Previously I was living in a one bedroom apartment with my boyfriend. Then, for a few heavenly months, I was living in the same one bedroom apartment with my xboyfriend (That’s the same person for you fucking idiots that couldn’t figure it out). “Husband Hunting” if you will, is essentially delusional dating, a way to make light of the fact that most of my efforts to flirt or engage with the opposite sex all end the same way… crash, burn, and cinder.

This reality struck me one Saturday afternoon at STATS, sorry I’m not sorry.

I am neutral to the idea of being single, but my friends don’t think it will last. Personally, I think it’s more likely that I just joined the single for life club. Only time will tell as I live the warped deranged life of a twenty something trying to date.


Disclaimer: I have no experience blogging, minimal experience dating, and like I mentioned it’s very likely I am so damaged that I am going to remain single for life.

Next subject. Sunday demons . What keeps us all awake on Sunday nights wondering if satan is going to remove our souls in our sleep because the bender we just went on and sins we committed make us not worthy enough to be a human on earth. That is where the puppy boyfriend comes in. Someone who can sleep next to you to keep the satanic clan from relinquishing your soul. The puppy boyfriend isn’t a potential husband, he’s a figuasie. A fake. A fraud.