11 Jul

Sacramento365.com's Blog

As a little girl, I remember singing “A Part of Your World” at the top of my lungs, which I now recognize makes my parents nothing less than saints. From the looks of the audience in attendance of Music Circus’ production of The Little Mermaid, little girls and their families (and grown-up children like me) are still head over heals for Ariel and her pals under the sea.

Based on the popular animated Disney film, this staging of The Little Mermaid follows the story of a young mermaid who dreams of living life on the sand. Featuring popular songs like “Under the Sea” and “Kiss the Girl,” and (of course) “Part of Your World,” this film-to-stage adaptation also includes new songs that are sure to become favorites.

Remarkably, the show does a wonderful job of making the set appear to take place almost entirely under the sea.


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Hey it’s me. From the Bar. [A Messy Essay]

3 Jun

The weekend before Valentine’s Day 2011, I went to a local wine bar. The kind of bar you go to for casual conversation and the .05% chance you might meet someone as vain and self-conscious as you. The kind of bar that is built for friends to gather in celebration of a birthday or a Tuesday. In this case, I was celebrating being out of the house.

I was one of three friends who were meeting at the bar for a few drinks. To be more accurate, I was meeting with a good friend and one of her friends from her graduate program who, upon our arrival, would take another hour to arrive. A lot can happen in an hour.

We reserved a seat for the tardy friend because the bar was crowded and decided not to let her keep us from starting the party. She would forgive us, we were sure of it. So we opened a pink bubbly wine and shared the shit out of it.

Interrupting our wine-orgy was a man watching a Kings game, who couldn’t keep his mind on his own paper. He groaned at a missed shot, fishing for condolences, which my saccharin friend offered all too easily.

“Are you rooting for the Kings?” she asked the 35-year-old divorcee wearing a Sierra Nevada sweatshirt. Of course she couldn’t have known he was divorced, but she should have known that nothing good would come of talking to him.

And it didn’t. Because as soon as he sat down in the currently vacant seat at our table, he said his friends had bet him he couldn’t get her number. And without even letting her reject or concede her contact info, he said, “Well I bet you are married. You’re married right?” And without blinking, she said, “Yes. Yes I am married” and switched her grandmother’s ring from her middle to ring finger.

It was like leading me to slaughter. After rattling off details of her fake engagement, fake wedding and fake married-life, she saved the one true statement she would make that night for the description of my relationship status. Single.

Until this point, he had ignored my existence and now he was sinking his teeth into my last hope of finding someone decent to spend my life with.

And that’s when his friend came in and delivered the best and worst pick-up line ever: How much does a Polar Bear weigh? Enough to break the ice.

Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t the joke that broke the ice, it was the fact that I tried for about 2 minutes to guess (inacurrately) what a Polar Bear might weigh. My guess landed anywhere between 3 and 2 tons. But who really knows. Are we talking during or after hybernation? Do Polar Bears even hybernate? Is a Polar Bear even really a bear?

Despite this setback, he continued to chip away at the ice without ever really managing to break it.  But it was his birthday and I always try to be nice to people on their birthday. Even if they are 34 and hitting on me in the saddest way possible.

It being his birthday, he had a special once-a-year confidence that enables a typically shy man to ask a girl for her number. When I failed to produce a pen, or paper, or the general will to give him my phone number– he remained persistent. I offered to add him on Facebook. No. That would not do. And having backed myself into a corner of refusal, I finally clawed my way out be finally writing down my number and first name on a napkin. You win. Happy Freaking Birthday.

So when I went home later that night, I didn’t think about the boy I met at the bar. I thought about how cruel my friend was for throwing me under her Single bus. But I did think about him when he called a week later asking if I’d like to hang out sometime this week. What a thrill that was. I admired his sticktoitiveness, but I was not going to go out with him.

So I went to bed not thinking about the boy I met at the bar until I got another call the next week. It was Evan. From the bar. Not brazen Birthday Boy. This was his gullible friend who tried to hit on my happily (but falsely) married friend.

I hadn’t given Evan my number. So how did it happen that Evan was calling me two weeks after I gave his friend my number? Did Birthday Boy give up and give my information to someone who may have better luck, or who perhaps needed a napkin after an especially messy lunch?

I didn’t spend very much time trying to get to the bottom of this mystery because I wasn’t going to return either of their calls. At least not on purpose.

About a week later, on my way into my gym, I listened to a voicemail message left by a friend. I was multitasking at the time, putting my purse in my trunk and trying to find my headphones. I was distracted enough not to realize that I had pressed the “call back” function next to a voicemail message that had been left by someone else. This voicemail was from birthday boy. I hadn’t deleted it bc I thought it was funny. I was about to regret that.

After I closed my trunk and headed into the gym, I noticed that my phone was indicating that it had been engaged on a call for the last 10 seconds with a number I didn’t recognize. Until I did. It was telephone number belonging to Birthday Boy.

I can only imagine what he thought as he saw that the person calling him was the girl from the bar. The one he had so little faith in calling him back that he gave her number to someone else. And then, one magical day, she calls him.

And all she says is “Shit.”

It’s not them. It’s you.

27 May


It’s easy to assume by someone’s relationship or employment status that she is deeply satisfied with her life. Smiling faces and far off places can do a number on one’s own self-esteem. It also doesn’t help that people smile in 90% of photos (the ones not taken in front of a mirror), just supplementing your own theory that everyone is on their correct life path but you.

Facebook: Filling your newsfeed with stories of smiley, annoying happiness since 2006.

Yes, there are a lot of happy people out there but there are also a lot of people who feel just like you. Sometimes alone. Sometimes misunderstood. Always a little bit unsatisfied.

It is hard to look at wedding photos of a devastatingly gorgeous couple. It’s hard to watch people two years younger than you earn a higher degree and get promoted before you have moved out of your parents’ house. It’s definitely not easy to find out in your newsfeed that the boy you rejected in high school finally grew into his ears and became a model.

Here’s the thing: life isn’t easy. For anyone.

So stop it. Stop beating yourself up about the adorable children with their adorable parents who you went to high school with. Or the constant status updates from a foreign country you’ve never been to.

Stop comparing yourself to other people who are probably as secretly unsatisfied as you are. Focus on your own happiness. How you can become more satisfied with your current life status without using the success of people you hardly know as a measuring stick?

You can’t tell how full and meaningful someone’s life is by looking at a profile page on Facebook. Even if they have a cute puppy. And a beautiful child. And a husband with a trust fund who works in non-profit just to keep busy.

We have enough people in our lives making us doubt our own awesomeness. We don’t need Facebook to carry the point home.


You never know, that disgustingly fit stay-at-home mom might just be jealous of you…

[Online] Dating is messy.

21 May

Last year, upon the behest of a few of my friends, I reluctantly created an online dating profile.

At first, the newness of it all was very exciting. Since I hadn’t been dating in the last few decades years, the sudden influx of male attention was exhilerating. I was getting messages everyday from male suiters complimenting me on my eyes, my smile and my “extremely broad taste in film and tv.”

But after a while, the shine wore off. I wasn’t interested in any of the men who were contacting me. The messages, no matter how kind, began to feel empty and meaningless. So I broke up with online dating. Between you and me, I think it was mutual.

But before I deactivated my profile, I made sure to save only the BEST interactions I had with some seriously less-than-stellar matches.


This gentleman had initiated contact at 10:30 am on a Friday. When I didn’t respond within 45 minutes, he felt the need to follow up with: “No reply :(”

After I failed to respond in less than 30 minutes, I received this message:

He totally didn’t care.

After that interaction, I became decidedly less nice in my future conversations. Take this one for example.

Please take note that neither of these gentlemen currently have open accounts. I’m guessing it’s because they are too busy being in successful relationships.


And that’s when I decided that online dating may not be for me.



17 May

If your current or future romance could be written by a musician, who would you want to write yours?

I think I would want

a little Norah Jones’ “Come Away With Me,”

a touch of Fun.’s “The Gambler,”

a splash of Corinne Bailey Rae’s “Just Like a Star,”

a dollup of Etta James “At Last,”

and a whole lot of Hall & Oats’ “You Make My Dreams.”

For obvious reasons, Adele and Gotye are not invited to write my future romance.

Dancing With Myself

16 May

Last weekend I went to see Tainted Love play at Harlow’s with some friends from college who were in town for the weekend. Although I was part of the generation that gave rebirth to the ’80s, I was never very interested in the decade. Too many unflattering colors, shapes and hairstyles, in my opinion.

Regardless, I attended in full-blown ’80s get-up. Tutu, leggings and enough pearls to give me a backache.  While not everyone was dressed up, those who did were rewarded with drinks and compliments. Unfotunately, I was only rewarded with the latter. But it didn’t matter because I had never felt more badass in my life (while wearing a tutu).

We rocked out to all the ’80s favorites. Jessie’s Girl. Pour Some Sugar On Me. Livin’ On a Prayer. Billie Jean. Don’t You Want We. Don’t Stop Believing. Dancing With Myself. You really can’t NOT scream sing and dance to those songs. Especially if you are wearing a tutu.

At one point in the show, I got separated from the rest of my friends.  I was literally dancing with myself while Dancing With Myself was playing. And I didn’t care. Maybe in the past, I would have felt uncomfortable, but not that night. That sweaty, neon night.

And never ever before that night had the lyrics been more true.

Oh dancing with myself
Well there’s nothing to lose
And there’s nothing to prove
I’ll be dancing with myself

Nothing to lose. Nothing to prove. Because sometimes YOU are your best dance partner.



Glutton for Good News

14 May

Glutton for Good News

While not recommended, eating multiple fortune cookies is a delicious great way to receive good news.