Job One: Old Spice, American Trucks, and Cupcake Mailboxes

I am a matchmaker of talent. This is generally well known by all.

Meet Sani and Gordon. Now formally known by all as Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Trents. They met under my delicate care and fell in love within thirty minutes. All went according to plan....even the small teensy weensy truck smelling heavily of Old Spice that was driven into my cupcake mailbox....but apparently they still made it.  Let me elaborate.

I am a professional, for-fire by the riches, snottiest, desperate for love, single peoples-matchmaker. I am called Cupid by some. Though I am not a naked arrow-shooting babe. Though, I do enjoy being called babe. Especially by handsome young scoundrals.

Say "Hello" to Gord Trents, he sells insurance and gives long boring speeches.

Gordon Trents came to my office on the second of June. He wore a suit that had no imagination, sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead, and twenty thousand in cash. He was my kind of man. My secretary (Ang Lons, a young Japanese man studying medicine) had him fill out all seventeen of my forms before entering my plushy lounge/office.

He is taken.

My office lounge is also taken.

Mr. Trents entered my office, looking pellmell and unsure of himself. Apparently he had recently realized he was the only single man working in his high falootin' office and he needed himself, a woman. Plus, he couldn't cook anything but Ramen noodles and was slowly, but surely starvng to death. I knew, that it was my duty to take upon myself the Trents Case. And the twenty thousand dollars (and a new insurance policy for my hotair balloon in the shape of a cupcake) that accompnied me finding him a wife in two months or less. My own policy.

It has a two million dollar policy if it is eaten by a dog or cat.

"Mr. Trent", I began....."What kind of a woman are you in need of?" He swallowed and plunged into a breathy description which I then googled and discovered....

Sandra. I then upped my fee.

I told him to give me three days and then I would host a party at my home in Californa that Miss Sandra would be sure to attend. I needed the perfect setup for a Biz Man and a ShowBiz Woman. A small intimate party where I could work my magic.

But I told Mr. Trent the following:

1. Beef up a smidge
2. Wear Old Spice
3. Drive an old truck (she digs men who can drive old American trucks)
4. Dye your hair brown (she only digs brunette men)

The night of the party, I made sure to serve cupcakes and chocolate milk. Apparently I was a smidge obvious with my cupcakes. I was never to smoothe on the whole....inconspicuous thing.

This was the first meeting of the young couple:

I had a few close friends out for dinner and cupcakes, and it was a gorgeous night. Sandra, whom we all call Sani in certain circles (I knew her because I matched her sister to Christian Bale (another epic failure) and she hadn't forgotten me since)...drove up in her Porsche and parked it next to my mailbox....this is dreadfully important I'm afraid.

Because it is eventually destroyed by the end of the evening. The clock ticked past eight and Trents was doomed to arrive in five minutes. I took a then-confident breath and asked the band to begin playing. The young couple would need the perfect meet. Trents needed the perfect entrance.

The Band

I had sent Trents his entrance via Facebook two days ago. He was supposed to roar into my drive in his All American made truck and knock down the door. Apparently I remembered Sani liking the really strong, buff type. Then he was supposed to walk over to the cupcake table and eat one whole. Very, very manly.

Within five minutes, the house shook, we heard a roar and I smiled. Sani looked....thoughtfully concerned. I heard a terrible noise (which I would later realize to be my sweet mailbox plunging to its death) and my front door too, experienced the rage of a terrified, sleep-deprived business man turned mad lover. I had forgotten to mention to Trents that sleep was necessary for this process to work properly. He know stood before us, dripping in sweat and Old Spice, covered in wood splinters, stuffing a cupcake into his mouth. I noticed he hadn't shaved in a few days either.

He looked up after finishing the icing and locked onto the beautiful woman in front of him, smiling anxiously.

Then he fainted. Good thing Sani knew mouth to mouth which she properly performed on the poor man. I stood my ground, behind my giant birdcage and let the two lovers meet. She smiled and he awoke from her standing on his rib cage, having just been kissed, he too smiled. Her first words were: I love Old Spice Men.

And that is how they met. They hired a wedding planner and within several weeks (under two months of course)......

Another perfect match engineered by the bestest matchmaker in the galaxy.



I'm Getting Married!

So, I'm getting married and I wanted to "introduce" my soon-to-be-hubby to you! This is his description:

1. He is tall, like a camel.
2. He is not round, like a pig.
3. He has hair that is straight from a salt shaker.
4. He is as intelligent as Orlando Bloom

Yep. That is him.

My Recently Departed Disease and How I Cured It

I dream sometimes about penning a story that would be the icing on the muffin in the world of mordern literature. A story that would inspire millions of young writters to persue their dreams and scribble out their very own wonderful epic.


My grammar is terrible (and I usually misspell grammar) and I have a small following of four readers. But let us realize that no good author ever made their mark without dreaming first. I am young and I have years to master the grammar end of this art. My most terrible monster in this adventure of scribbling stories, is something called a momentary lack of creative thought and ideas. Sometimes referred to as Writer's Block. It's like a disease in the same family tree as leprosy. It starts small and spreads. First I cannot think of a proper name for my character which leads to not being able to write a paragraph....which eventually leads to me staring at a blank screen or paper for two hours.


But what did all the handsome, dashing knights in the old stories do when they came upon a dragon that seemed larger than life? They killed it of course, usually in such a manner that they get some gorgeous woman in the process. Well, I wouldn't mind getting some beautiful man in the process of slaughtering this foe (Writer's Block) but usually the only hot guys who hang out at the library (where I go to defeat this enemy)....are.....well, to put it lightly, old, or round, or very young or very nerdy. Not that I have anything against the very young, the old, the round, or the nerdy.... but I probably couldn't marry anyone in those areas.


Back to the battle, my lack of ideas, this disease that plagues me. I must assuredly kill it, I simply do not know how. I cannot murder it in cold blood, because no mortal object can do so. its purely in my head.....and suddenly, I look back and realize that I have just overcome my illness. Not by sword, not by lightsaber, and not by pistol. I am beginning to think that the prescription I could give to those also infected, is as follows.


Force yourself to write just as one would force themselves to swallow the rest of the delicious honeybun or to dive into "just one more" plate of pie.

Once Upon a Time...

I am currently listening to the gentle songs of someone obnoxiously cleaning the chalkboard. I have much to do here but I cannot until tomorrow. farewell empty blogspot. Sweet dreams.