The following conversation took place this afternoon by telephone.

Me: “Hello?”
Heidi, sounding chipper: “Hi. How come you sound constipated?”
Me: “It’s a work thing. I have a thing going on.”
Heidi: “How would you feel if I set you up? We could go out in a big group, so there’s no pressure or anything.”
Me, recalling the LAST time we went “in a big group” so there “wouldn’t be any pressure”: “Um, I don’t know. What’s his name?”
Heidi: “Why does that matter? You don’t know him.”
Me: “What is it?”
Heidi: “Eric.”
Me: “Oh. I guess, maybe.”
Heidi: “He’s missing a tooth.”
Me, rolling my eyes so far back into my skull they almost pop out the other side: “Good grief. So he looks like a hillbilly. Why is it whenever you push a guy at me he’s missing a tooth?” (Seriously! She did this last year!)
Heidi: “He had an accident a couple of days ago, I think. He’s cute, Amber.”
Me: “Huh. Are you just saying that so I’ll agree, or do you really think he’s cute?” (My sister has nearly impossible standards.)
Heidi: “No, he’s really cute. I think he’s good looking.”
Me, distracted by my work and with a healthy sense of skepticism: “I’m busy. Can we talk about this later?”
Heidi: “Okay. Bye.”

WHY? Why are they always bald or missing teeth or carrying so much baggage they need a damn cart to push it on? I’m beginning to question my sister’s opinion of me. But you know what the WORST part about it is?

I’ll probably go. I’m so tired of not dating and not having sex and not having a man to take with me to activities where everyone else is in a couple that I’m ACTUALLY CONSIDERING going on a group date to get to know Mr. Clampett.

I bitch and moan, I know, but my social life could use some spicing up. Thank god for my sister. If she wasn’t such a pain in the ass, I wouldn’t have half as much fun as I do.