Monday, May 3, 2010


I have moved over to Tumblr. It's easier to use. Sorry. xo

Friday, April 30, 2010


Six months ago, when I returned from New Zealand, I was totally smitten by an Englishman that I met while I was traveling. I can’t even tell you what we had in common, other than the fact that he worked on the British counterpart to a television show that I had worked on in the states. I dunno, I guess I just liked that he paid attention to me. And he promised to visit me sometime soon.

“Soon,” btw, is one of my least favorite words in the English dictionary. If “soon” had meant that he would be over here before the holidays, you would have found me running up and down the hallways singing songs of joy.

But soon never means anything other than “not now,” so I couldn’t get excited about it. “Soon” is the opposite of a promise, just like its vicious cousin “maybe.” If I’ve learned anything, it’s best not to work yourself up for something that might not (probably won’t) ever come.

It took me about a week to let any hopes of a visit being a reality die down, and then I was on to bigger and better things. I’d say I almost completely forgot about this Englishman if it weren’t for the occasional “how are things?” Facebook wall post that I would get every couple of months or so. Otherwise, he was a non-thought.

So wouldn’t luck have it that when I’m waiting on a “soon” from someone else that this Englishman would pop back up into my life? He will be in Los Angeles in a week. That. Is soon. It will be good to see an old familiar face, but he’s not the one I want to see.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Let me be emo for one second

This. Is my anthem.

Story of my life.

Failure #347

Man, it sucks when that shitty book He's Just Not That Into You is right. I don't want to be part of the same demographic that views Sex And The City as the single girls' guide to being fabulous. I'd always fancied myself in a different echelon than the girls that put designer shoes at the top of their list of interests. I never thought I was that obvious.

But in this case, I'm gonna have to call a spade a spade. He is just not that into me, and it's about fucking time I recognized that.

He's not that into me if he'll only talk to me via internet. He's not that into me if he uses the Master Cleanse as an excuse to postpone seeing me for 10 days. He's not that into me if he's sneaking out of my bedroom at 4am without saying goodbye or why he was leaving. And he's sure as hell not that into me if he's letting me walk away.

Jesus. What was I thinking? And when did I become so pedestrian? Ugh, I'm sad.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Batter Up

I went to the Angels vs. Yankees yesterday with a bunch of ladies and the Infamous Mark Roden. Baseball is one of the only sports I actually understand most of the rules to, so it's actually a good time for me. Really, though, going to baseball games is all about cramming your face full of grotesque amounts of sodium and washing it down with good ol' American beer. Oh, and it's about the boys. Those dreamy baseball players! Yowza!

I fell in love with a little Puerto Rican slice of heaven called Jorge Posada. Unfortunately, he was playing for the wrong team, but every time he came up to bat, I suddenly became an avid Yankees fan.  I'm serious, he's ridiculously handsome:

 Holy smokes!

The ladies and I discussed this, and my opinion was not the favorite, but I personally believe that baseball players are the sexiest of all athletes.

Any athlete is going to be gross if you take more than a 2-second look at what they're all about, but it seems like the only big issue with baseball players is that 90% of them are pumped full of steroids. Apparently steroids make your weenie majorly tiny, but I'm never going to get anywhere close to a professional athletes' weenie, so that doesn't concern me.  And sure, the steroids make some of them beat their wives, but if I'm not even gonna get the chance to see their weenie, I'm sure as hell not gonna get one to marry there's nothing to worry about.

But let's consider the alternatives:

Football players are enormous, meat-scented (they have to be, right?) date rape machines, hockey players are equally enormous but lack the mental ability to even come up with a scheme as complicated as date rape, golfers are either 85 years old or serial adulterers, and let's not even get started on basketball players.

Tennis is for nancy boys, swimmers have enormous bat wings, and anyone that participates in extreme sports as a profession is an equally extreme asshole. As my friend Bowman once perfectly articulated: "Bam Margera seems like his life is made up of three components: Blowjobs, Cool Ranch Doritos and dutch ovens."

Thus, baseball players seem to be taking the lead with their slight steroid issues as the sexiest professional athletes.

 Think about it. I'm right, aren't I?


Monday, April 19, 2010

Drastic Measures

Ugh. I told the guy that I'm "talking to" that it was his turn to make the next move, and now I'm trying everything I can do to distract me from the purgatory that is waiting for this "next move."

I reached the end of the internet by about noon today. Needed a break from constantly refreshing my inbox --- did you know that actually makes time go by more slowly? --- so I took a long walk in the sun. After I got back I realized that I needed something super involved to keep me distracted or I would definitely break my own rule and email this guy.

So I did the one thing I said I would never do in this life. I did exactly what I have been mocking some of my dearest friends for since this option first came about. I started a Farmville farm on Facebook.

I know, I know. The shame, the humanity.  Seriously, though. What a distraction!

Now I'm too busy trying to figure out if I need to feed the cow that my cousin gave me as a gift, or what I'm supposed to do once I harvest my strawberries to even notice if I've got a new email in my inbox from this silly boy. I don't, btw. But I also haven't embarrassed myself by reaching out when I said --- very clearly --- that the ball was in his court.

Of course, I will have embarrassed myself if it turns out that he reads this blog...


Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Pearl of Wisdom #8

If you are going to do any "breast pumping" at the office, just know that everyone will always (ALWAYS) think of you doing this every time they see you  for forever and ever. This image will never go away. No matter what you achieve in your life, your co-workers will always think of you as the lady that pumps your breasts at work. Also, we will have visualized it, which is basically like seeing you naked. Just sayin'.

Cute Boys Doing Cuter Things :: Vol. 2

This is just the opinion of one man, but man-oh-man!:

Click me!

Oh, to have a man describe my kisses as cupcake-shaped grenades! Le sigh.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Cute Boys Doing Cuter Things :: Vol. 1

However, they lose cute points for making embedding impossible. Let's just assume it wasn't their decision. CLICK HERE (!!!)

It gets especially precious at 2:28.

Cross My Heart

All I've ever wanted from a boy was a necklace. I want a boy to pick out a necklace on his own and then give it to me. Then I will wear it around my neck and tell him that he's always close to my heart. Give me a break, dude. I'm super cheesy.

So I've told every boyfriend that I've had that I want a necklace, and never once have I received one. It's not like I'm asking for a fucking ring, man! I just want a silly little necklace. I don't need diamonds or pearls, either! Just. A necklace.

I've received all sorts of strange little gifts instead, though --- 2 watches from the same guy on the same day (the opposite of a necklace?), a jar of pocket change (long story, I guess), a "Vote For Pedro" t-shirt (jesus, dude), a Tamagotchi (this one I received less than two years ago, btw) --- you get the gist.

Nary a necklace. Is it because it's jewelry and that seems super serious? Or because I'm just dating dudes that don't care about what I actually want? What does a girl have to do to get a fucking necklace around here?

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Annnnnd Action!

I wanna see a movie with a cute boy. In the theatres. I wanna see something scary or something funny. I want to sit in the very back row and lock arms, with my head on his shoulder and my hands in his lap. We'll steal a glance (or maybe a kiss!) when we laugh at the same thing, or I'll have to bury my face in his chest if it gets too scary.

I'll make the dumb joke that my dad used to always make when we saw movies together: "Did you hear the weather forecast? They said it was going to rain!" Then I throw popcorn up in the air and laugh as it falls down like "rain" while my date looks at me like he can't decide if I'm mildly disabled, or if I'm the cutest thing he's ever seen.

The last time I saw a scary movie with a boyfriend was when we went to go see Michael Clayton. We made it through like 15 minutes of the movie before the heavy petting started bordering on obscene, so we took off. Michael Clayton is a horror film, right? Or is it a comedy? I wouldn't even know! And every time I've tried to watch it since, I can only think about the things we did in the theatre rather than watching the film and my focus is instantly shifted to something much more naughty than the film itself.

Yes, I want to do something like that again.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Spring Cleaning Objectives

-Clean room. Not just like..dust and polish. I mean I'm throwing some major shit out. Garage sale? Who wants to buy my old junk. Nobody. I've always been jealous of those people that have almost nothing personal in their homes. Sure, I also thought they seemed like they lacked a soul for not having any sort of memoribilia or trinkets from the past, but whatevs. At least they look organized. Once I've gotten rid of the crap that's suffocating me in my room, I'm going to completely rearrange it. I'm gonna need help with the heavy stuff, so I'll let you know when to come over.

-Clean closet. Similar to the last one, only this time I'm gonna toss all of the clothes that I haven't worn in the last 6 months. If I lived in a city that actually experienced seasons, then maybe I'd give the sweaters a chance and toss out everything I haven't worn in the past year, but I don't. It's always about the same here, so if I haven't worn it in the last 6 months, it's Goodwill-bound.

-Clean up my act. Been much better about exercising more regularly, but I need to step it up a notch. I've gotta start being one of those people that wakes up super early and works out BEFORE work. Yuck. I'm gonna hate it, but it has to be done. I also need to bring my lunch to work every single day, and cook my dinner every night. Weekends are negotiable. Also, I started taking classes that Richard Simmons teaches at his gym and I am 100% obsessed. I'd go every day if I could afford it. I also desperately wish I were a gay  man now so that I could date Richard. He's that awesome.

-Clean up my heart. I've been really good about keeping the men away since my last messy incident, but I let a stupid one (See: Reset) break the barrier a couple of weeks ago. I swear, just a little attention from a man and all I can think about is making out for weeks. I need to get back into focus and concentrate on everything but love and sex. Like working out with my new best friend Richard Simmons, for instance.

-Clean up my finances. I had zero debt until last year, but I got all of this dental work done and I  still owe my dentist another like...$8000. And then my adorable accountant somehow fucked me over with the IRS to the point where the only thing I can do is just pay them, and that's another $6500. So instead of buying that sparkly blush from Sephora that I've been coveting since the 90s -- the one that I always forget to buy it until I have no money -- I have to save my stupid money so I can pay off "the man." The "men," actually.

I think that's good enough for now. If you can think of anything else, let me know.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Coors Light Wishes & Karaoke Dreams

If I had a decent voice, or if I didn't have a performance-crippling fear of singing to a bunch of faces that are staring at me blankly, and if I had at least 4 beers in my system...I would totally sing the song "Hot Child In The City" by Nick Gilder. If they didn't have that song available, I'd sing "The Warrior" by Scandal, and I would hope that my current love interest was in the audience so I could do the little "Bang! Bang!" signal directly to him, followed by a wink.

But I don't have a decent voice, and I'm too terrified to relax on stage and instead of singing anything awesome, I always end up crackling out a shitty, forgettable rendition of something safe like "Daydream Believer."

One of these days I'll grow a pair and actually attempt to nail one of my karaoke fantasies. Until then, I am sticking to the AM Gold classics.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Bus boy.

Phew, thank god. There's a new hot guy on my bus. I can't tell if he's really hot, or if he's just the most suitable candidate on the bus, though. He's like a super tall Mexican Fonzie, complete with pompadour and leather jacket. Also, I'm pretty sure he's like 19 years old. I know, sounds sorta disasterous --- but there's something to be said for a man (boy) that wakes up early in the morning to comb his hair into an old timey coif.

Sunday, March 7, 2010


Thought it would be a good idea to go home with one of my roommate's friends last night, only to arrive at his place while a girl was breaking into his apartment through the screen window.  Once inside, she proceeded to book it to the bedroom, where she immediately took her pants off and insisted that she would leave once she was warm.

Yes. The guy I went home with knew her, and yes, there was probably some truth to the insane story she was spewing about how he had been texting her all night with invitations of sandwiches (not sure if it was a euphemism or not) and sex.

Needless to say, I bounced.

Fuck. My. Life.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Faux Bus Love

The bus ride to work is long and boring, so I decided to have a crush on a few of the regular commuters that share the same route as me. They aren't real crushes, I've just picked out the most acceptable dudes on the bus and put them in order of my liking for time-killing purposes.

In first place there's the smoking hot spanish dude that wears shiny shoes and is studying to be an actor (yuck!) at the film school on the 5th floor of my building. He's a super hunk and is always reading spanish newspapers, but I'm willing to bet he's already got a pretty foxy girlfriend. No way is this guy single.

Then there's the dude that looks 100% european as well, and I always assumed that he was part of the same international film school as the smoking spanish dude. He looks more on the Scandinavian side. And, while I DO happen to collect Scandinavians, lighter-skinned dudes aren't really my first choice - - - but if you saw what I had to choose from on the bus, you'd put him in second place, too. Thing about this guy is that I would only have a chance with him if he actually were, in fact, european. If he's american, he's juuust rock and roll enough that some Silverlake hipster chick would be all over him in a heartbeat - - I lack the whole "hip" factor, so that puts me out of the game.

And the third guy is really just an alternate, but I threw him in because I always like to lump things into groups of threes. He's no feast for the eyes, that's for sure, but there's a nerdy quality about him that makes me think that he could possibly have potential in the personality department. Eh, but he seriously needs to shave the inch-long spotty red patches of hair from his face and change out of the non-ironic Member's Only jacket before I give it any more consideration.

Ok, so those are the key players. They are never all on the bus at the same time, and NEVER have any of them sat next to me. I always leave the space next to me open on the bus that we share in hopes that one of them will plop themselves down, and still. Nothing.

So last night I get on the bus and it's like a fucking party exploded in there. ALL THREE DUDES were on the bus, and TWO of them were talking to each other. The spanish dude had his nose shoved into one of his sexy periodicals, naturally. The two that were chatting were Second Place and Third Place, as I call them.

After hearing the two of them speak for 30 seconds, my Final 3 was instantly whittled down to just one: The hot spanish dude.

Dude. Second Place not only isn't european as I had originally fantasized, but he also has a maaaaaajor speech impediment - - - which I normally wouldn't be so cruel about in the real world, but this dude is just a bus fantasy, so I'm pulling the plug. Third Place, the ugly one, has the most obnoxious stoner laugh I've ever heard, and the very thought of his next bout of laughter made me move to the back of the bus, so...I nexted his ass, too.

And there you have it! The only guy I have left on my list of dudes to fake-fall-in-love-with on the bus is the hot spanish dude with his shiny, shiny shoes. Olé! Yep. I said it. How productive was that bus ride?!?

Thursday, February 25, 2010

The Hollywood Exception

Every couple in the world should utilize the Hollywood Exception rule. It doesn't actually have to be someone that lives or works in Hollywood, just someone that is in the public eye. I just happen to be incredibly shallow and am only turned on by/made aware of people that are on the screen.

Anyway, the rule applies to anyone famous and alive. Basically, each member of the couple gets to pick one person that they get to, providing the opportunity presents itself, engage in a romantic or physical relationship for ONE NIGHT.

For instance, say I choose...Johnny Depp as my Hollywood Exception (I won't), and let's also say that I'm in a relationship (I'm not)...if somehow I find myself in a position to have some sort of escapade with Johnny Depp, as long as it's known that he is my chosen Hollywood Exception, I get to act on it. Just one time. Same goes for the guy in the relationship and his Megan Fox or whatever.

Since I'm not in a relationship at the moment, I'm going to choose 3 people as my Hollywood Exceptions...just for kicks: My first, my current, and my forever. Behold:

My first and longest-standing Hollywood Exception:

My current and mainly conditional Hollywood Exception:

Annnnd...every woman's secret fantasy and my forever:

Shit. I can't keep it to just 3. This last one is someone that I wouldn't necessarily insist that I get to be romantic with (though I totally would) --- in the event that I'm simultaneously in a relationship and in the presence of such a breathtaking man, of course --- but I definitely would straight-up ditch my significant other in a nano in order to hang out with this dude instead:

Ladies and germs: Sir David Attenborough


Who would yours be?

Pearl of Wisdom #7

Don't interrupt people while they are talking on the phone to someone else. It's fucking mega-rude. I don't care how important it is, wait your turn.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

I'm Every Woman

I dated this semi-famous-for-a-minute reality TV chef for even less than a minute last year, mainly because I knew that no matter what happened, it would be a good story to tell. Even from the start it had all the components of a brilliant little memoir: he was currently on television being portayed as "the villian," he was wildly European (not just mildly), and he lived like a block away from me. All it took was a simple email inquiry about cooking classes and we were off!

Cut to the present day and I will tell everyone to avoid dating a chef. Well, give it a shot if you don't mind dealing with someone that is compleeetely spastic and never available. Nothing terrible ever happened between me and the chef. There were no falling-outs or fizzles. The story just became less and less fun to tell. I still keep in contact with him, though. Only now the broken-English semi-naughty texts that I used to find endearing drive me crazy. I got another one today. Ugh.

But it's not the chef's fault that I no longer care to bounce texts back and forth, pretending that either of us actually wants to see the other. The chef was just another in a series of distractions that were keeping me from having access to anything meaningful. Now that I'm on a break from romance, I'd rather distract myself with something productive - - - like exercise. Or learning how to make those French macarons that I'm so desperate to make.

It's funny how it works. When you're in the thick of it, it's all you can think about. Love, sex, company. But when you're on hiatus, it only takes a short while before you've completely forgotten about it. And once you get to that point, then you can really start to get shit done. I changed my own fucking bike chain last weekend, for chrissake! I am kicking ass and taking names and I've got absolutely no time to stop and worry about silly relationship bullshit. Yeah!!!

Now cut to a 30 second montage of me getting my shit together (i.e., sweatin' to the oldies, pulling a batch of perfectly risen macarons from the oven, leaving the hair salon with a gorgeous new set of extensions) all to the sweet sound of Chaka Khan's "I'm Every Woman" blasting in the background.

Yep. That's me.

Friday, February 19, 2010

My One True Love (Forever and Always)

Thursday, February 18, 2010

This Message Will NOT Self-Destruct!

I was digging through the trash in my email inbox today looking for any promotional codes from that I had immediately written off as junk (up until now) and deleted --- I'm purchasing biotin so my hair grows faster than one fucking inch per year --- and I came across a dinosaur of an email from my first L.A. love. The trash box in Gmail lies, btw, because it told me that any messages left in there after 30 days would be automatically deleted, and this email was sent 4 years ago.

I wasn't really prepared for the sneak attack from the past, but my curiosity got the better of me, so I opened it. When I saw that I recognized the subject of the email, my heart started to beat a little faster. I don't have romantic feelings for this guy at all anymore --- we're totally friends, we just never make out or anything --- but it still sorta stung to see it. Probably just because it was another reminder that I can't seem to lock things down in the romance department; my smug little inbox was rubbing my failures in my face! I (reluctantly) opened the email and read its contents and it was sweet and charming and everything I remembered it to be. No wonder I liked that guy!

I thought about his words, and how he meant them at the time, and how they completely made my world when I first read them. I read the email at least 10 times and tried to imagine how I would respond to someone if I received something like that now.

Reading the email over and over was like torture, so I closed out (after I moved the email from the trash and back into my active inbox for safe-keeping) and went back to my trash box to continue my search for vitamin coupons. No luck, btw --- I totally paid full price.

I've sort of had romance tucked away in the back of my mind these days, but seeing that email brought it back up to the surface for a little bit of my afternoon. I don't miss the whole crapshoot Los Angeles dating scene one bit, but I kinda miss being in love.
This photo was attached to the email:

Why can't my hair be that long now?!?

Monday, February 15, 2010

The City of Sisterly Love

As much as I believe that I'm going to have to move as far away from Los Angeles as I can if there is ever any hope for me to find love, there are other reasons that make me think this is the greatest city in the world. Life's not only about romance anyway. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.

I made my Valentine's Day plans a month in advance. There is nothing worse than the impending explosion of red velvet hearts and white fuzzy bears and diamond commercials on the television every 15 minutes when you know that you will not be on the receiving end of any of that shit. Rather than worry about whether or not I'd be able to lock something down with someone (anyone) by the big day, I felt it saftest to preemptively make non-romantic plans with a bunch of people that might also have that night free. Lucky for me, I was able to lock in a solid bunch!

So 8 of us painted our faces, put on some frills and met up at The Grove for a 7pm showing of that shitty romantic comedy (?) called Valentine's Day (how appropriate!) featuring every single actor that has been in any film for the last 15 years. We were 15 feet out of the parking structure and into the mall before we saw our first celebrity sighting:

He literally was sitting in the most public spot in the entire mall. On a major holiday. At first I thought it was irritating because I assumed he just wanted attention (MORE attention than he already gets) but then I decided that it was his little Valentine's Day gift to the shoppers of The Grove. Whether it was his intention or not, he was something exciting for us to talk about, and it made our day seem more glamourous. Sadly, he was wearing clothes and was on a date with some girl that wasn't me, but I'll take what I can get. A sighting is just fine.

The show was sold out and we were saving seats for the second half of our party before the movie started and every single person that came into the theatre asked us if the seats were taken, annoying. At one point this old lady came up behind my friend and asked her if she could sit in the seats next to her and, annoyed, she told the old lady the seats were taken, forcing this old lady to split up from her equally geriatric husband (on Valentine's Day) and sit alone in the special little isolated handicap chair right by the exit. Once she realized that this lady would have would have to sit on the opposite end of the theatre as her husband on this romantic day, my friend felt like a royal heel. Especially when we all realized that the old lady was this person:

The movie was terrible, as expected. But it was the kind of bad that was so ridiculous that it was almost comical in its own, unintentional way, so none of us left the theatre feeling like we wasted any money. Then we darted over to the restaurant where we promptly began to shove our faces full of anything containing sugar, alcohol or fat until the restaurant manager literally had to come up and tell us it was time to leave.

By the time I got home, I was stuffed, sleepy, and totally without the feeling that I was missing out on anything this Valentine's Day. If I had to do it again, I would pick the same people to spend it with. Los Angeles may not be a good place to find love, but the friendships and celebrity sightings and delicious food more than make up for that. Romance is for suckers, anyway.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Pearl of Wisdom #6

Long stem red roses are tacky. Give her something else.

This is also a bummer:

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Somebody That I Used To Know

Remember 1997, when we all thought we knew exactly what Elliott Smith was singing about, and we were certain we were feeling every bit as heartbroken as he was? Ever listened to his music as an adult and realized how delusional you were as a teen? I had my ipod set to "shuffle" this morning and an Elliott Smith song that I hadn't heard in years came on and I had a brief shame attack for my 17 year-old self.

If only I had to deal with the same woes that I was dealing with back then instead of the ones that plague me now, how carefree I would be! Of course, if I were working with the same mindset as my 17 year-old self, that would mean that I'd probably still be wearing overalls doused with CK Escape (to cover up the smell of cigs) and a ratty pair of Chuck Taylors. Waaaait a minute...I still wear ratty Chuck Taylors. Maybe that's why I only attract men that act like children (!!!). Looks like I need to go shoe shopping!

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Mission: Accomplished (!!!)

Oh, I made that loaf of bread.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Pearl of Wisdom #5

Women and gay men: You can only throw a drink in someone's face once in your life. If you make a habit of it, people are going to stop inviting you to parties, so choose wisely and really make it count. I, myself, have yet to meet a person that was worthy of being on the receiving end of my one drink in the face, but I look forward to the day. Then again, it would be nice to never be that enraged...

Friday, February 5, 2010

Sans Mans

Instead of thinking about boys this weekend, I'm going to actually be productive. First I'm going to learn how to bake bread. It's supposed to be pretty easy, but I'm really good at fucking things up, so I'm gonna leave myself a few hours (the whole weekend?) to figure it out.

Then I'm going to make sweet & spicy almonds.

Then (!!!) I'm gonna organize my goddamn shoes so I don't have to go through what I went through this morning when I couldn't find a fucking partner for any of my pairs of black flats.

Finally, I'm going to watch that movie on HBO where Claire Danes plays an autistic scientist. I should design a drinking game for this one: Everyone has to drink each time Claire Danes makes that hideous monster face she makes every time she cries. Guaranteed we'll all be wasted by the end of the movie.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Riding on the Metro (oh-oh)

I don't really like bringing this guy up anymore (he's not even relevant), but this morning I thought there was a sighting and I had quite a scare. I was 35 minutes into being awake for the day, sitting on the 333 eastbound, when we stopped at Venice and Overland.

There are always a bunch of people waiting to get onto the bus at Overland. So many, in fact, that Overland is the stop where I decide to actually scoot over to the window so someone (hopefully someone clean - - - I've already given up on the dream of someone attractive sitting next to me on the bus) can sit down. If I didn't let guilt get the best of me, I would stay put and leave the window seat vacant, leaving me to sit without any neighbors, and some poor fool to grab the bar and stand until another seat becomes available. But I always cave at Venice and Overland.

Anyway, a bunch of people start crowding onto the bus and I'm halfway watching and then I see something that makes my stomach drop to the floor: The Comedian. I swear to you, from where I was sitting, this person was a dead ringer. Same height, same build, same hair, same nose, same EVERYTHING. I panicked. I didn't know what to do or where to go. I honestly wanted to open up the window and jump out. The bus wasn't going that fast, anyway...minimal damage.

Then I realize that the only seat left is the fucking one next to me and I start to panic more. HOW IS THIS MY LIFE, I thought. Never did it occur to me that it would be totally strange for him to be on the same bus - - I'm one of the only people I know that takes the bus - - as me. Especially not at the same time and going to the same place. But I didn't have time to think about this stuff. I only had time to freak the fuck out. So the dude comes up and sits next to me and I realize that it's not actually him. Holymotherofjesusthankgod.

As far as DNA goes, he's gotta be only like one genome away from The Comedian's actual genetic makeup. Maybe The Comedian has a brother, who knows. All I know is that he has got the most extreme doppelganger in the world out there, and that dude scared the shit out of me by sitting next to me on the bus this morning. Not funny at all.

Zach Galifianakis

I wonder if Zach Galifianakis has a girlfriend. Not that it would matter, though. It's too late to get in on that shit, thanks to the fucking Hangover. A year ago it might have been an actual possibility to get someone like Zach Galifianakis to go out with me.

Physically, we're a decent match; both of us have some rather fetching physical attributes, and we also both have parts of our bodies that should indefinitely be wrapped up and covered entirely by fabric or hair.

A year ago, I would have seemed like a pretty cute girl to a dude like Galifianakis! But now that he's in one of the most popular (and wildly overrated) films of the year, I'm sure that I look like a troll compared to the girls that are throwing themselves at him now.

I should have gotten his attention when he was still oafish and riddled with insecurities. I needed to strike while the iron was hot.

Success: the ultimate cockblocker.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Pearl of Wisdom #4

Plucking grey hairs out of your head with tweezers only makes them grow back thicker, greyer, and more uncontrollable. Trust me. Right now I practically look like I'm wearing dark brown extensions clipped onto a bed of 1 inch greys.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

I'm gonna need a second opinion.

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I didn't have many friends that lived up here. Sure, I had a few hipster friends that dwelled on the painfully cool East Side, but I've always been in love with living next to the Pacific Ocean, so being that brand of awesome was never in the cards for me. So I parked myself a few miles from the beach and spent most of my free time watching reruns of Friends on the scrambled 13 inch TV in my studio apartment. Seriously, do you know how long it takes to get from the beach to Silverlake? Not worth the gray hairs or $10 worth of gas spent on sitting in traffic. The only people I really spent any time with were a few girls I had known from before my move up to the city and the people I worked with, one of them being my first LA love.

I hestitate to call him my first LA boyfriend because I don't think that's how he would ever classify it. Well, maybe now he would, but back then he sure as hell wasn't going to acknowledge any sort of attachment he may or may not have had to me. This irritated me to no end, by the way. Because, to me, he was my boyfriend. We liked each other, we hung out (I slept over) every couple of days outside of work, where we spent 50 hours together weekly...when it ended, he had to break up with me, for chrissake.

Later, when he decided to completely deny any sort of relationship between the two of us and referred to our connection as being "coworkers," my argument was that if you have to break up with someone, then you are more than just coworkers. Still, he didn't agree. And what was the point of arguing it, anyway? This person, regardless of what actually existed, did not want the history books to show that we were ever together. As sad as that sounds to me now, I still ended up sleeping with him every few months for 2 years following the breakup, so I guess I can't really say he was the only asshole involved in that mess.

One night, when we were "together," a girlfriend of mine was having a birthday dinner and she invited the two of us to come out. My coworker accepted, and we met up beforehand to get ready, fool around, and buy a present for the birthday girl. We both signed the fucking birthday card, even! The plan was to eat dinner at this place in Hollywood that serves thai food and has some sort of thai Elvis impersonator that, for $5, will sing anything you want, and then we were gonna hit up this psychic on Cahuenga Blvd. for a little post-dinner soothsaying.

The girls and I had been to this psychic before, and she blew our minds the first time we visited, so we thought it would be fun to take a large group over for a collective mind-blowing. Gina was her name, or at least the name she gave us.

When we walked up the stairs to Gina's -- shop? office? what would you call it? -- she was smoking a cigarette in her nightgown, and she looked directly at me and said "I know you. welcome back." It had been about 6 months since I'd seen her last, so the fact that she remembered me so instantly made me think this chick was actually legit. I figured she recognized the spirits that were hanging around me or something. Is that how it works?

When I picture spirits, I feel like it would be a similar scene to that of a Great White and those adorable little pilot fish that can't stand to be away from him for any amount of time. Maybe it's more like the Verizon commercials where there's just a mass of people surrounding that one dude in the glasses. Of course, the crowd (and pilot fish) would be invisible.

I DIGRESS. So Gina asks to see each of us separately so that she can reveal intimate details about our futures to us. I go first, and she tells me that the guy I'm with (my "coworker") is the one for me, but that he's a tough one to nail down, and if I didn't figure out a way to do it, then I would be single until I was 50. (...) Thanks a lot, asshole. I didn't even know how to process that.

My coworker went last. He was trapped in Gina's lair the longest, and when he came out he was awkwardly trying to act like everything was fine and dandy by way of clapping his hands and laughing uproariously about things that weren't funny. He never mentioned a word about it, but I've always wondered what she said to make him come so unhinged.

Despite the fact that I had a bladder infection and was unable to actually "go all the way," the coworker let me sleep at his house...he was a charmer. Still antsy and weird, he was completely detached and actually fell asleep with his back to me. Normally it was a little spoon/big spoon situation, with him being the big spoon more often than not. Not wanting to read into anything, but still feeling the sting of being kept at arm's length, I turned my back to him and let a few tears leak out before I fell asleep.

The next morning wasn't any less awkward...I left before he even got out of bed. He broke up with me the next week. Not to point out the obvious, but it's clear that we didn't have a very strong foundation if he wasn't even willing to admit that we were together. But we "weren't together" for months before that, and everything seemed to be (neurotically) fine. I seriously doubt that whatever that psychic said had anything to do with anything, but still...what if it did?

Also, it's bullshit that I'm gonna be single until I'm 50. I object!

Monday, January 25, 2010

There goes another one...

Ok, so here's what happened with the Sundate from last week... (*sigh*)

First of all, let me preface this by the fact that, leading up to the date, this dude and I were communicating all day long - whether it be via text, chat or missed phone calls - for 5 straight days. A little intense for someone you haven't met in person? Perhaps. But it was exciting and we had a lot to talk about.

So anyway, we were set to have a lunch date at this little empanada place about 1/3 mile from my house. Dude meets me at my door (10 minutes early, impressive) and we walk to the little restaurant to start our date. Like any first date, it took a little bit of time to warm up, but we seemed to be doing alright for the most part. I only ordered one empanada when we got there because I was too nervous to concentrate on clearing my plate, so I figured I should keep it to a minimum. I was soooo broke on that day, and I was desperate to drink a Diet Coke, but I somehow forgot to order one. Bummers.

The conversation goes alright and we both end up sharing a whole bunch about ourselves - sometimes maybe too much? - and then it's time to walk back to my place. Mother nature is a bitch and she's always had it out for me, so while we were in the restaurant it started raining. Not cats and dogs, by any means, but enough to be annoying and fuck up my hair on the walk home. The shirt I was wearing was sort of this lacework deal that left a lot of my shoulders exposed to the cold, rainy weather. The dude, either being chivalrous or just plain old polite, put his arm around my shoulder as we walked the rest of the way. I went into full neurotic mode and, in my head, frantically tried to figure out if this arm-around-the-shoulder thing was anything I should be taking seriously. It's not like he was fingering me or anything. We get to my door and I completely make it awkward and weird and I think I even turned my face when he went in for a kiss. I have no idea how to react anymore.

- This past year has been so full of manipulations and mindfucks that I honestly can't tell what anyone's intentions are unless they straight-up say it to my face, and even then I'm not convinced - the darling comedian had no problem saying things to my face but not actually meaning a single word. -

Anyhow, I made it weird and he said he wanted to see me again and that he'd call me and I basically just stuttered out some words that sounded somewhat like "goodbye" and ran back into my house. Feeling bad (and confused) about what happened, I sent him a text* apologizing for making things awkward and he texted back right away, not seeming terribly bothered. I went to bed that night feeling like it may have been a success. It wasn't blow-you-out-of-the-water chemistry, but there was enough there to make me curious for a little more.

The next day I didn't hear a single thing from him. He wasn't online. He didn't text me like he had every day for the 5 days prior to our date. That's when the insecurities started setting in. The dynamic had shifted, and I took it as rejection. I mean, that's exactly what has happened with the other douchebags that weren't interested in me in the past, for chrissake. I started flipping out a little bit that day, but decided I'd see what happened the next day.

I got to work and signed online and he was signed on** as well, but it took him like 5 hours to say anything to me. But then we started sort of chatting about casual things like the weather and work, and it seemed like he was just busy. He had apologized for not being around the day before - something about playing video games in his pajamas all day long and disconnecting from the world entirely - so I started to think that maybe I had prematurely decided I was being rejected.

Feeling a little better about the situation, I sent him a link to an art exhibit that I thought he would like and asked if he was interested. His response was "this looks pretty rad." Not...really answering my question, bro. Did that mean he was interested in going with me? Or just that he was interested in the exhibit? Insecurities started to set back in. I felt like he was just trying to be polite by not completely blowing me off right away.

For the record, I still haven't figured out what I dislike more: being completely blown off immediately, or the long, drawn-out polite process of being slowly disregarded. Both are pretty awful.

...this is when it gets bad. The next day he was M.I.A. again. He wasn't online - he was always online before - he didn't text me. By this point I was pretty sure he was either dead, or I was being fucking disregarded by another one, and while I certainly don't wish for anyone's untimely demise, the thought of being blown off AGAIN made me want to I didn't know which scenario I actually preferred.

Then (!) I noticed on my Facebook*** that he had deleted me as a friend...or so it seemed. When I clicked on his profile, it said his profile was private and that I had to add him as a friend in order to see any info about him. You know what I'm talking about. I lost it. I was so pissed off. Why the FUCK would he be such a fucking child and delete me on Facebook rather than just growing a pair of fucking nuts and being like "hey, I'm not into you." At this point I was livid, and I was sick of this fucking routine, so I prematurely wrote a "fuck you for blocking me from the internet, you jerk" email (I KNOW. I KNOW. NOT A GOOD IDEA) and fired it off without thinking about anything and just hopped on the bus and seethed the entire way home.

It was done! Fuck that guy. The only thing left was to live in fear of my inbox for the next 24 hours in case he decided to follow up with a nasty retort. But, to my horror, when I arrived home I signed back into my Facebook and I realized that he had NOT, in fact, blocked me. I don't know what the fuck was up with the internet that day, because earlier that afternoon he had clearly deleted me, but now he was magically back in my arsenal of internet friends. Whoopsie. I...definitely overreacted.

At this point, I knew that I ruined whatever existed between the two of us by sending that email. But then I thought that if he didn't understand why I was upset or my anxieties about his unexpected disappearance, then he wasn't a dude I wanted to waste my time on anyway. Still, though. How embarrassing.

Mortified, I sat and waited for the email response, which came to me about 5 hours after I sent the initial scathing email. His response was infuriating. He basically said that he did like me, but my overreaction was too much. Nay. To quote him: "even the slightest disappearance on my part elicited a bunny boiler for the save file." HE FUCKING LIKENED ME TO GLENN CLOSE IN FATAL FUCKING ATTRACTION. YES, I should not have flipped out and sent that email, but how the FUCK does that make me a psychotic animal killer? The only thing BOILING was my goddamn blood at that point. But what could I do? Anything more on my end would only prove him right. So I swiftly apologized and let the whole thing go. Done.

I deleted my online dating profile a minute after I got his response. Fuck this dating thing. I'm not good at it.

*Texting is the worst.
**When did people stop calling each other?
***Also, fuck Facebook.

Silence is golden?

I barely went anywhere this weekend, and it was glorious. No getting all dressed up to go out and spend every last penny on over-priced booze. No awkward first dates to over-analyze and pick apart until there's no semblance of hope left. I actually stayed in on Saturday night and watched Lifetime Originals with a girlfriend and shoved my face full of meatloaf and ice cream (not together, of course) and it was totally perfect and stress-free.

This was the first weekend in a super long time that I wasn't stressing over some idiot boy, and I gotta say...I'm sort of into it. Finally there's no noise! I'd love to say that I could take a break from this whole dating scene for a while and enjoy the quiet, but let's be honest...who am I if I'm not hyperventilating over some boy or another? Still, today I'm going to say that I'm quitting this mess until further notice.*

*We all know that "further notice" will be in like 3 days until I fall for a new lanky, big-nosed comic book nerd.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Pearl of Wisdom #3

When making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, always use the knife for the peanut butter first. Then wipe the knife off and dive into the jelly. Never put a jelly-covered knife into the peanut butter, it leaves a big mess inside the jar, and creates tension among the peanut butter purists.Peanut butter is, normally, community property and not everyone loves jelly. Those with peanut allergies are treated so delicately, but what about the people that have jelly allergies? Ok, maybe not allergies, but what about jelly aversions? Don't those people have any rights?

While we're on the topic of community eating regulations, please never (EVER) reheat fish in a shared space. Nobody wants to be hotboxed by the smell of fish while they're trying to work/eat/live. On a similar note, stop making popcorn in the office. The smell of popcorn, if cooked properly, makes people irrationally hungry, thus causing people to become irritable. If cooked improperly, the burnt smell permeates every molecule in the shared space, thus causing people to want do a jack knife off the top of the building.

Knock this shit off, people.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010


Ugh, all of the hot british men (there are many!) in my office are wearing wedding bands. Looks like I'll have to go elsewhere to find myself a delicious import.

The only other dude that remotely piques my interest is this guy that is way too tiny for my preferences, and he keeps telling everyone that he looks way younger than he actually is, and he looks 35 to I'm guessing he's actually like 36 but has the misconception that everyone thinks he's 40 or something and loves to "prove them wrong" about it. Basically, he's middle-aged. Yuck.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Pearl of Wisdom #2

Smoking drugs absolutely makes your teeth fall out. I've never personally smoked any drugs, but I wait for the bus at Hollywood and Highland and I see evidence of this every single day. Not pretty.

RE: Sundate

If anything went wrong on my date yesterday, it was because I panicked and made things awkward. I've completely lost the ability to interpret first date behavior. A year ago, if a man put his arm around me while we were on a date, I'd take it that he liked me. Now that I've been confused out of my mind with the last few idiots I've wasted my time on, an arm around the shoulder could very well mean "yeah, I'm not into it." So I stuttered and said stupid things at the end, and I probably came off like a squirrelly mess. Bummer, too. I liked him.

Thursday, January 14, 2010


I have a date on Sunday. A FIRST date. An INTERNET first date! God, those are the scariest. And it's the trickiest process, this internet dating. You have to be careful about how attached you get to the idea of the person before you actually meet them. If you know too little about the person and jump into a date immediately, it's likely that there won't be any sort of connection. But if you get to know them too well before you meet, it ends up being a bigger bummer if it doesn't actually go well. Right now the only thing that would ruin this date on Sunday is if there was no physical attraction. Otherwise, everything seems to be golden. Saying anything more will only serve to jinx things, so I'm zipping my lips now.

But what the fuck do I wear? Seriously.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Pearl of Wisdom #1

Statistically, the most frequently used stall in a public restroom is the second stall. This has nothing to do with romance or dating in Los Angeles, but it's something to think about.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

The ass is greener...

American girls will forgive a man almost anything if he's got a foreign accent. Well, a fancy foreign british or spanish or... south african! And while I certainly have a weakness for the men within my vacinity, they would cease to exist if a smouldering british/french/spanish/anyone other than american man came into my life. The dude could be fucking homeless and I'd drop everything to hear what he was saying.

I started a new job yesterday and declared that there wasn't a single guy worth enough for me to spend my next crush on, and then today this dude (who I didn't think twice about when I saw him yesterday) walked by while on the phone and he had a british accent, and all of a sudden I think he's my soulmate.

And the best part is that whenever I travel abroad, all the foreign men adore MY accent. When I was in New Zealand I could have picked any dude I wanted down there. I honestly could have paired up with the hottest guy in the country and he would have been stoked to be with me. And then I get back here and I can't even pay a dude to give me a high-five. Sounds like I'm living on the wrong continent, eh?

Friday, January 8, 2010

Scent of a Wo(man)

It doesn't matter who's wearing it, whenever I smell Old Spice: Pure Sport I am rendered powerless. Bruce Vilanch could walk by me wearing Old Spice: Pure Sport and I would want to beg him to take his shirt off so I could get a better whiff. I think it's probably because my first real crush wore that back in the 1800s when I was young, and the sweet memory has forever been attached. For that very same reason, I always make it a point to smell exactly the same when I see a former love/crush/gentleman caller. I've literally got an entire of shelf of perfumes that I've collected over the years, and each one belongs to one man.

No revenge is sweeter than making a man that has broken your heart long for the days when he first loved you, and the effect is so easily achieved! Humans are so predictable. We're all animals, after all.

But it can work against you, too. My first love in LA broke up with me over the phone while I was in the middle of working an 80 hour work week. Immediately upon hanging up I got online and spent my entire tax return on a ticket to London to see my best friend. All I wanted to do was drink whiskey, listen to Paul Simon's Graceland on repeat, and cry into my falafel. I was heartbroken.

I remembered that I left my camera at my ex's house, so I used that as an excuse to meet up one more time before I took off. I thought this could be a chance to, pathetically, win him back. I went out and bought a new dress and shoes, made my face extra pretty, wore my hair the way he liked it...I even went out and bought a new perfume. This particular man was driven wild by this perfume I had that smelled like apples. I later learned that strippers also smell like apples...should have been a sign. But this time I went with Chanel Chance: sophisticated, young, and new. Plus, the name said it all. This was my chance! I thought if I could look amazing while seeming a little bit changed, I would be irresistible and back in his arms in no time.

That's not exactly how it all worked out. I did see him and I looked absolutely fabulous. So fabulous that I ended up spending the night again. Technically, I was back in his arms. I was set to leave the next afternoon for London, and I figured I would sleep in and we'd have some breakfast and share a sweet goodbye. Instead, he woke me up at 7am and removed me from his apartment as soon as humanly possible. Not even a kiss goodbye.

There I was, standing on the curb of his apartment building, wearing a new dress and heels, makeup smeared all over my face, and I was totally dejected. I felt used, naive, sick to my stomach. And as I walked to my car, all I could smell was that goddamn Chanel Chance. Chance, my ass, I thought. There was never any chance. I should have stuck to the classics.

It's been years now and every time I smell Chanel Chance my stomach instantly drops and I feel an overwhelming sense of desperation. I'll never wear it again, but I still have the bottle on my shelf for some reason. I guess I've been hoping that I could wear it again one day with someone new and the bad memories would fade away. Scent is a powerful creature, man. Be careful with it.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

"Never date 8-1-8"

That was one of the first pieces of advice that I received upon my big move up to Los Angeles. Once I'd settled and gotten comfortable, I somehow forgot that little tidbit and let a few valley area code toting boys work their way into my heart. Without fail, the boys with the 818 area codes have proven to be the most disappointing wastes of time. From now on I will stick to only those who boast a 310, 323, 949 or maaaaaybe a 714, and I suggest everyone do the same. It's just safer to preemptively strike on this one. As far as out of state area codes...those can get tricky, so it's up to your own discretion.

Note to self...

Never wear mismatched sweats anywhere outside of your house. Tonight I went to dinner with a friend while wearing velour navy blue sweat pants (don't ask) and a bright red cotton sweatshirt with a white fleece-lined hood that makes me look like Santa. I literally almost had a panic attack as we walked into the restaurant because I was convinced that every guy that I've ever liked/gone out with/tried to impress was going to be sitting at one giant table waiting to point their fingers and laugh at me. Thankfully I came out unscathed, but was it worth it go through all of that? No way, man. Next time I'll make sure my sweat suit matches. Or, more important, I won't leave the house in sweats.

Monday, January 4, 2010

How cliché.

Ugh, It was the windbreaker dude from NYE that was calling me and not leaving messages. Eventually he left one, but before he did, he called 4 times and hung up. I didn't call him back, and I don't plan on it, making me exactly the sort of person that I've been complaining about for the past godknowshowlong. If he didn't call, I'd have been pissed, but he did and it totally turned me off. The worst part is the realization that I now know exactly how the people on the other side of my own situations feel. Why is it that the second a person likes me I find them disgusting and pathetic? My behavior is so textbook. Definitely an issue worth exploring. It's like that old Groucho Marx quote: "I don't care to belong to any club that would have me as a member."

Friday, January 1, 2010

The Art of ... Something

Well, I was too saturated with spirits to successfully put my newly learned manipulation tactics into play, but I did manage to get some poor schmuck to kiss me at midnight. Not a perfect match by any means (he was wearing a windbreaker, for chrissake), but it worked just fine for me. He told me I was beautiful and that he wanted to take me to the movies. Who knows if I'll actually go. I think he's called me like 10 times but hasn't left a message. Either he's calling me, or someone else is eager to annoy me with missed calls.

As usual, I let the alcohol cloud my judgment and I made way too many texts to people I shouldn't have been texting. I also called my friend in Hawaii and tried to convince him that we should get married immediately. I can't remember if he said yes or no. Wouldn't be me if I didn't make it weird! Happy New Year!