Dating Roadkill

MySpace Me, or Not

2009-05-28T08:47:00.000-07:00

Social Networking web sites have always fascinated me.

Okay that's not entirely true, when my college roommate first made me a MySpace page (that's right, I didn't go over to the dark side willingly) I felt like Carrie Bradshaw on that episode of Sex and the City when she gets her first AOL email account, tries to send Aidan an instant message and is fearful that he can in fact see her through the computer. How creepy that people troll these pages in an attempt to hook up. I mean, honestly, why would I want strangers to be able to look at personal pictures of me or know random facts about who I am?

Pretty sure after seeing a special episode of 20/20 my mom also phoned to make sure I wasn't putting my personal address and phone number on the site (look both ways before crossing the street, don't talk to strangers and use the buddy system!). Obviously my irrational (but not totally unfounded) fears of being stalked by an axe wielding serial killer prevented me from disclosing any such information into the world wide web. I also know not to run upstairs (or hide in a closet) when said axe wielder pounds through your front door. Really? Do you think he's not going to check the one closet you're hiding in? Do you think you'll suddenly sprout wings and fly off of your second story roof? I. Think. Not.

Anyway after signing up for MySpace it was a downward spiral. Suddenly I had MySpace and a Facebook page - both of which occupied 40% of my total work day on maintenance alone. You have to upload pictures, take quizzes, comment on people's status, update your friend list, download a new song, make sure the background suites your style, leave messages for people, search for friends, etc, etc. So much to do and so little time.

The greatest joy that I found in both sites was the new ability to stalk people that I went to High School with. How amazing that you no longer have to wait 10 years for a reunion to see the triumphs and failures of your graduating class. Instead it's all spelled out for you right there on your own personal computer screen (and with picture evidence to back it up)! Glorious.

After a while, I naturally gravitated toward Facebook, somewhat abandoning my Myspace account - only signing on if a friend left a comment (which sort of stopped happening once Facebook opened up to the mainstream). The other day, I thought it would be a great idea to log back into my MySpace and see how out of date all of the pictures and info really were, to go through my old messages to clean them out etc...

Suffice to say, I was stunned.

Not by my pictures or out of date information section but by the sheer number of insane messages that I have received from guys on MySpace over the years. Now I know that I had previously read all of these messages when they arrived in my inbox, but seeing them all at once, back to back really concerned me.

I would like to submit as evidence, Exhibit A:

I don't know, sir. I typically don't "chat" with random strangers who can't find the time to type out full words and don't enjoy the beauty of punctuation. Word to the wise: Question marks are your friend. Don't neglect them.

And Exhibit B:

Besides the obvious misuse of the word "catched" (PS appropriate tense is important when speaking - maybe a refresher course is in order?) this guy seems kind of nice. He is respectful, he doesn't use "U" in place of "You" and he says complimentary things like "Your (wrong again) a (just add an "n"!) attractive woman." We've had the "First Impressions" conversation already. This lack of important grammar skills is immediately off putting to me. That may make me sound like a crazy English teacher - but it's true. I certainly can't take you seriously if you use the wrong version of "Your." And I will admit that I have been typing too fast once or twice and misused it myself - but this guy didn't grammar check at all. So, sir, would I consider getting to know you better? No.

Moving on to Exhibit C:
Ok this just sounds like a singles add in the paper. While I appreciate that he followed most of the rules of grammar (I can't fault him for the one typo) his approach is ridiculous (mostly b/c his approach includes a message on MySpace) and his use of the word Princess. "I would love to wine and dine and spoil you someday." Hmmm. Interesting. Does this include Dom Perignon soaked afternoons on your yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean? Because I'm thinking, in reality, this means one plastic cup of Andre each on a borrowed dinghy in the Marina. The marina I can walk to from my house. Thrilling.

And finally Exhibit D:

I just...I can't...I mean...really?
Is this really the new wave of the future? Is THIS how I am expected to meet the love of my life? I mean I hear about it all the time - this guy randomly messaged that girl, they talked for a while and then when they met it was BAM love at first sight (or type? not really sure how that works). If this is the pool that I have to choose from, then no thank you. My shoes have better communication skills than these people.

So maybe I have tough standards, but I don't think that speaking appropriately is too much to ask of a potential soul mate. They may not actually be able to see you, Carrie Bradshaw, but they will bludgeon you to death with a "there" instead of "they're" or throw something like "dat" instead of "that" at you. Personally, I'd rather take my chances with the axe wielding psycho.

Soul Mate Specialist

2009-05-20T12:45:00.000-07:00

I recently saw this ad taped to a phone poll in Marina del Rey. That's right. Soul Mate Specialist. And for the extremely low, recession friendly price of $5. You know you're getting the facts when you shell out a whole $5.

The best part about the add - the small print that you can't read (because the camera on my Blackberry is not exactly quality) says "Reuniting Lovers Permanently: Even When They're Already Taken." This one goes out to all the fellas who call you to tell you they've named their pillow after you and talk to it at night because they just miss you that much (despite the fact that you saw them only two hours earlier). CREEEPPPY.

That's right - a Psychic home wrecker and Soul Mate Specialist. Wrap your minds around that one, my friends. And if you need to talk it over with someone, make sure that someone is not your pillow. "Pillow Talk" is just an expression.

Lost In Translation

2009-05-13T19:13:00.000-07:00

I'd like to know exactly when society decided that manners were no longer necessary on first dates.

As a general rule of thumb, I believe it is rather important to make a good first impression on people, whether they be business relationships, friendships, possible romantic interests etc. As "open minded" as we all claim to be in this politically correct day and age, I believe we, as humans, have an instinct to judge. I will be the first to admit that I am an internal judger. I will never say it to your face, but I will make snap judgements, particularly if you decide to pair your puke green colored dress socks with Birkenstocks. Are you a Yuppie or a Hippie? You can't be both - so choose your choice. But if I could intervene, convince you to err on the side of good taste and choose to be neither I will have done my good deed for the day.

First impressions are, obviously, crucial. So why do some people seem to throw caution to the wind when it comes to how they present themselves on first dates? A few years ago, I met a guy at a bar. I know what you're thinking - of course this guy was a loser, you met him at a bar! Alas, dear friends, my lovely parents met at a bar and have been happily married for a very long time - so I count out no physical locations when it comes to meeting people. Granted, my mom seems to think I'm going to meet someone in the freezer section at Ralphs. This is the same woman that whole heartedly believes that I'm going to marry some guitar toting, note swinging rock star (John Meyer specifically) and start a Rock 'n Roll family, with little guitar playing children who start their own rock band and travel around on a psychedelically painted bus (if you haven't already guessed my mom falls on the Birkenstocks side of the divide).

So I met this particular fellow as I was crossing the intersection of Intoxicated Blvd and Forgot Everything that Happened Last Night Lane. After wandering away from my friends at their designated hangout spot in the bar I heard a voice that said "Hey! Come Here!" I felt a tug on my arm and what I believed to be a handsome stranger (damn beer goggles) pulled me into a corner and started talking to me. For reasons that we will not discuss in detail,I can not remember exactly what it was we discussed. All I know is that at some point, he programmed a number into my cell phone with the name "Frank" attached to it (the name has been changed not for his protection but rather because I can't remember it. The story you are about to read was such a horrific experience that I have blocked out specific details for my own sanity). After speaking with him for what could not have been longer than five minutes (my friends pulled me away as it was time to leave) all I took away was that I thought he had a really cute French accent (I know - stop falling for the foreign boys).

The next morning, after the initial shock of not remembering anything about this mysterious boy, I focused on getting myself up and out of bed and ready for work (note to self - you're not 21 anymore, this hungover, nausous feeling is unacceptable at your age). After a grueling day of answering phones at the office, I received an interesting and unexpected voicemail:

"Hi, um...this is Frank...from last night. I really enjoyed meeting you and was wondering if we could go out sometime? Give me a call..."

I was stunned. Rarely did they call the next day, especially if the encounter was as brief as I assume ours was that night. As I listened to the voicemail, I thought about all the wonderful things we could do on our first date...how awesome would it be to date the French boy! He may not have a car, Mom, but he has an accent! But then I listened to his voicemail again...and I walked away from it a tad confused. My French friend no longer sounded French - but Austrailian. Being the accent lover that I am, I typically do not confuse them with each other, but as I replayed and replayed it it definitely sounded Austrailian. Interesting. But not completely out of the question - as we've established, I was intoxicated and all...

So of course I called to confirm our first date. And when I spoke with him on the phone - things got even stranger. Now his accent sounded English (UK style). But I brushed that off too thinking, Australian and English can sometimes be hard to tell apart (please don't kill me for saying that - I know they are very distinct and different dialects, but I had to rationalize my confusion somehow). So I brushed my worries aside and we agreed to meet for our first date...

I should preface this next part with the fact that I have an irrational fear of first dates with people I've never really met before. What if they turn out to be crazy? What if they attack? What if they try to bore me to death with awful stories about their cat named Jamison who runs into the glass door everytime he sees a bird outside (seriously people - come up with more interesting first date stories already)? Naturally, I make sure to have friends nearby on retainer, just in case I need someone to mysteriously call, or even myseriously show up at dinner and provide an easy out or rescue. Bailey was the winner for this particular evening.

When I arrived at the restaurant, he was...well...there. He wasn't what I remembered. Definitely not the handsome French man that I had envisioned on my imaginary date earlier in the evening. As he sat down at the table, I noticed that the button up shirt that he was wearing was missing a button. Not "missing" in that he forgot to button a button (which is awkward and embarrassing, but forgivable) no he was missing a button - meaning when he got dressed for this date, he purposely put on a shirt that was missing a button, that he could not button all the way up. Did he not pass a mirror on his way out of the house? Did he just not bother to look? As a result, I was privy to the forrest of hair that was growing wildly on his chest. A lovely sight at dinner.

We began to talk, simply, friendly small talk and finally he gave me a lead in to ask where he was from, to finally clear up the whole accent affair...

"Before I moved out here, I lived with my Mom, Dad and brother..."

"Oh, cool. So where exactly are you from?"

"Isn't it obvious from the accent?"

Shit. Lucky for me, I'm good on my toes...

"Of course it's obvious. I mean what city are you from?"

"Dusseldorf."

Ah...so he's GERMAN. Ok, I fail at life if I can't pick out a German accent.

We ordered and I was not very hungry so I ordered a baked potato and he ordered a salad and pasta dish. When his salad arrived he ate like a caveman. Seriously, the man had ranch dressing all over his mouth. And he just...kept...talking. About NOTHING! He worked for some airline doing God knows what (I should remember, he talked about it for so flipping long, but for my own sanity I blocked a lot of this evening from my mind). When his pasta arrived, he seriously (and I am definitely not joking here) wanted to feed it to me from across the table. I think he really thought we were having a romantic meal, meanwhile I was holding back my gag reflex as he lunged at me with a fork, salad dressing all over his mouth and the middle button of his shirt open to reveal more chest hair than I have ever seen on a man in my life. Naturally, I politely declined.

When the meal was finally over, I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel, until he decided he wanted to take a walk. Mind you, there is nothing but residential streets around this restaurant. Dark, residential, completely deserted streets. Since I didn't pack my mase and taser for the evening, I again, respectfully declined out of fear for personal safety. I did let him walk me to my car, though. I didn't want to seem rude.

Now this is the part that I wish with every fiber of my being that I could actually erase from my mind. We arrived at my car and I began searching for my keys (damn it I should have found them when we were in the restaurant so that they were ready - keys can be good weapons when used correctly). As I search away, he begins prattling on about how much fun he had and how much he likes me blah, blah blah. And before I know it, the man is attacking my face. Seriously. It was one of those wet, sloppy, messy (read disgusting) kisses that every girl dreads being on the recieving end of. I pulled away when I felt as if I might throw up a bit in my mouth...

I could not drive away fast enough.

First dates and first impressions are important. I can't stress that enough. Take it from me - sloppy kiss, ranch dressing, missing button guy - totally not attractive. It's just as disgusting as the dress socks/Birkenstock combo. Choose your choice. Choose good taste.

Don't Skip on the Pine-Sol

2009-04-17T09:58:00.000-07:00

I got hit on at Bed, Bath and Beyond the other day and (surprise, surprise) it was a little awkward.

Don't get me wrong, I was totally flattered (what girl doesn't love a compliment whilst standing amidst the Sham-WOWs, the Topsy Turbans and the little egg looking things that are supposed to shave dead skin off your feet. Now that's the dream) but the guy was just so strange - and not in a creepy way.

I was at Bed, Bath and Beyond because I am remodeling my closet (and by remodeling I mean that I bought new pretty plastic boxes to store all my shoes in - keeping them in their original boxes was getting a little overwhelming - one too many shoe avalanches on my head at 6:30a has taught me that painful lesson). On this particular shopping adventure, I had 8 coupons for 20% off and 1 for $5 off the entire purchase, naturally I bought 15 things (not all plastic shoe boxes). My shopping addiction really does expand into all categories, but it mostly benefits my closet in some fashion.

Not planning ahead, I did not have a cart. So...I ended up throwing a few items in one plastic shoe box, placing that in 10 other shoe boxes and then balancing their matching lids on top of that. Basically I was an accident waiting to happen. To make matters worse, when I arrived at the sales counter, the line was snaking through a spill zone. One of the employees was graciously mopping at people's feet as she attempted to clean something up (if I had to venture a guess, I would have pinned the crime on the snot nosed 4 year-old grasping an open water bottle filled with red punch. That's what sippey cups are for, people. They sell them in the dishware section. Get a clue). Why said employee did not relocate the line to another location is beyond me. Instead, she thought it best to swing that mop all over the floor and all over people's shoes. Panic obviously coursed through my body - I was wearing a pair of brand new strappy wedges and the last thing I needed was for her to smear Murphy Oil Soap all over them. The shoes had to be saved at all costs! What can I say, I'm a defender of the helpless and innocent.

As I danced around her mop, trying to avoid getting any cleaning solution on my shoes, I continuously feared the crash of the shoe boxes that I was balancing in my arms. Luckily, my turn at the register quickly came and I was out of the way of the devil mop.

As I approached, the salesman gave his obligatory, "How are you today?" and I responded with the appropriate, "I'm great, how are you?" Perhaps I should have avoided the question, he obviously took it as an invitation to start a full conversation.

"You look beautiful tonight, miss."

Oh. Wait. What? That one caught me off guard.

"Oh, thank you. I'm on my way to dinner." *Scanning of products, Scanning of products*
"Can I ask you what you are wearing?"

Now for the normal person, this question triggers an answer about perfume. My mixed up mind went immediately to, well the shoes of course, but more importantly the stunning black wrap dress I had mysteriously discovered at the back of my closet that morning. I don't remember ever purchasing it, I only have vague memories of seeing it just once before but magically, there it was in between my blue dress from Banana Republic and my red dress from Bebe. Ann Taylor. Hmmm. Didn't know I had it. So of course, when it came my turn to respond - my answer was...

"Um. Hm. Wait. Oh - do you mean my perfume?"
"Yes."
"Oh. I think I'm wearing Chanel today."
"Well, you smell fantastic."

Really? Cause I'm pretty sure my perfume wore off, like, 5 hours ago and all I can smell is the pool of pine-sol that my feet are currently marinating in.

"Thank you." Was my real response.

More scanning, more scanning. Finally, he scanned the coupons and then got to the last one with a look of dread on his face.

"Oh, I didn't realize you had a $5 coupon in here. That changes everything. I'm going to have to go back and do it all over again."

I legitimately felt bad about this. I hate when I hold up lines or inconvenience people, so I quickly apologized.

"Don't worry. I'd do anything for a beautiful woman."
"Oh. Well. Thanks. That's really sweet."
"No seriously. Now don't go telling the news or anything - they're going to start thinking I'm prejudice to the ugly folk - but I just do anything for a pretty lady."

*Obligatory, awkward laughter*

For the sake of time, I will not recount, in detail, the 5 minute conversation that then followed. Just be sure that he pretty much repeated the same thing over and over and I laughed and said things like "Oh, thank you" or "How sweet."

Meanwhile, the line behind me began to back up with customers and the guy directly behind me was CUTE. Like, really cute. AND he was balancing a ton of little plastic boxes just like me. I like to think of us as possible soul mates. We obviously have similar storage concerns - what better reason is there to base a relationship off of?

So by the time the clerk told me to "Have a wonderful day" I was too embarrassed to say anything to my possible soul mate. Perhaps our fates will cross again one day in the bedding section and we will fall in love (for the second time) over a Donna Karen bed ensemble with matching pillows.

I would like to repeat that I'm not complaining here. The clerk was so sweet, very nice and very helpful and I am never one to turn down a compliment. I appreciate that he was NOT creepy like many men can be in situations like those. All in all, I walked out, yes a little awkward, but also with a bit of a skip in my step. :-)

I guess if you need a pick-me-up, just head to Bed, Bath and Beyond - and don't skip on the pine-sol perfume. The guys go crazy for it!

God, Is that You?

2009-04-03T10:49:00.001-07:00

I think God, or the spirit world, or some supreme yoga being is trying to tell me that I have issues.

I attend Yoga twice a week and this past Wednesday, we had a substitute teacher who was more into the breathing and the chanting than the use of Yoga for exercise purposes. Which is great and all (to each his own), but I enjoy the strange aspects of Yoga - like learning how to twist yourself into this or that pretzel-like shape - it seems impossible but it's not!

When we were done with the breathing and the chanting, she walked around and told us each to pick a card from some mysterious deck of yoga cards. They each had a word at the top, a picture and an inspirational saying. As the cards circulated the room, and people read theirs aloud, words like "Woman" or "The Path" were coming up. All very inspiring and Yoga-like. The cards smelled like incense so there was even a calming factor filling the room as people began to trickle out.

And what did my card say, you ask?

Anger.

Yes - Anger. Not love or harmony or peace or joy or any other calming word I might associate with yoga. No, I got the angry card. And when I read it out to the class, everyone looked at me. It was actually more embarrassing than the time I attempted Crow position and fell on my head. After I read the card, even the teacher looked at me with a face, as if these were Tarot cards and I just picked the one that predicted immanent death.

"Don't practice anger," she said, smiling awkwardly in an attempt to ease the tension "just, um, try not to be angry." It didn't work. I was angry that this strange little card, from this strange little woman seemed to be telling me I was an angry person. She lingered momentarily, as if she felt obligated to try and comfort me even though every bone in her body was screaming at her to get away from the freak girl who pulled the "Angry" card from the pile. Perhaps she thinks anger is contagious and didn't want to catch it from me? After that brief pause, she pretty much bolted.

So there you have it. I'm angry. Watch out! Because I'm angry.

The Yoga-Gods said so.

Text Twist

2009-03-19T11:28:00.000-07:00

I think that I have made my opinion on texting pretty clear in prior posts. I don't like it. Well, that's not true, I do like it in that it makes my day to day communication with friends and family a lot easier (although now that Mom has learned the art of texting, I am often inundated with random "What are you up to?" texts at bizarre times. I imagine her sitting in the recliner, Dad working nearby on the crossword puzzle, tired of reading her book, and just generally wondering what craziness her daughter is up to at the moment - might I remind you, Mother, that despite popular belief, my life is not a soap opera). As I was saying, texting - good in general, but just like "That's What She Said" jokes - there is a time and a place.

My problem with texting is that it allows people to be less accountable for their actions. It's a lot easier to be a complete ass to someone when you don't have to stare them in the face, or hear their voice over the phone. Because honestly, no one should ever have to receive the following message via text: "BTW, I'm married now, so if we hang out - we can't hook up." Ummmm. Great? I haven't seen you in two years. I haven't talked to you in just as long. I didn't even know you had a steady girlfriend and now all of a sudden, out of the blue, you're announcing your marital status like it's unimportant side commentary?

Oh, BTW, I probably wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole. Just saying.

Avry has survived one such hit and run text. Actually, she survived that exact hit and run text. She had not spoken with this man in many moons and (without provocation I would like to add) he texted her on New Years Eve to announce that he was married and that they could no longer "hook up." I'm sorry, that makes no sense to me. Do you see me running around texting all past relationships when things happen to me? "BTW - I bought a pair of tall Jimmy Choo's today - so if I ever see you face to face again, I'll probably be towering over you" (perhaps I am the only one who faces that particular issue as my natural height sans shoes is taller than many men).

I am going to try to promise that this will be my last posting on texting as I am coming to realize that in 2009 alone I've written three or four mentioning this very topic. Apparently it is just something that really irks me. The same way that Crocs footwear irks me. I don't have a problem with them existing - I just don't think they are appropriate for all occasions.

I don't wear my heels to the mountains, so why are you wearing your Crocs to the Oscars.

If I Had Some Duct Tape, I Could Fix That

2009-03-02T09:09:00.000-08:00

My roommate and I MacGyvered our toilet the other day.

The chain broke off from the lever and so the little stopper wouldn't lift up when you tried to flush it (you like my official plumbing lingo?). So, in our heels and dresses (we were headed out for some fabulous Cuban cuisine and dancing) we MacGyvered our toilet back together - using a safety pin.

That's right - we fixed it. Not permanently by any means - but enough to get it to function until our landlord decides to actually fix it in the non-safety pin variety.

Take THAT, Dad. I did learn something from following you around all those years - even if I was just playing with the socket wrench because it made a really cool noise.

Use Your Words, Please.

2009-02-26T11:34:00.000-08:00

I remembered today why, as a child, I enjoyed Barbies more than boys. Put simply: Barbies can be controlled while boys are invariably loose cannons – unpredictable and almost always doing the opposite of what you want them to do.

Okay, yes, Ken might run off with Skipper, your whore of a little sister, in an attempt to feel free of your supposed "ball and chain,” but once Midge Hadley (your ubber trendy and ultra-mod best friend) takes control of the sitch and, perhaps, runs Skipper's stolen Dream Jeep off the road with her kick ass Sparkle Motor scooter, Ken will be running back through the doors of your pink three story condo (with working elevator), and into your arms (perhaps even with a heartfelt serenade ala NKOTB) before you can bat a perfectly mascaraed eyelash. Please, we all know Ken is not the kind of man to stick with Skipper if she’s bruised and bandaged in the hospital.

I was a bit of an odd child back in the day. No idea where these kinds of stories came from, but yes, I spent my formative years creating narratives for my Barbies to act out, which oftentimes involved death (and of course eventually resurrection when I needed that particular doll again for another story), love, love spats (as I pictured them as a 7 year-old) and of course the apology. Because in my world, though Ken messed up (and he certainly messed up a lot) he was meant to be with Barbie and like a formulaic romantic comedy, they always made it work in the end.

Sadly, this utopic society (come on you know you love the drama) that I created in my parents house as a child never seems to come to fruition in real life. Many guys don't know how to put certain things into words (I, as you can tell, am full of words - this makes communication extremely frustrating on many levels) and thus spend the majority of their time in relationships flip flopping around, decidedly undeceive and unpleasantly contradicting.

My friend, Christina, understands this first hand.

Recently she "dated" a guy, (I use quote marks because it is not entirely sure what really was going on in his head), we'll call him Jake, who didn't really know how to handle himself - at all. Christina and Jake had been friends prior to the "dating incident" (as it will henceforth be referred to). One day, out of the blue, he decided to confess that he may have had feelings for her all along (he didn't really know, he was still trying to “figure it all out”). I will say that at that point, he had me fooled. I really believed that maybe he felt this way about Christina. Maybe he was the kind of guy that believed in the romantic gesture. Maybe he was the kind of guy to sing "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?" while standing in the rain outside your bedroom window - he may not have Michael Bolton's singing chops but, damn it, he'll try!

Alas, he was none of these things. A day after declaring his possible love for her, he finally attempted to kiss her. And then he left. Left as in went on a trip home to see his family. And what did he do while he was home? Oh he texted her. Yep. The infamous text: "We need to talk." Honestly, if Ken had ever had texting back in the day Barbie probably would have kicked his ass out of the Dream Condo and onto the street before he even had the chance to type "Maybe we should take a break.” Thank God, texting is rendered nearly impossible in a world where fingers are pretty much glued together.

Back to the text. I think we all know what happened after a loaded text like that. She was scheduled to pick him up after his flight. The “dating incident” was done and over before they had even left the airport.

I'm sorry. Can one technically "break up" with another after talking about the possibility of maybe getting together for little over a week?

And then - to make a bad situation worse - months later, after he decided he was moving out of the city, he told her that he had made a mistake, but it was too late to do anything about that now. Oh and, apparently, kissing her was like kissing his sister.

Excuse me? I think someone needs to get his stories straight. Ken may have had trouble staying faithful to Barbie, but damn it if he didn't always have an AMAZING apology at the end of it all. That or he would suddenly (and mysteriously) lose his head, as he did in the Bathtub Drowning of '89 (apparently Ken dolls do not hold up well when submerged in water for long periods of time) or the Great Bicycle Massacre of '91 (yes, tying dolls to the back of your bike is an effective way of transporting many dolls at once - but often times, they will lose limbs. You have been warned).

And what, you ask, is the point of all this? Well recently this "Jake" told my friend Christina that he is now finding it difficult to get a girl. And my question to that is, does he have any right to ask her a question like that after he initiated a "relationship" then broke it off days later for no apparent reason, then said that he was a fool for breaking up with her but really could never be with her because she’s more like a sister etc.

I guess I just don’t understand what is so hard about communicating these problems. If you don’t want to be with someone, fine – just tell them that. If you do want to be with someone – even better – just tell them. Moral of the story here, kids, is that communication is vital. Even Barbie and Ken have to sit down from time to time in the Deluxe Travel Motor-home (yes they even owned RVs) to talk out their issues. Clarity is key and I think there are a lot of people in this world (yes ladies – you too!) who could stand a lesson or two in how to communicate.

I understand that for some people, words are hard to come by. And that’s okay. Be creative – but get your message across. Grand gestures are often welcome here. In fact, they tend to go over quite well in these kinds of situations.

I think that maybe it is time for our friend Jake to find Barbie's Blasting Boom Box and prepare a rain soaked serenade outside Christina's window.

Return to Make-Out Mountain

2009-02-20T09:16:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, when we are young, it is hard to fully grasp how much our actions effect others. It may not be blatantly clear to some people that when you are sitting in a parking lot with your left blinker on and a car is backing out on the left side of your car, perhaps you are waiting for that spot. It would not be considered "absurd" if you then freak out when a lifted black suburban comes from the other direction and swoops in before you're able to maneuver into the spot. And PS - that giant ass car (if you can call it a car - it looks like it rolled right out of an arena after a monster truck rally) is not made for a compact spot.

That particular moment left me in a parking lot, fuming over the fact that some dumb ass teenager stole my parking spot (do I sound like an old woman yet, because I feel like I might slowly be turning into one of those crotchety old ladies who yells at kids from my front porch while waving a broomstick or a newspaper or a cane). I would like to point out that this was at Christmas time, so yes, tensions were running high that day as finding any spot at the mall produced a feeling that I imagine an archaeologist would feel upon discovering the ruins of an ancient civilization.

But this is not the point of my story. With a Hop, skip and a jump over to the next "holiday" I found myself in a parking lot with awkward teenagers and an entirely different emotion.

It was Valentine's Day. Both being single at the time, Bailey and I caught an early movie before meeting up with some friends down at a bar by the beach. Yes, the movie was "He's Just Not That Into You." And yes, I loved it. Except the end. The end was a little too "everything ends up happy" for my taste. I prefer the bitter-sweet endings myself. Much more realistic.

The movie ended at about 9:30p - still relatively early, meaning the parking lot was pretty packed with cars. I balanced my cell phone on my ear, waiting to leave a message for my friend, as I fumbled for my keys in my purse. Let me digress for just a moment. I carry large purses. Large purses are nice because they provide ample room to bring all of life's necessities with you on the road as you travel from place to place. I take that to the extreme. On a regular day, I often carry with me the following: 1 cell phone, 1 set of keys, 1 ipod, 1 or 2 books (just in case I have some down time), an extra pair of flat shoes (usually ballet flats), a small purse (that fits inside the larger purse), a wallet and, if it's raining, I'll throw in an umbrella. My friends call it the Mary Poppins purse. You can see why it is sometimes hard to find my keys. One would think that I would adapt and scavenge for my keys before I arrive at my car, but no. That rarely happens. Thus, I am left standing at my car, friend annoyed that I again do not have my keys ready, on the verge of a panic attack, assuming that I dropped them, left them, threw them, hid them, forgot them etc.

So as I was fumbling through the purse and attempting to leave a friend a voicemail, Bailey suddenly lowers her voice and says..."Aubree, look up." So...I do. In the truck parked in the spot directly adjacent to my car, two teenagers are making out. Okay, making out does not have enough emphasis. These kids were practically going at it. In the parking lot. At 9:30p on a Saturday. To which I ask, what is wrong with teenagers these days?

I don't remember ever making out in a well lit parking lot on a Saturday night when there were TONS of people around. That's what make out points/roads/mountains/lookouts are for, are they not? It was like an assault on the eyes to watch these kids attack each other's faces in the truck across from my car. Bailey and I both stood, staring - it was like a car wreck - you don't want to look, but you definitely want to take in the scene, make sure everyone comes out okay. Personally, I wanted to swing open the truck door and yell at the guy for assaulting not only my eyes, but this poor girl's face. I also wanted to yell at the girl. I mean come on now. You are a teenager. Your high school is literally in walking distance from this parking lot. How many kids from your school do you think are at this theater as we speak? Judging from my movie alone that night, I would say at least 40%. The odds of coming out of this unlabeled and unscathed are against you my friend.

Suffice to say, after staring at them a moment, then looking at each other, Bailey and I broke into loud, uncontrollable laughter. I mean, how often do you see that anymore? There are so many better places than in the movie theater parking lot!!! Come on, I know that your status as a teenager (and the lack of status of your truck) probably means you have no money but at least employ a little creativity here kids. I personally know of a hill top community just up the street where you have mucho privacy and a view of the entire city. Just saying. Starry skies, city lights - way more appealing than the movie theater parking lot. Although I guess the bonus of the parking lot is that there is a Rubios right there, in case you need some water when those curiously strong mints wear off and his breath starts to make you feel nauseous (trust me it happens - especially in the confines of a car with a guy you are only so-so about. Yes, despite my ranting and raving, I have been known to take advantage of the car make-out session. But NEVER in a well lit parking lot where someone I knew might see me. That might be embarrassing).

The kids found it less funny. They heard us laughing and turned to scowl. Luckily I immediately found my keys and we jumped into my car. The guy looked at us as if we were ruining his chances of getting lucky that night, but quite honestly, she almost looked relieved to have a moment of fresh air. So here's the lesson to all you hormone infested teens out there: please don't make out in well lit parking lots where I might stumble across you, if only for your own sake; I will laugh uncontrollably at you.

And please don't steal my parking spots when I'm shopping on busy holidays. I resent holiday shoppers the way really religious people resent those who only attend services on holidays. Shopping is not a once-a-year obligation. It's a lifestyle.

The Ghosts of Dating Past

2009-01-24T22:17:00.000-08:00

It's funny how people from your past can pop up to find you when you least expect it. You're going on, living your life in the here and now when suddenly you're catapulted back into the past - be it two years, two months or two weeks ago - suddenly you're there, along with all of the emotions that you've (until this moment) successfully repressed into the deep dark corners at the back of your mind (along with the memory of those cowboy boots and that hat with the large orange flower you used to wear back in third grade. Seriously, everyone looked ridiculous in the early 90s - don't be embarrassed).

So suddenly you're staring at an email, or a picture. You're listening to a song or smelling a bouquet of yellow daisies. Or suddenly your standing face to face with someone who has ripped your heart out (melodramatic, much?) and you're back in that place - no matter how hard you've tried to forget it.

I thought I saw someone today. Not even a someone of the melodramatic flavor, just a person - someone I could have possibly dated (but for whatever reason, didn't). I was at a happy hour with co-workers and there he was, sitting at the bar, with some blond girl (really can't be jealous since I never even went out with the guy). And I realized I couldn't tell if it was him. In all honesty, I had only met him face to face once. We exchanged numbers and things just sort of fell apart after that. And here I was, having a deja vu inspired meltdown in my mind in front of my co-workers (who PS do not really know me outside of work) and I couldn't even make eye contact with the guy. I had a few moments of did he, didn't he possible moments of eye contact, but by the time I worked up the courage to go see if it was him, he (and the blond) were gone.

I honestly would not have thought twice about it had the guy (definitely knew it was him this time) texted me not two hours later. Texted. How R U? Not even the words spelled out. And I instantly remembered why I had turned down his charmingly good looks. I don't enjoy being wooed via text message. Hi. How R U? Let's get a drink. Not exactly poetics. And let's not lie, I'm a girl who likes her grand gestures. At the very least, a phone call would have been nice.

This story, this boy, is obviously not noteworthy but he did get me thinking (and looking at old emails and pictures) of important people in my past - wondering what went wrong, wondering if maybe I had made other silly excuses (really? No wooing via text?) to push people away. Wondering if I really think it's easier to be alone than to let someone into see the real me.

Regret is a tricky thing. If I had just stayed a little longer that night to look at the stars with him. If I had just let one take me on a third date. If I had seriously talked to another about that one kiss rather than letting him pretend that it never happened (were we friends, were we more? Guess I'll never know). I could live my life as a series of "what ifs" but that just gets painful (what if I had bought that pair of yellow BCBG flats? See - coulda, shoulda, wouldas are just too complicated). But then I find myself in these moments seeing, remembering, smelling and I can't help but wonder about the past and certainly, what may have been.

But I think that life has a funny way of throwing certain things at us - detours, if you will, along the road of life - that help us to see things clearly when we get to that road's destination. So maybe I shouldn't be so upset about the random run-ins with the ghosts of dating past. Because despite the pain, I wouldn't give up the stars or the kiss. I wouldn't change those things for the world. So I have to believe that things worked out the way they were supposed to (for now anyway). Things are always changing, life is ebbing and flowing and people come full circle whether you want them to or not. And when I think about it that way, the coulda, shoulda, wouldas - along with the fear - seem to just melt away so that I can really sit and smell the daisies.

What Dreams May Come

2009-01-23T21:28:00.000-08:00

So apparently I'm a pessimist. Who knew? Ok - yes, I admit that my view on life is not all unicorns and rainbows, but whose (past the age of 7) is? Because honestly, people who are always about the "Life is good, life is grand, life is so freaking great" are either delusional or forcing themselves to believe the lie to make it easier to sleep at night (or both).

I sound like a complainer. Allow me to digress. My life is good. I admit that. I have a job at a time when so many do not, I have wonderful parents and an amazing brother. I have friends, I have an apartment and I have a little disposable income (if you can even call shoe money "disposable". It's practically blasphemy. I see no better long term investment then a pair of Nine West knee high grey suede boots. They go with everything). My life is good. But sometimes it's just hard to be positive about everything.

I think by now everyone is aware that I am looking for love. Good, grand, freaking great...love. And it just doesn't seem to want to find me. And of course you have the Positive Pollys of the world (Hi Mom, yes, this one's for you) who come out with the "You're busy right now. You're time will come. Just be patient." Well that's cool and all (whatever lets you sleep at night - I know you secretly fear the possibility that you will never have grandchildren) but everyone is busy all the time - and it never seems to hold them up. And besides, waiting around just isn't my style.

Maybe my problem is that I believe in the good, grand, great loves of the world. Maybe I've been over programed by the media (I blame the movies for my unrealistic expectations of men), maybe I should stop dreaming. It would be easy. To stop. I can do it anytime, I swear. But a life with out dreaming is like a life without my favorite Burberry scarf - it's survive-able but those cold winter nights are just not quite as comfy (or pretty for that matter).

It's really not even an option for me, this dreamless life. Perhaps it would be easier. Perhaps I'm just a glutton for punishment. Or perhaps I refuse to live without my dreams because under all of my scars, under all of my fear - I am actually an optimistic pessimist. Because for all my talk - alone forever, no soul mate etc - I can't help but believe that all this waiting, all this pain, frustration and yes, sometimes sadness is just building up to the greatest adventure of my life. There will be struggle, and probably a lot more sadness along the way, and I'm ready for it (I'm not looking for the perfect life - that would simply be too boring). But that struggle will hopefully build me into something more, something amazing. And when I do find that dazzling adventure, I hope I'll appreciate it all the more for the long, winding (most unbelievably indirect) road I took to get there.

If I close my eyes and wish hard enough, when I open them, maybe I'll find that good, grand, freaking great love. Because in this life, nothing can truly happen unless first we dream it.

So Easy to Say, So Hard to Send

2009-01-14T10:17:00.000-08:00

The written word, is a dying form. I know, I know - it sounds a tad dramatic, but it's true. In today's financial climate, newspapers, magazines and publishing houses are suffering because people just don't read anymore. Okay, that's not true - we read, but we read the online versions on our iPhones as we work out or wait for a meeting (multitasking is totally in this year). And so everywhere I turn, I'm being told that print is out, new media is in and we all have to sit down, shut up and learn to deal with it - because basically we're screwed. Apparently no one else appreciates the musty smell of an old book the way I do.

So as kids are putting down the books and picking up their cell phones ("OMG! Where R U? John txtd - need to talk. LOL") we're gradually losing a language (Translation: Oh My God! Where are you? John just texted me and I need to talk to you about it. It is so funny!). Literally, letters are disappearing from words and words are disappearing from use and new words are being invented everyday (which really is the beauty of a living language - but really, bootylicious being in the dictionary. That's just wrong). And I have to admit that I am an offender. When you are given a max of 50 characters to send an important message, it's easy to fall into the text language craze. But the question really is, why am I texting an important message when I should be calling the person? Or are we so technologically advanced with IM, texting, email etc that vocal (or even in person) contact is simply out of the question?

I have become so dependant on email, that I rarely pick up the phone to conduct business anymore. My full time job (because blogging doesn't pay the bills for everyone) requires that I chain myself to a desk for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. I get anxious when people use the phone to conduct business. I require everyone to email me. Which, I fully admit, is sickening. Sadly, this has also started bleeding into my personal life. I text when I should call (what if they're doing something and they can't talk right now?) or I send an email.

And when that email has crucial, important, semi-embarrassing information in it, I stress over its perfection until I've driven myself into a word frenzy (you know you're over the edge when you start internally debating how strange the structure of the word "fork" is). And if the email is to someone I may be interested in (just throw your hands in the air now and shout "Really?" - it's a perfectly legitimate response) then all hell breaks loose and I begin to have panic attacks as the cursor hovers over the send button. I equate it to the rush I get when I play the penny slots at the Hard Rock (seriously won big on those once - so don't knock it until you try it) you hit that button and you never know what is going to come at you.

The problem with email is that your message (which you had friends read over 20,000 times for grammar, suitability and insanity ratio) simply disappears into cyber space. But I wait. Save it as a draft. Read it again. Try and send it, but hit the back button instead. Go back to doing legitimate work. Read the draft again. Then finally, after 2 hours of torturing myself over something as stupid as "putting yourself out there" via email (seriously, I know I'm lame), I hit send.

If you're an emotional cutter you'd also slap on the option of getting a message sent to you when the recipient reads your email. The thought of it makes me want to vomit a little.

Human interaction, along with the written word are apparently, dying breeds. Soon enough we will be an immobile race that flies around on personal hover chairs never speaking to each other and only reacting to the advertisements that are flashed in front of us -- Wall-E. See it. It may change your life.

Although, I also think Chipotle and a pair of lime green Christian Louboutin stilettos are just as life changing, so do with that what you will.

Dine 'N Dash

2008-12-23T10:29:00.000-08:00

Very recently, I was setup on a double blind date with Bailey and two strangers. The guys, we'll call them Collin and Jake, were an interesting pair. They did not know each other and we did not know them, so I guess they were braver than both Bailey and I since they were going into the evening completely blind, where as we were only going into it partially blind (I like to think of it as wearing an eye patch - you can still see and you don't have to feel your way through total darkness).

We met them at the HMS Bounty (yes, it is as retro as it sounds) and of course we were late (actually, of course is the wrong word pairing - we are typically on time but this particular evening we were sucked into the black hole of television they call "Cash Cab." Basically, a cab drives around the streets of NYC and if you are lucky enough to get into it, you automatically become a contestant on a game show - INSIDE THE CAB. Yes, it is brilliant. Yes, we watched three hours of it. Yes, it caused us to be 20 minutes late to our blind date). When we arrived they had already met each other and ordered their drinks. Jake promptly told us that we could go order ours at the bar if we wanted anything. Strike one.

We went to the bar, slightly confused as to why we were even on this date. We ordered our beers and returned to our seats. Collin was interesting. He was nice, he had relevant things to say. Jake, on the other hand, was a bit of...well...an ass. He talked about penguins for a good 20 minutes (seriously, penguins?). He is apparently in the TV business, but was not at liberty to tell us exactly where he worked (confidentiality agreements and all - to which I say - if you can't talk about it, don't even bring it up!). Strike two.

As I sat there listening to Jake's unending stories about penguins and background actors and other mundane, unimportant things, I wondered how it was possible for anyone to think that this guy was compatible with Bailey or me. And just as I began plotting our escape (the bathroom was located in the adjacent apartment building next door and would have made an excellent quick escape route if necessary - they never would have seen it coming), the waitress came by for round two. Now if you recall, Bailey and I did not order from the waitress originally, we went to the bar. The waitress took the guys drinks first (great we're stuck here for another round?) and then looked at me and asked me what I wanted. I told her that I was okay and didn't need anything.

"But they are buying drinks for you," she said.

Awkward, much?

I looked at Bailey, not entirely sure what to do. Even the guys were perplexed. No one was really offering to buy us drinks (Strike 2.5) and yet the waitress was not going away. So Jake, being the extremely awkward person that he is decided to loudly exclaim - "She's telling you that we're going to buy you drinks!"

"No I'm not," the waitress responded. (What?) "Someone at the bar is offering to buy the ladies drinks, what would you like?"

Shut. Up.

So basically, on our double blind date with two random strangers, another random stranger (100% blind as we never found out who it was) bought us drinks. It was definitely worth sitting through Jake's awful stories to see the looks on their faces when the waitress said that! Priceless. So we continued to drink, and Jake continued talking about penguins and Tivo and his bartender friends in Oregon who always give him free drinks when he's home and I returned to plotting our jedi-like escape through the bathroom window when Collin finally put us all out of our misery and suggested we call it a night. Clocking in at three hours of misery, I was more than happy to oblige.

Jeff jumped up and then stood there, completely blocking my exit from the booth. For five minutes. He was still talking. Strike three - you're out. Game over. Please don't call me.

I did happen to get Collin's email address (like I said, he was normal and pretty cute). He told me the next day that he was so eager to get out of there, that he accidentally forgot to pay for his last drink. I guess we can never show our faces there again. Damn.

You Have to Kiss A Lot Of Frogs...

2008-12-17T12:46:00.000-08:00

Speaking of weddings, have I told you that I've been proposed to, like fifty times.

Okay - so when I say fifty I really mean about 10. And when I say proposed to, I really mean that there was never an actual ring involved. Except that one time in fourth grade - but my mom, with her sagely advice, warned me that I should not accept it unless I really liked him. Since I didn't really like him (and didn't want to give him the wrong impression!!!) I gave it back to him. Actually, I made my classmate Kelly give it back to him. Then he cried. Then my other friend Erika locked me in a room with him until I apologized for making him cry. And he cried some more. The next day he gave the same ring to my other friend Jessica. So much for romantic gestures.

And its been all down hill ever since.

In high school, my friend Daniel proposed to me in English class with our friend Myrna's dolphin ring. She was pissed. And he sadly didn't know that I was already taken - my quick adolescent marriage to Justin Timberlake was fleeting, but quite wonderful. After that it was an onslaught of drunken proposals at many random bars. I have no idea why guys do this. I think that they think that all girls want to do is get married - so lets speed up the hookup process by throwing out the faux proposal. In Hawaii recently, I had a waiter fashion a small piece of wax into a make-shift ring and get down on one knee in front of the entire restaurant to "faux" propose. That was awkward. I also had a European at the Standard create a ring from a swizzle stick (still soaking wet from his Jack and Coke, mind you).

My most recent proposal, however, was just a few weeks ago at Busby's (you remember, the Pirate Bartender!). So I'm at the bar, enjoying the ridiculous amount of free drinks that are being bought for us (PS I do not take credit for this, I have an amazing friend who just attracts men wherever she goes - I, by association was able to partake in their bar tab generosity). Anyway, I did meet one interesting fellow. Again, like the pissed to a pub, I meet the one British man in the place that night. He was actually really fun to talk to (yes, his accent was part of the draw, but he was also a very interesting individual). Eventually it came out that I have always wanted to live for a bit in London and he has always wanted to live in Los Angeles. Go figure? It was then and there that he proposed and we arranged our marriage of convenience. I would marry him so I could live in London, and he would marry me so that he could live in LA. It was perfect. We plotted it out, invited the wedding party (my two friends and his two friends) to celebrate with a drink - and it was done!

Sadly, when the bar closed, we were forced to end the relationship as he went his way, and I went mine. After one final farewell kiss we parted ways - never to see each other again. At least I didn't make him cry this time...

And I'm Back...On The Wedding Circuit.

2008-12-16T10:14:00.001-08:00

So after a month of never getting to use the Internet for anything other than checking my email or researching information on The Canterbury Tales, I am back and ready to talk! Side note: who knew The Canterbury Tales could be so modern and topical?! Empowered women, religious corruption, fart jokes? I guess some themes are eternal.

Like the theme of weddings. I was never one to be all down and out about the whole "always the bridesmaid" business, but it is absolutely insane how many weddings I have been invited to in 2009 (seven, if you're curious). It will be interesting to see how each one plays out. In the fall, they basically line up back to back so I will be marathon sprinting to get through each one (hopefully unscathed from the dreaded wedding curse of the single girl).

My problem has never been with weddings or the people getting married (I myself would love to have one some day - I already have it planned down to the color of the napkins and the song I will walk down the aisle to - the Wedding March is so not my style). No, my problem is with the hoards of family, friends, co-workers and yes, even complete strangers, that feel the need to comment on my perpetually single status. It never comes in up everyday conversation around the office or at the Coffee Bean, but for some reason, weddings force married people to ponder the sad and pathetic lives of their not so paired up counterparts. Their sad eyes scream with pity for the poor girl who may be alone for the rest of her life (for shame)! Then they top it off with "Don't worry, sweetie. Your day will come." Pat on the back, kiss on the cheek - one last look over your shoulder at the pathetic girl with no date, exit stage left and close curtain.

Pretty sure I was just looking for a glass of champagne. Thanks for hitting that point home for me though. Oh good, here comes another long lost relative for the encore.

Then, to make a bad situation worse, I as a single girl am forced to parade my singleness around in front of the entire group in the archaic and brutal tradition known as the bouquet toss. It is my firm belief that as a guest at your wedding, I should not be forced into such an embarrassing situation. Did I not just purchase that expensive yet hideous set of dishes that you had on your registry at Bed Bath and Beyond? Does that mean nothing to you? Not to mention, I refuse to fight with your 12 year old niece over a bunch of used and whithering flowers for the bragging rights of "Most Desperate Woman in the Room." Thanks for the opportunity, but I'll pass. And when you silently elbow me with your eyes screaming "But it's a tradition - and you ARE single..." that doesn't make me want to hop up there any faster.

Despite all of my complaining, I am excited to go to the majority of the weddings on my plate for 2009. As long as the champagne flows and I don't get stuck dancing with someones creepy uncle - we should be good to go.

Flirting at 30,000 Feet

2008-11-04T18:34:00.000-08:00

Have you been on the new Virgin America planes? You know, the ones where you can IM someone else, anyone else, sitting anywhere on the plane with you. That's right. The cute guy in 11A better watch out, because now with just a push on the sleek touch screen in front of you, you can say hi to just about anyone, without having to get out of your seat to "pretend" to use the plane lavatory.

I've flown Virgin America a few times now and unfortunately, I have yet to use this feature, or know anyone who has used it. It's a pretty awesome idea, kind of like speed dating but at 30,000 feet. Imagine yourself, minding your own business, watching the latest episode of the Tudors (yeah, you can do that too) and sipping on your gin and tonic when suddenly a message pops up. "11A has sent you a message, would you like to accept?" Well, 11A is pretty hot, so yes, I don't mind if I do. And sha-BAM! Instant love affair.

I did meet someone on a plane once, pre-plane technology. I was on a flight to Portland, Oregon when the guy sitting next to me happened to ask me what I was reading (I believe it was Mary Shelley's Frankenstein - go figure). That jump started a 2 hour conversation about our jobs, books, movies, hiking, college, river rafting, bars, snowboarding (do you get the theme here, he was kind of outdoorsy - makes sense him living in Portland and all).

I was only in Portland for a few days, but he gave me his card and told me to call him if I wanted to hang out or get a tour of the town. So...OF COURSE I CALLED HIM. I was at a conference and had extreme downtime one night, so I decided to give him a call. He picked me up from the hotel and we had a really awesome time walking through the Rose Gardens. Apparently that is something you do in Portland - walk through Rose Gardens. Who knew? He was a really awesome guy - but sadly I lived in LA and he lived in Portland. We decided that we would call each other if we were ever in the other's city of residence again, but alas....that has never happened. And frankly, now that my number has changed it probably never will.

It was definitely fun while it lasted though. There is a huge thrill in going out on a date with someone totally new in a place that is also completely unknown! Because we lived in different places, there was absolutely no pressure - so it was a breeze! If only all dates could be that way. And if only all guys were as friendly on planes.

So next time you're on a Virgin America flight - go ahead and make use of that handy little IM Feature. I got the date the old fashioned way, but I'd love to try this out too. It would make for quite the interesting story now wouldn't it?

Why'd You Have To Go And Make Things So Complicated?

2008-11-01T22:44:00.000-07:00

I'm tired. Tired of not understanding. Tired of being that girl - you know the one - your single friend who you and all your "relationship" friends feel sorry for. I am starting to think that maybe I am going to be that eternally single girl. I know, I know - you think I'm feeling sorry for myself and that statement is ridiculous (I say a lot of ridiculous things on a daily basis, so this one can take a number and get in line with the rest of them). And maybe it is. Maybe one day, I will look back on writing this and I will be embarrassed. Hopefully I will, because that would mean that I am happy and with someone. But for now, I am tired. Tired of feeling like I will forever be the girl who is sitting and waiting.

And I don't sit and wait. I go out. I'm out there. I'm in the grocery store, buying milk. I'm at the library, checking out books. I'm grabbing coffee at every Coffee Bean from here to Pasadena and I'm not meeting anyone. Why am I not meeting anyone? I used to tell myself that I was waiting for the right person, that I refused to settle on just anyone. But recently I've come to realize that it's hard even to settle when there is no one to settle on.

And the ones that I have met in the past - those pseudo-relationships have all been amazing (she said, her words dripping with sarcasm). When do I get to meet someone who a) doesn't have a girlfriend, b) isn't emotionally stunted or c) doesn't expect that I'll wait around for him for 9 months to figure out his life? Because I'm tired of running into that over and over and over again (seriously people, that's my life). I'm tired of being setup for failure.

I throw out the word soul mate a lot. This guy from that bar - the one in the car next to mine on Venice Blvd. I think I use it without thinking because deep down inside, I'm deathly afraid that maybe in my case, there is no actual soul mate. And the worst part, for me, is that I think I've gotten used to the idea.

But, it's Saturday night - so maybe this is just the late night talking. Maybe I'll wake up one day and find myself living a life that is all too different from this one. And maybe then, I'll be okay. But tonight - tonight I write these words not knowing who will read them, but understanding that I can say them without hearing the inevitable (and annoying) "no, don't say that - it's not true." Which trust me, is so not helpful.

Sometimes a girl just needs to make things more complicated before she can surface, see clearly and figure it all out for herself.

Stranger Danger

2008-10-31T11:30:00.000-07:00

Have you ever reminisced about life and realized that some of the decisions you've made have been pretty damn awful? And not the - I ate too much at Chipotle - kind of bad decision, but the I'm surprised I did that and somehow it didn't ruin my life, kind of bad decision. We have previously discussed that Avery and I will often end up with random strangers in the back of the Equinox, driving down PCH to find the nearest open fast food joint at 2 am after a night at the bar. Ok, so maybe this is not the best decision, but we are in our own car and there are two of us (safety in numbers) and we often wear really high, really pointy heels (amazing weapons when need be) so it is also not the worst decision we've ever made.

One of our not-so-brilliant moves comes in the distractingly shiny and bright but really pretty package of Las Vegas. It was early December, so the air was crisp and by crisp, I of course mean freezing. Naturally we wore shorts and tank tops for our evening outings to the clubs (what else do you wear in Vegas). PS, just as a side note - it totally snowed that night in the outskirts of Vegas. Perhaps bad decision number one of the evening was wearing the shorts - luckily, we did not catch pneumonia and die. Moving right along - we were in Vegas with a few of Avery's co-workers and we decided to go to Rum Jungle since somebody knew somebody who knew somebody and could get us (at least the girls) in for free. I believe it was also someones birthday - who? I have no idea. This is the crowd I roll with. Word.

Rum Jungle was surprisingly slow that night - only a few people here and there - but what was so amazing about that, was the vast amount of dance floor that we were then able to occupy. There were dance offs galore as we took over the area and showed off our moves (for each other of course since no one else was really there). By about 12:30a a few more people had shown up and Avery and I found ourselves talking to the now infamous Dominick Vegas (aptly named by the way Avery entered him into her cell phone later in the night) and his friends.

So this is where we start talking in possibilities.

I might have made out with Dominick Vegas' friend and I might not remember his name. We might have hung out with them until 4am (long after Avery's co-workers had returned to their hotel rooms). We might have rolled into bed around 4:45am (after a ridiculously long cab ride back down the strip - yes, sadly we were staying at The Sahara) and Avery and Dominick Vegas might have exchanged numbers so that further contact could be made. Ok, not so bad, you say.

Night number two. Avery, her co-workers and I find ourselves in line for Pure, staring at a gigantic poster of Britney Spears, who was planning on hosting a NYE party there a few weeks later (if you pop culture gurus remember, that would be the same party she passed out at - it was a sad and dark time for all of us). Pure was - well - a mess. We had fun dancing like Pussycat Dolls in the PCD lounge, but quite frankly, I was a little over it when I found out that we were not allowed to dance in the giant martini glass prop or on the tall round stage in the middle of the room. Really? What's the point? Avery and I then ejected ourselves from Pure and headed across S. Las Vegas Blvd to Imperial Palace? I say this with a question mark because I'm not entirely sure that was really where we were. And my fact checker is not currently online, so warning - details may be slightly skewed here. Just rest assured it was some hotel/casino on the opposite side of the street as Caesars - but really they all start to blur together after a while so it's not that important.

This is where bad decision number two kicks into high gear. Here, we find ourselves running into (and by running into I mean we called and met up with) Dominick Vegas and his friends. They say they want to go gamble at a certain casino - so we say, okay, we'll tag along. Why did we, not fifteen minutes later, find ourselves climbing into the backseat of one of their truck/bronco/large SUVs (it was something, again the details are blurred)?

There you have it. Probably one of the worst decisions we have made collectively in our time as friends. Nothing bad happened (thank the Lord) but we a) got into a car with strangers (didn't we learn in kindergarten that, that is a big no-no?), b) got into a car with people who were possibly drinking (they assured us they hadn't been since they had just come from dinner, but you never can know when it comes to STRANGERS) and c) got into a car with strangers. The life lesson here, kids, is don't get into a car with strangers. No need to elaborate.

We basically left the strip and ended up at the most RANDOM casino of time. We weren't in downtown, janky Vegas, but rather just a random casino/hotel in the middle of nowhere. And it was overrun by old people. Hailing from the San Diego region, it reminded me of the indian casinos down there. Really, it wasn't our scene. Mind you, it was turning into another late night. At about 4am I had the revelation that we had to be at the airport in 3 hours to catch our flight back to Los Angeles. Since the ride to this random location took about 30 minutes - and we still needed to pack our stuff back at the hotel (at the furthest end of the strip possible), and the ride to the airport would be probably another thirty minutes - we really needed to get back ASAP (I tend to freak out about airports and missing flights - it's a legitimate fear of mine).

So we politely tell them that we're ready to go and what to they say? Well, being the gentlemen that they are, they offer to walk us to the taxi line. What? You drove us to this random ass casino in this random ass place and you're not going to take us back to our random ass hotel - a trip that by cab will surely cost us $40? Really. Okay. Cool.

And it was. A $40 cab ride. But, we made it back with just enough time to throw our crap in our suitcases and head to the airport.

Avery did keep in contact (and by contact I mean they texted each other randomly when they were out drinking) with Dominick Vegas over the years. Once he even wanted her to come visit him in some other city he had moved to. Then he wanted to meet up with her in San Jose another time. Neither of those worked out (for obvious reasons).

So we made it out of Vegas safely that time, but looking back on it, we recognize our shortcomings in the decision making process that weekend. Was it fun? Yes. Was it random? Yes. Is it a funny story to tell? Of course. But a wise person once said, that the most important lessons we learn, we learn in kindergarten. Sooo...don't eat glue, don't hit that boy you have a crush on and certainly don't get into a car with strangers.

Hi My Name is _______ and I Work at the White House.

2008-10-27T16:30:00.001-07:00

When one becomes a world traveler, as I like to think that I am (and of course by world, I mean these here United States of America - Tecate, Mexico and Victoria, British Columbia are about as worldly as I get) you find yourself meeting many different breeds of men with many different arrays of personalities. I hear you questioning that statement through this computer. What? You ask. Don't all men have different personalities? The answer, quite frankly, is sometimes...but not really.

Living in L.A. for the past 6 years, I have discovered that all men in L.A. seem to think the same thing - "blonde, blonde, super skinny, playboy bunny, blonde" etc. It's an annoying track that I am sick of listening to (similar to "When I Grow Up" by the Pussycat Dolls. Really, why did that song even need to be made?). Similarly, I have found that different cities have different "tracks". Case in point, guys in Washington D.C.

Three years ago, Avery and I spent a long weekend in D.C. visiting Sadie, who had recently made a cross country move all by herself (very proud of you Sadie! I miss you, but I'm so impressed with how you moved out there all on your own!). Naturally, we played tourists in town, visiting all of the major D.C. landmarks. Having chosen a career in Cheerleading in 8th grade, I was denied a trip with the rest of my class (I was given the choice, Cheer or Trip to DC, as my parents could not afford both. Naturally, I made the best decision as pom pons had been floating in my dreams since 3rd grade). Back to the matter at hand, this was my first trip to DC and it, of course, included landmarks.

At night, though, we were drawn to the DC nightlife. The only problem was - DC guys were just as one tracked as LA guys, only their track, was slightly odd. Parked at a comfy cocktail table at some bar, somewhere in DC, (names are lost on me as it was so long ago) I was approached by a highly intoxicated man in a sweater vest. You heard me correctly, a sweater vest at a bar. He proceeded to speak gibberish to me before spilling his gin and tonic all over my leg. After he oh-so-gracefully tried to help me clean it up, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and said "Hi, my name is Tom. I work at the White House."

Cool?

So you're thinking, hey, give DC guys a break - this fool was drunk. Ah, but my naive friends, little do you know that every guy that talked to us that weekend, pulled out a similar card and a similar line. Here's my issue. If you live in DC, of course you work at the White House! Everyone in DC works, in some capacity, for the White House. That's like living in LA and saying, "Hi my name is Candy, and I want to be an Actress!" No, shit? I have never heard of anyone in LA wanting to be an actress. You are so interesting.

Long story short - guys need to work on their intro lines. Come up with something interesting to talk about. You will not woo me with your bland remarks about how you are just as bland as the last guy that spilled his drink on me. But, we've been over this already - see the post on bad pick up lines - but I think it is important enough to say again.

Otherwise, you may end up in a corner by yourself singing the chorus to "When I Grow Up" (because damn it, that's the only part of the song you can remember) and sipping on remnants of ice (because you already spilled the rest of your drink on an unsuspecting girl). And really man, that is no way to live.

Backstage Boogie Beer

2008-10-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

-1 part brazen decisiveness
-1 part open opportunity
-1 part risk taking

Combine ingredients: brazen decisiveness first then equal parts open opportunity and risk taking. Shake well and pour into a tall glass. Though not necessary for all, sometimes beer can aid in the flavor of the drink. If indeed you find yourself next to an open gate at a studio back lot, you should take caution before recklessly entering the area unescorted. Living in LA, it is not uncommon to come upon a movie studio, but one should remember that on a regular basis, their security can be tighter than LAX (the airport, not the nightclub - though I hear the nightclub is exclusive enough to make you feel like you've not only been kicked off your flight but forced to take off your shoes and submit to a pat down).

If you do in fact find yourself wondering if you should take a sip of this elusive, hard to find drink, be forewarned that security may, at any time, expel you from the area. They certainly take the safety of the nations most important celebutaunts extremely seriously. You, as a mere commoner, are rarely allowed to make contact.

If, like me, you find yourself wandering the back corners of the Sony Back lot on a random Sunday afternoon while on a power trip after spending way too much money at the Westside Pavilion BCBG, be careful not to get caught. Though I made it out (quite honestly I'm still not sure how I made it in), I do realize it was a risky operation.

Drink wisely, people, drink wisely.

My Soulmate Lives In China

2008-10-15T11:51:00.000-07:00

Every New Years Eve, I try to do something fun, exciting and new - preferably in a fun, exciting and new city. Two years ago I did NYE at Paramount Studios in LA and last year, I made the trek up to San Francisco to see Avry. Perhaps it was the memory of the drunkenness from the year before, but last year we were excited to spend NYE in such an awesome city and sadly were slightly disappointed at the outcome. It was no fault of the holiday (really NYE and Valentine's Day have disappointment built into their purpose and structure), in fact the weekend I spent there was, on the whole, an amazing weekend. We shopped, we dined out, we drank - it was cold but it was tons of fun.

Being the slightly indecisive people we are, we waited until the last minute to actually make any plans, leaving us with only one option on the night of - a house party. Now don't get me wrong - a house party from time to time can be fun and exciting. New people, new places - unfortunately it's a whole lot of new wrapped up in previously used wrapping paper and a "Good Luck In Retirement" bow - close but not exactly what you're looking for. The problem with house parties is that while there are new people, those new people tend to stick to their old, used, comfortable friends.

So we found ourselves in the hills of San Francisco at a house filled with people. I knew Avry and Avry knew the guy that owned the house - and that was the extent of our social network. Suffice to say, we arrived far too early (we over estimated the time it would take to get a cab that night and underestimated the craziness of our driver, who we became fast friends with when he gave us his card and offered to pick us up again when we were done with the party - believe me it was a big help...we were in the freaking boonies, a no man's land for taxis). Anyway, our early arrival meant that they were still setting up the house and we were left to awkwardly drink our awkwardness away in an empty corner of the room.

Finally we were introduced to some people, whose names (quite frankly) I cannot remember. This includes my soul mate (soul mate? You ask. How can he be your soul mate if you don't even remember his name? Tsk, Tsk my darlings - remember how loosely i use the term - one day I'm soul mates with JT and the next day it could be the guy in the car next to me). To continue, I was finally introduced to my NYE Soul Mate 2008. He was nice, tall, cute and funny. We talked and laughed all night (partially because Avry took off for an undetermined amount of time to an undetermined location of the house). Then I learned the kicker. He currently lives in China. Yes, China. How are we supposed to get married and have beautiful, smart, witty children who I can take to polo practice while I dress like Posh Spice and you wear your nicest suit jacket (yes, even to the polo matches) if you freaking live in China? This does not work for me.

But, he was cute, so I put on my best "I'm totally not disappointed" face and asked him all about his time there. In fact, he was not only living in China, but he was supposed to be on a flight back there at that very moment. Somehow his fight was delayed and he wasn't leaving until the next morning, so he decided to spend some time with friends in SF rather than staying at the airport.

Midnight came and went with a pop of the champagne cork and not much else. We finally decided it was time to call our on-call cabbie and head back into the city. So what happened? Oh, China came with us. Yep. Despite the fact that the airport was further than our destination, we decided to take him back to his hotel before heading home. And thus ends my night with my soul mate from China. I will probably never see him again...ever...but I guess that's just the way the fortune cookie crumbles.

It's a Small World After All

2008-10-05T21:26:00.000-07:00

This evening's story takes us back to The Standard. A random Wednesday night, per usual. Bailey and I were ready for an adventure on the rooftop, and well...I guess the moral is be careful what you wish for. It started with Paul. Paul was pretty cool when we first met him. He offered to buy as a round of drinks. We should have taken into account that he appeared to be there by himself. That is always a sign of trouble. But sometimes we ignore the signs because we are in desperate need of a random, interesting story. And this guy was quite the story. Conversation, to begin with, was quite entertaining. He was really funny, had a lot of jokes about the entertainment industry, which he apparently was a part of (go figure, right? Nooobody in LA works in the entertainment industry).

Then he asked me what my favorite films were. Okay, so this question should be subjective right? Not with this guy. Sign number two that this would not end well? He began ragging on Gone with the Wind. I'm sorry, love it or hate it, that's fine with me. But state your opinion and move on. Unless you are going to tell me why, with actual evidence from the film, you dislike it, our conversation is over. His only reason for hating it? Let me quote him to the best of my ability: "Just because it's a classic doesn't mean it's a good movie."

Great answer. Are you Ebert or Roeper? He proceeded to repeat this horrid phrase over and over again for fifteen minutes but would not give me a reason as to why he hated it so much. Long story short, what felt like three hours later (really it was probably closer to 3o minutes), he was informing me that the last guy I dated obviously broke up with me because I was a bad kisser. (Um, excuse me? I have a lot of evidence to the contrary).

When we finally ditched our dear friend Paul, Bailey and I wondered through the bar looking for something else interesting. And something interesting sure found us. It came to our attention that at every turn, no matter where we wandered to, there were two men staring at us. And this was not, glancing randomly and catching our eye, no this was stalker, scary, weird and awkward staring. We successfully avoided talking to them for the rest of the night but as we were plotting our escape to the elevator, one walked up behind Bailey and tapped her on the shoulder.

"My friend has been watching you all night and really wants to meet you." Wow, Creepy McCreeperson. That is totally not the way to a girl's heart. And enter the friend. Both men were super awkward, Bailey's guy (as he will henceforth be referred to) had braces, which is not horrible by any means but not always easy to get past. Twenty minutes later, we were being asked to dance. Let's pause here. My feet were hurting, I was tired and I did not want to be talking to these guys, let alone dance with them. But they were really nice, and it seemed like they really wanted to talk and dance with them and sometimes I find it hard to be mean to guys who put forth that kind of effort and do it in a non-sleezy way. Sooo, we tried to dance a little with them - but I can only take so much. So we politely said our good-byes and made our way to the elevator, assuming that we would never see them again.

Wrong. Not but a few days later, Bailey and I sat in the El Torito in Marina Del Rey, indulging in a Sunday afternoon margarita and some guacamole when she suddenly froze and her eyes widened.

"OMG"

"What?"

"Behind you - NO don't look now."

"What?

"It's braces!"

"What?"

"From The Standard!!"

Minutes later he got up and passed us on his way to the bathroom. Confirmed. Bailey's guy, aka Braces, was in fact dining in the same Mexican restaurant as we were. We avoided eye contact when he returned and peacefully co-existed without further interruption. We laughed it off as a fluke.

Fast forward just a few weeks. We were out in Hermosa Beach celebrating Bailey's birthday. Again, Bailey, outside the bar, frozen and staring behind me.

"It's your guy!"

"What?"

"From the Standard, it's him!"

I turned to follow her stare. I found him, yes it was him, my my eyes wandered just over his shoulder to see that Braces was there too. I quickly turned back around and gasped. (Seriously, were they following us?) Either they didn't see us or they didn't recognize us, but we recognized them. Apparently, LA is not as large a city as it appears. In just three weeks you can meet and run into the same random strangers three times. Too bad we did not find them attractive - they could have been our soul mates.

Seriously, Monday's Here Again?

2008-09-21T22:35:00.001-07:00

Dear Monday,

If you will let me be quite frank with you, you have never given me reason to have high expectations of your day of the week. You are the first day of the work week. Quite honestly, I dread you. I will admit that we have had brief affairs of the heart, but they are few and far between. I hate that we can meet under good terms only when celebrating a president's birthday, or something of the sort. I may even go so far as to describe you as my hated foe. I beg of you to stop sneaking up on me so quickly after Saturday has smooth talked me into a night of debauchery. It is not a welcome surprise. Please also stop starting the week with so much work, so early in the morning. It stresses me out. I ask you to sit down with Wednesday to determine what he does to make the week seem so exciting. He has this theory that he calls "hump day." Perhaps you should look into this technique as a means of inspiring those around you. I am excited to see what you can bring to the table next week and look forward to marking your improvement over the weeks to come.

Best,

Unsatisfactory Work Conditions

2008-09-19T09:27:00.001-07:00

Dear Friday,
In the past few weeks I have become increasingly aware of an ongoing strain that is developing in our relationship. From past experience, I was under the impression that you were a carefree day, one that encouraged the display of casual office attire, mid-afternoon parties with snacks from Bristol Farms and often times, early departure from the office. Perhaps you have been misleading me for these past two years, but I am concerned that lately, you are not holding up your end of the bargain. These past few weeks you have been moody, irritable and quite frankly, unpleasant to deal with in the morning. I am concerned that this strain is a sign that you are drifting away from us. Is everything okay at home? Is Thursday harassing you again by claiming that she is the “New Friday”? Perhaps we should all sit down and have a group discussion on the importance of being a team player? I am concerned that if this behavior continues, it will cause strife not only here in the office, but also in our personal lives. Perhaps it is the other days of the week that are not doing their share of the work, dumping it all on you and thus, creating a stressful and unmanageable work environment (we all know that Saturday has a bit of a drinking problem). I write this not to cause more strife, but to find a solution that will hopefully make everyone happier. I ask that we have a sit down meeting to discuss the workload and the lack of “woo hoo it’s almost the weekend” spirit that you once possessed. Please find the time in your schedule to come and talk to me about these serious and debilitating issues.

I hope that despite these problems, you are doing well and that we can come to a satisfactory compromise sometime soon.
Best,

Me

Kiss da Girl

2008-09-19T09:27:00.000-07:00

I have this theory that the first kiss in a relationship helps shape and define that particular relationship as a whole. If the first kiss is sappy and romantic, the relationship will probably be sweeter than sugar. If the first kiss is shocking and unexpected, perhaps the relationship will be three weeks of heart pounding excitement, but it is bound to end just as quickly and unexpectedly as it began. I, being the extremely awkward soul that I am, have had the most awkward first kiss of time, followed by the most awkward semi-relationship of all time.

Theory proved.

Where's the American Scientific journal on dating? I would like to be honored for my groundbreaking theoretical work on relationships and first kisses. I think it may change the world (move over theory of relativity, back off big bang theory - I'm rocking the world of science).

Here is my submission:

Date of Study: End of August, 2007
Location: Santa Monica, California
Participants: Me (PS it's totally legit to have yourself as a participant in a scientific study. Bias plays absolutely no role in the outcome). And, oh, we'll call him "Seasonal Dater", just for kicks and giggles.

We were on our third date and the moment had not yet arrived for the first kiss (really, you ask? Are you sure he was interested? Well, I can't know for sure - but he was the one asking me out, so I can only assume that at this point, yes he was still interested).

We met at Barney's Beanery on Third Street. It was nice, simple, easy. When we were done it was only 8 or 9pm. Neither of us wanted to go home yet, but we were undecided as to what exactly we wanted to do. I (brilliant as I am) suggested the Santa Monica Pier (I was aching for a first kiss, and what is a better spot for a first kiss than on the pier with the lights and sounds of a small amusement park mingled with the crashing waves of the ocean? Only in LA is this combo possible). We walked down to the pier, conversation good, relatively unawkard at this point (but really when am I ever unawkward so maybe that's a lie).

What followed was pretty much a cliche gone horribly, horribly wrong. In the movies, when a cliche romantic gesture happens, it usually turns out good for the main characters. Not so much in my life. I was cold (i.e. I told him I was "cold") so he put his arm around me. After a minute, I went to put my arm around his waist but he moved at the same time and we literally got tangled in each other (bad thing? not necessarily - but I felt like a 14 year old on her first date, totally unsure of where to put her hands). We walked for a little bit to another part of the pier and stood looking out over the blackened sea, laughing under the bright lights of the carnival rides (sounds totally legit and beautiful, right? It was - I was getting major butterflies). So as we were talking we would move closer and closer, look at each other then pull away a little bit. I'm a bit of a romantic (despite the taste of cynicism that is often in my mouth) and this moment was so exciting for me. I love that feeling you get, when you know something is coming, but you don't know when or how. And you want it so badly you can barely contain yourself - but you wait and let it come to you (because that's just your style).

He leaned in, but nervously wrapped his arms around me in a giant hug. My mind raced (really? Third date, an awesome date too, and you're going in for the hug? You're not rushing to get out of here, so I have to assume you're kind of into me. WTF?) We stood there a moment and he pulled away just barely so that our faces were right in front of each other (okay here we go - butterflies back in action).

"You know, you're a really hard girl to kiss." He said.

"Oh is that what you've been trying to do all this time?" I joked. He looked a little embarrassed and then (apparently) decided it was time to make his move. Unfortunately, the move was a bit miscalculated. His forehead plowed into mine. We managed to kiss slightly, but it was more of a frontal assault on my face (my teeth may have been damaged in the process) so he pulled away quickly. Obviously more embarrassment. Awkward laughter. Shuffling of feet. I stared at him, waiting for him to say something. ENOUGH OF THIS ALREADY!

I grabbed his shirt and said "Yeah, I think you're going to need to try that again."

I think that comment caught him off guard (I can have that effect on people) but he managed to give it a go for round two. Thank the Lord above the second kiss was amazing!!! But-ter-flies! Gotta love 'em. So, of course being the non-teenagers that we are (23 and 27 year olds can definitely act like teenagers when it comes to dating - we reserve the right to immediately revert back to that behavior at the beginning of a relationship), we decide to continue to kiss in our corner of the peer. I thought we were relatively out of sight from the crowds enjoying their Bubba Gump Shrimp or their ride on the Ferris wheel.

Suddenly, in the middle of our exciting, new, totally romantic (and for the moment less awkward) kiss at the pier, I hear a 10 year old boy's voice screaming "LOOK THEY'RE MAKING OUT!" Somewhere from above. I look up to find that we were posted directly under that weird ride where they strap you in, shoot you up to the top, let you sit for a minute, then free fall back down to the bottom. There was a ride full of children watching us from above.

Yeah, it was time to go.

Suffice to say, it was an interesting few months after that, the end of which is an entirely different story.

But this study ends here, with an awkward head bump followed by making out in front of a group of young and impressionable children having fun at the pier.

Feel free to hand me my award for the most amazing theory of time. I would also accept the award for the relationship trifecta: awkward kiss, awkward relationship and awkward break up, all of which were encompassed in one Mr. "Seasonal Dater."

Guys, the lesson of the story is, if you ever find yourself in a moment that feels blissfully like a romantic comedy, just take the hint and kiss the girl - otherwise you may end up with a mouth like a hockey player and a fist full of crushed butterflies.

Can't Hardly Breathe Bubbly

2008-09-11T22:08:00.000-07:00

Can't Hardly Breathe Bubbly

-1 part never leaves work

-2 parts falls asleep in meetings

-A dash of trips over her words in front of the cute new guy in HR

Shake well and serve caffeinated.

Hangover cure? Online shopping for a cute new pair of black Jimmy Choo booties. Or a certain little number I like to call the love of my life (aka the dress hanging at the poorly lit, totally understocked, sad, lonely Atlanta Macy's).

P.S. If I had even had the time to online shop for said booties (which by the way I REALLY want) then perhaps I would have been of sound enough mind not to make a complete fool out of myself in front of the new guy in HR. I blame the black patent flats I've been resorting to lately. I think better when I'm high off the ground. Flats totally throw my game. And they don't show off my killer legs.

Never Have I Ever

2008-09-05T13:57:00.000-07:00

An essential part of going to college is (at one point or another) being forced to play stupid drinking games. Beer Pong, King's Cup and the eternal Never Have I Ever are among the highly beloved games of the average American college student. Particularly fun (I use this word extremely loosely here as I hate drinking games) is Never Have I Ever, where each participant starts off a phrase with "Never have I ever..." and finishes it with some (almost always shocking) event that they (supposedly) have never done. The point is to reveal who the craziest members of the group are. Those who actually have done said activity in the past are then forced to do a shot or chug a beer or something stupid like that. So, in honor of College Week (hey we started off with a bang with Spring Break 2008) I thought I would play a little Never Have I Ever (minues the other players of course).

Never Have I Ever...fired a gun. Nope. Good to go there.
Never Have I Ever...jumped off of a bridge. Still totally sober.
Never Have I Ever...been hungover (or possibly still drunk?) at work after a night of partying. Because my Mom reads this, I am sticking to my guns with strong no way but I will take a small sip to quiet the neighsayers in the back.
Never Have I Ever...Locked myself out of my house? Oooo. Yeah. Ok. Here goes the Kamakazi.

Ok...silly game. So what does drinking have to do with locking yourself out of your house, you ask? Well, let me explain. It was a dark and dreary day in March. Actually it was kind of cold for Southern California and sadly, this blah weather was invading our happy place on the happiest day of the year - ST PATRICKS DAY!

I had just jumped out of the shower when Avry called letting me know she was downstairs and waiting for me to let her into the gate that surrounded my apartment complex. I threw on a big T-Shirt (pretty sure it was the classy one with the Heineken logo -only the word Heineken is replaced by the word Hawaii. Plus it was literally 3 sizes too big for me. Why? Apparently when my parents vacation they lose their minds and imagine that in their absence I have ballooned to the size of a whale. Thanks family). Along with the tent for a T-shirt I also had on a pair of boxer shorts (sans bra, sans shoes, sans makeup and hair still wet of course). So what do I do when I get Avry's call? Of course I bee-line it out to open the gate for her! Come on it's been practically three weeks since I saw her last!!! Almost an eternity. I make it halfway down the staircase when I realize that in my hand is a cell phone, and not a set of keys. Let me stop here to tell the weary reader that my door locked automatically. Yeah.

So this particular Saturday was the first Saturday EVER that my roommate had to work. She works on TV shows and was forced to work overtime that day on the Wedding Bells (really that show did not stand a chance). So I knew she was not nearby and could not come bail me out of my precarious situation with her own set of house keys. Also, because we are apparently anti-social, we did not leave a spare key with any of our untrustworthy neighbors (my shoe collection is quite enviable. I trust very few people with its safety). So as I climbed back up the stairs, Avry in tow, I thought about my options. A) Sit in front of my door until a Locksmith comes. B) Cry C) Cry a lot D) Call my mom, tell her to drive 2 and a half hours to bring the spare key that she kept at her house E) Cry some more F) Call my roommate and see if she would be home ANYTIME soon. I opted for F. Luckily she was able to answer. Luckily Avry had her car. Luckily, my roommate said that if I came down to the Studio in Manhattan Beach, I could pick up her key, go back to our house, get ready for St Patricks Day then bring the key back to her when I was done and headed out for the night's festivities. AGREED!

So I hop into Avry's car (still sans bra, shoes, makeup and hair as wild as a goat's) and we head down to Manhattan. Now, if you've ever been granted a walk on at a studio, you know that it requires you show some form of Identification. This would be a problem considering I had no money, no wallet, no ID etc.

When we arrive at the gate I lean over Avry to speak to the guard...
"Hi. Um. My name is Aubree, my roommate works on the Wedding Bells, I think they're shooting on stage 6 today? She said she called in a walk on for me?"
"Miss, I don't see your name on the list."
"My roommate. Her name is Renee? There's nothing there?"
"No ma'am."
"I have to get on set." (PS never say that. It only incites anger in the guard).
"Ma'am what did you say your name was?"
"Aubree."
"Can I see some ID?" (ID? I don't even have my freaking shoes right now!)
"Ok, so here's the deal. I locked myself out of my house. I know that that is silly and that it is not your problem, but if you don't let me onto the lot, I will be locked out of my house until my roommate gets off of work, which will be God knows what time later tonight! (it was noon by the way) So please, can you please do something to help me?" (I was pleading here, not demanding).

She called into the booth to another guard, who promptly came out and asked me what was wrong. So I explained. Again.

"I know this is a hassle, but I am locked out of my house. My roommate works on the Wedding Bells and is waiting for me to get her key from her! I would show you some ID, but I don't even have a bra on right now. I don't have my wallet, I don't have my shoes because I am locked out of my house!" (This was me, really frustrated).

I think they saw that I was, perhaps, on the verge of crying. And really who wants to see a grown woman in a Heineken-like T-shirt that is three sizes too big start to cry. If I hadn't been newly clean from my earlier shower, I would have looked absolutely homeless. So since the stage I was going to was in sight of the guard booth (really we couldn't have come to this conclusion earlier?) we were allowed to drive on and get the key! Success!!!

The one problem? We had to then bring it back two hours later.

When we arrived back at the studio, I (now fresh faced and hair nicely brushed - and wearing a bra), leaned over Avry to the new guard at the gate.
"Hi. I was here earlier this morning. My roomate works on the Wedding Bells..."
"Brenda!" She shouted into the booth. An older, smaller woman stepped forward. "This is the girl! The no-key girl! Hey, honey we've heard all about you!"

I'm sure my face turned scarlet red immediately.

Great. Happy Freaking St Patrick's Day to me. The "No Key Girl."

Never Have I Ever...been afraid to show my face at a TV Stuido.

Oh. Oops. Drunkity, Drunk, Drunk.

The Blackberry Burnout

2008-09-04T20:41:00.000-07:00

The Blackberry Burnout

-The hangover you get after drinking one two many Blackberry Me Stolis.

Symptoms: Fingers permanently bent from texting all night, red eyes from lack of sleep, a headache from the frustration of misunderstanding and a stomach ache from the fear of having to see that person face to face in the future (or butterflies from the excitement of getting to see that person face to face in the future).

The Cure:
Step 1: Put phone on silent (seriously, you're addicted. You're so addicted that your parents are thinking of sending you to Promises. Lindsay Lohan does not a good friend make, this we know all too well, so you best choose wisely when you face your friends at your intervention. You can live without your Blackberry for 2 hours while you sleep. Or can you?)

Step 2: Sleep (honestly, 4am...not the best time to start a nap, but you make do with what you have - at least you're not out chasing your assistant's mother around Santa Monica in a stolen black SUV. Promises?! Who needs 'em?!).

Step 3: Wake up from nap and assess damage from the night before (may require a recon mission involving a good friend and a text by text recount of the entire evening - strict commentary on part of friend must apply - choose friend extremely wisely).

Step 4: Scream at the top of your lungs that you will "NEVER, EVER DRINK ANOTHER BLACKBERRY ME STOLI EVER AGAIN IN MY WHOLE LIFE, I SWEAR!"

Step 5: By this time you're either over it and ready to move on with your day (and life) or you're ready to pull those covers back over your head and sleep away the drama.

Hey, if that Sleeping Beauty chick could ride out her relationship woes by sleeping for 100 years then why can't you?

Spring Break Isn't Just for College Students

2008-09-01T19:22:00.001-07:00

Spring Break 2008.

No I was not still in college (I wish). Actually it was the week that Sadie and Avry (both three years out of college) decided to come visit L.A. from DC and San Francisco respectively. Theresa and I (who both live in LA, but sadly, never see each other) decided to put together a week's worth of fun, college worthy outings to celebrate the reunion of our small little group. It included things like celebrating St Patrick's Day at the dive bar down the street (formerly a college hang out - sadly it was still overrun with college aged kids. We definitely felt old, especially when we were yawning and saying our goodbyes at 11:30p (seriously though, it was a weeknight and I still had to work the next day! I definitely miss the days when I could hop on a bus at 9pm on a Thursday night, hop into bed at 4am the next morning and still hop over to class at 8am Friday - honestly, how did I make it through Sophomore year?), but it was fun to be out at the old haunts. We also spent a day at Disneyland (sadly not noteworthy - lots of screaming children).

But the best part of the week? That would be our evening back at Busby's. I've talked about Busby's before (Pirate Bartender, remember?) this night brought just as much humor and another trip back to the site of the last wrestling match (remember, the one we quickly fled from for fear of our lives?) - yeah, that one.

So the night began when Blake (who, bless his heart, drives up from Orange County every time we all want to get together) picked us up from my house. We made our way to Busby's and started the night off with a bang! Or a buzz. While sipping on martinis and gin and tonics (seriously, Favorite drink. Ever.) Sadie and I found a game of Operation under one of the side tables in the living room like setup of the main bar. I should explain that this bar is a hybrid sports bar/club/trendy lounge so it is not necessarily out of the ordinary that they should have board games for patrons to play (they do have a pool table and a basketball net - it only seems natural).

Anyway, Blake, Sadie and I definitely entertained ourselves for a few minutes with the game before the night became AWESOME. When I could not locate the funny bone inside the game, I pulled the board out of the box to see if the piece had fallen somewhere. I pushed around the fake pink and yellow money and what did I find? Oh a REAL five dollar bill. Hell yeah! There was a bouncer standing nearby, and of course, my conscious got the better of me. I tapped him on the shoulder.

"So, hypothetically, if I were playing Operation here at your fine establishment and I were to (hypothetically) find real money inside the box. Would I be obligated to turn it into a bartender?"

"Hypothetically? I'm of the school of 'finders keepers'."

I smiled appreciatively. Hell yeah!!!

We also met a man dressed in a suit with giant dollar signs on his back (in glitter nonetheless) and the words "Dolla' Dolla' Bills." Yeah, I'm not sure that I have any smart ass comments about that. It was completely unbelievable.

The middle portions of the night were far less interesting then where we ended up at the end of the night. Just like the time before, we ended up back at the house (formerly known as the WWF Primetime Showdown location) but this time we were sans most of the crazy boys and we were plus a few more people on our side. We also had the joy of meeting a girl who, from here on out, we are going to refer to as Candy. She is being thus called due to her massively tall, platform, foam stripper flip flop sandals. I can't believe I wrote that sentence. Those words should never even be in the same sentence let alone combining to form literally the most hideous shoes I have ever seen in my life.

Suffice to say, while Avry was off talking to one boy or another in the dining room, Sadie, Blake, Theresa and I were stuck having a conversation with this fascinating bleach blonde just before she took off (sans her shoes) for another part of the house. The heinous shoes stared at us from their discarded spot on the floor. After a few minutes of staring at them and fighting back our gag reflex, someone (I honestly can not remember who it was) picked one shoe up and threw it across the room, causing it to wedge itself somewhere between the couch and the wall (honestly, we should have burned it - so really it got off easy). We left before we saw Candy again, but we were told the next day that she spent a good hour looking for that disgusting piece of crap.

And that was Spring Break 2008. Mickey Mouse, Irish Car Bombs, the Pirate Bartender (arrrg), Operation (and subsequent winning of real money) and of course, a date with a pair of the ugliest shoes I have ever met in my life (why do bad things happen to good articles of clothing?).

Who is ready for Spring Break 2009? Party on, Rock Stars!

Dear World

2008-08-31T20:00:00.000-07:00

Dear World,

I need to go on a date.

There. I said it. I am putting it out into the world that I would like to go on one date (psst...World! That means it is your move...I am waiting). I am not asking for my soul mate, I realized long ago that looking for that was simply too much to ask. No, I just want a date. It does not even have to lead to anything. Just a simple, fun, flirtatious and exciting date. I will even offer to go Dutch for dinner or spring for the popcorn at the movies (by the way, I do not do chick flicks...if it means anything the last movie date I went on was to see Super Bad...my choice). My last date of any kind was about five months ago - an awkward meal at an Italian restaurant near my house. Sadly I think I self sabotaged that one.

It was my third date with Matt the Lawyer. He was super nice, probably one of the nicest guys I have ever dated and he was great with the dating etiquette. Boys, you may think this does not exist but it does. He called three days after we met (good form indeed - calling the next day would have made him seem crazy and desperate...calling after the third would have made him sound uninterested). Our first date was at this AMAZING trendy new restaurant. The food was great and he ordered a bottle of wine (I was unbelievably impressed). When I offered to pay for half the bill, he insisted that he put down the entire sum (over $100). It was way more than I could have expected from a first date with someone that I did not really know. He walked me to my car and kissed me goodbye - on the cheek. Wrong move, you say? Not in the slightest. I do not like kissing on the first date - it seems insincere - unless of course it is not and the moment is right and you just can not go another minute without kissing this person and you might die if this date doe not end soon so you can throw yourself at him! (Do you see what I mean? I most definitely need to go on a date).

So this guy seems perfect right? What was my problem? Why did I sabotage it?

Well, that is a little more complicated. I guess it had something to do with an old fling suddenly throwing himself in my direction again. Or maybe it had everything to do with said old fling. Too bad that went nowhere fast. (It might also have been the fact that Matt the Lawyer was about a foot shorter than me when I was in flats. Yeah. Thought I could get over it, but I love my heels and it's awkward being that much taller than a guy). Anyway, with the old fling possibility at the back of my mind, Matt the Lawyer just did not seem all that exciting. He should have. Honestly, with every part of my being I wanted to like him (which is why we went on three dates when I knew I was not interested after the first). I was trying so unbelievably hard to make myself like him. He held the door open, he called regularly, he paid for meals, he looked me in the eyes when I was talking, he actually asked me to talk about myself rather than complaining about his own life and he was all in all an amazing person. And I could not, no matter how hard I tried, imagine myself kissing him. I loved talking to him, but I could not see myself leaning in for that kiss. I did not want to run my hands through his hair or simply hold his hand. My heart did not flutter when his arm brushed mine as we walked down the street (come on...the flutter is key. I should have fluttered - maybe I would not be sitting here if I could have fluttered - but there was no flutter).

So how did I sabotage you ask? Well, we had plans to go on date three (awkward little Italian restaurant remember?) and I had come down with a cold. I should have rescheduled. It was just a cold but I definitely was not feeling up to par. Thus I looked relatively uninterested throughout the night. And I was not really trying to be interesting for him. So though he said he would call (and I said I would call) no calls were placed and we went our separate ways. And I have been dateless and drama filled ever since. Now that the drama has officially died down, I am ready to be out there again. So I am writing it down here and putting it out in the world. The last time I said this statement out loud, I got a date with Matt the Lawyer. It did not work out but I enjoyed meeting him and had a lot of fun in the short time we spent together.

So world, here it is again. I. Want. To. Go. Out. On. A. Date. So if you see a nice guy (preferably over 6 ft tall, but that can be negotiated) send him my way. Oh, and try to make him drama free. And it would also be nice if he was funny. And interesting. And not super awkward. But of course, I do not want to ask too much. Like I said, I am not necessarily looking for my soul mate. Although, if you want to set up a chance encounter, I would not be opposed to meeting him.

Best,

Law and Order: Social Justice

2008-08-29T12:20:00.000-07:00

In the Social/Dating justice system, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important, groups: the girls who go on the dates and their friends who over analyze the dating offenders.

These are their stories:

Imagine, if you will, a quiet, warm Wednesday afternoon in Los Angeles. Aubree, a semi-celebrity at her place of employment, who was known to be a serial dater, had cleared her busy social calendar to have a lunch date with a certain dating offender (who will remain nameless for his own protection and anonymity). The last eyewitness to see Aubree before the "incident" placed her at the entrance to her employer's building at 1p, getting into the suspect's car. There is evidence to support that the suspect then drove her to a trendy restaurant in Culver City where they dined at the bar because the wait for a table was too long.

It is believed that they talked for the entire hour, sharing life stories and different antics, blissfully unaware of the time passing so quickly. Marcus, a waiter at the restaurant remembers them well. The following is an excerpt from his taped interview with a member of the LAPD (Life Analyzing Police Department), Officer Amour.

Marcus: "I noticed them right away. They were so enthralled in each other's conversations. I tried to take their order but they were practically ignoring me the whole time as they continued to talk to each other."
Officer Amour: "Were they laughing?"
Marcus: "Yes, yes I believe they were."
Officer Amour: "Was there eye contact?"
Marcus: "Yes there was."
Officer Amour: "Consistent eye contact?"
Marcus: "Yes"
Officer Amour: "Would you say they were on a date?"
Marcus: "I can't say. I mean if I had to guess...then...yeah maybe. But I just, I couldn't tell!"
Officer Amour: "You mean to tell me that after all of that eye contact, story telling and laughing, you still can't tell if they were on a date?"
Marcus: "I'm sorry...I just don't know!"

(silent pause)

Officer Amour: "Is there anything else that you are leaving out? Any detail?"

(silence)

Marcus: "Oh my god I almost forgot!!!! He paid for the meal!!! Does that mean anything?"
Officer Amour: "Perhaps...perhaps it does"

He rushed her back to her place of employment just in time for her one hour deadline. It is believed that he was extremely interested in hearing what she had to say on life, work etc. Eye witnesses place her back at the front of her building at 2:08p returning to work. She was noticeably confused and disoriented. It is at this time that bystanders reported the suspicious activity to LAPD.

This is a case that remains open at this time. LAPD is working around the clock, led by Officer Amour, to try and come to a satisfactory conclusion. Were they on a date? Were they simply friends having lunch? A reward has been set for any tips that lead to a break in this case. If you, or anyone you know has any information, you are urged to contact LAPD immediately. If you are confronted by a dating offender, be sure to practice safe dating. The following are tips to ensure your safety:

-Always stay in a crowded location. This will help you avoid awkward "alone" situations and will provide you with eye witness testimony that will help you determine whether or not you were actually on a date.
-Always remember (in full detail) every moment. This will be helpful when recounting it to a friend (like Officer Amour) at a later time. Bring a tape recorder if necessary.
-Always offer to split the bill but if he insists on paying, let him. Take note of his reaction either way. This could be a deciding factor later on.
-Never confront the offender directly on a first (potential) date. It may frighten him off. You may also come off as the crazy girl who wants to marry him as soon as lunch is over and, quite frankly, that is off putting.

Blackberry Me Stoli

2008-08-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

Blackberry Me Stoli

-1 bottle of Stoli Vodka

-1 Blackberry Phone

-2 people with unspoken sexual tension

Shake and serve over ice in a small tumbler glass. Best when consumed in the early hours of the morning. May cause a rush of excitement and accelerated heart rate.

Things to know before trying: BBM has this awesome little feature where you can actually see when the other person is typing a message. Be forewarned, it may annoy the person on the other end if you start to type a message but then never send it. This is especially frustrating late into the evening.

Caution: May cause you to say things that you may not be ready to reveal. Try not to fall asleep in the middle of the conversation as it may cause the other person to misunderstand your feelings or intentions. Excessive flirting and laughter is often a side effect of consuming this drink.

Please drink (and text) responsibly.

So Maybe I'm a Little Annoyed

2008-08-27T11:13:00.000-07:00

Okay, Ladies. Let's stop shooting the shit and get down to some real business. I want to talk about why so many women seem to lose their minds when they start seriously dating someone (literally, its like One Flew Over the freaking Cookoo's Nest around here these days). Seriously, it's as if the second you enter into the realm of the relationship, I (the single, confident, fabulous friend) am immediately targeted as enemy numero uno. Quite frankly, I am sick of it. What exactly did I do to make you think that I am the kind of back stabbing bitch that would steal your boyfriend out from underneath you (trust me, he's not even that special. I would definitely target your new, yet vintage looking, Cynthia Rowley Vivienne Crinkle Patent Satchel before I set my sights on your boyfriend - I definitely do not need that kind of drama. Boys come and go, but a beautiful satchel bag is forever).

Perhaps it is the fact that I was his friend before I was yours?

Yes, this means that if it came down to a fight to the death between the two of you, I would be cheering on his team (and possibly shouting "Go for the kneecaps - GO FOR THE KNEECAPS!") but it does not mean that I secretly harbor these intense (mind you insane) feelings for him and want nothing more than to have 1,000 of his babies (ewww). You even thinking that makes me gag just a little. And it does not mean that I hate you because you are his girlfriend. Actually, I think you could be kind of cool if you came off your high horse for two seconds. If you stopped seeing me as the Poison Ivy to your Batman, we might actually be friends (I'm telling you I have a killer wardrobe and am not against sharing. Sharing is caring).

So keep your death stares to yourself. Your passive aggressive behavior? Yeah, you can shove that too. If you want a passive aggressive showdown, I will win every time my friend, trust me.

So stop blaming me if your boyfriend momentarily loses interest in you - I can assure you that I am not longing for his attention in your absence. And when you get in a fight with him, please don't pretend that we are "like, OMG totally BFFs!" to get me to tell you what he has told me (cause it ain't gonna happen).

And if you can't trust me, then at least trust him. Isn't trust supposed to be one of the main cornerstones of a relationship? And if you can't trust him...well then that's an entirely different story...

One Night in the Equinox

2008-08-25T19:44:00.002-07:00

Upon entering a night of debauchery and fun, one hopes, but never expects that the party will continue past the walls of the bar or club in attendance for the evening. Avry and I, on multiple occasions have been known to exit one of our regular establishments and buckle ourselves into the Equinox with a few extra passengers in the back seat. Take for instance, the scenario of "Don't Let the Accent Fool You." If we had had a video recorder to film the singing that happened with the British "soccer players" from one location to another (hello Madonna, I hear you're looking for a backup singer - or perhaps a singer/dancer combo? I've been told I have rockin' moves) the world might be a better, or at least funnier, place. Though we never expect it, we always enjoy moving the party from one location to another, always taking many extra passengers along for the ride.

Upon her return from San Francisco, for a quick weekend visit, Avry and I decided it was time to jaunt back to Busby's, a place that never lacks in entertaining events and an even crazier bunch of people. With a last minute call from our friend Theresa, we discovered that a few of her friends (she was not included as she was out of town) were also going to be there for a drink that night. We decided that it was the perfect time to have a little fun. The evening started off with a bang; and by bang I mean that a Ryan Seacrest look-a-like managed to "dance" his way around every girl in the place before landing smack dab on the bar stool next to mine (oh what a lucky girl I am). We chatted for a brief few minutes before he decided that we were soul mates (perhaps that was true, in the "I'm pretty sure he's a GIF" kind of way. For those of you uncool kids who are not up on the lingo GIF stands for "Gay in Five Years." Oh the things I learn from the college students my friend manages at her job). He asked for my number because he wanted to hang out again (ie go shopping with me). I gave the number but suffice to say, he never called (gee, I sure spent nights crying over that one).

That, my friends, is not the point of the story. I have yet to mention the most important character in this here tale. The Pirate Bartender. He is amazing. Beautiful in fact. He looks like Johnny Depp ala Pirates of the Caribbean. And although a pirate would not normally send me into a frenzy, this particular pirate bartender captured my heart the moment I walked into the bar for the first time. This particular night was probably my fourth or fifth run in with him (oh Johnny Depp you captured my heart as the creepy, yet oddly endearing Edward Scissorhands).

Theresa's friends finally arrived in full color; loud, obnoxious and totally entertaining. Avry and I loved it. And then the really big news arrived. They were friends with the Pirate!!!! It was like the heavens opened up and fate shone down on us for a very brief moment (I know I've used this phrase before, but seriously, it happens a lot). Alas, that was not to be resolved in that evening.

We had migrated back over to the dance floor with Seacrest somehow (seriously, God? You put me in the same room as Pirate bartender and this is what I'm forced to deal with?), trying to avoid getting hit by his flailing arms and two left feet (the kid was a mess on the dance floor). Finally, as if he knew we were on the brink of clubbing Seacrest over the head with our heels) we were saved by a man claiming to be a fireman and claiming that it was his 23rd birthday. If only it had been the truth. In fact, it turned out that this boy was friends with Theresa's friends. So...as the night wound down and we were standing outside the bar attempting to keep warm we were faced with the dilemma. Do we go home, or do we return to a house with these five boys and their drunken egos?

We obviously chose the house.

Enraged by an attempted fight outside the doors of the bar, three of the guys got into a cab and two hopped into the backseat of the Equinox. Who knew that the living room of this house would be turned into a WWF prime time showdown between multiple people who had apparently been in jail.

What?!

After the fists started flying we took off for fear of our lives (no shit, we were one breath short of screaming our way down the front steps - and it was nearly 3 AM - we didn't want to cause a commotion). And that, people, is how you move locations after a night of drinking. We would meet up with these boys again (please see the future post titled Spring Break 2008) but there has yet to be an official intro with the pirate bartender. But don't worry. I don't count myself out quite yet. The Pirate Bartender doesn't stand a chance.

I want to caution the reader here about taking strangers into your car and moving from one location to another. Measures like the ones listed above are to be practiced by only the most experienced and fun people. Expect that whatever is to follow after you leave the bar is probably going to be random and very very awkward. If you do not do well in awkward situations, I suggest that you not allow anyone into your Equinox, or equivalent mode of transportation. Also, one should never behave like this when alone. Groups of 2 or more are required for said actions. For more information on Safety Tips for Awkward people, please read the Authors Note (that I have not yet written), which diligently spells out how to safely practice the random acts listed in this blog.

*The Author, Content Managers and Fact Checkers involved in the making of this blog are not responsible for the misuse of the information above.

I May Have a Slight Shopping Addiction

2008-08-22T20:07:00.000-07:00

I’m stalking a dress. Forget my love affair with Nordstrom. Yellow BCBG flats, you are yesterday’s news. My heart belongs to the long, silky, backless, black and tan, deep v plunge dress hanging in the dress section at Macy's in Downtown Atlanta. I sat in the dressing room wearing it for a good thirty minutes two months ago when I was in town on business (what? she works? who knew? Yes people...girl needs to support her shopping addiction). I knew I could not buy this beautiful piece of art (really who spends $200 on a formal dress when they have nowhere to wear it to?) and yet I longed for it. I even took pictures of myself wearing it with my camera phone so I could remember it fondly for the few, but happy, times we spent together. I then emailed said pictures to my mom (while still wearing the dress) to see if she would give me the okay to make the extravagant purchase. Alas, with nowhere to wear it, she could not approve either. It broke my heart to take it off and leave it, alone, in the cold, harshly lit, totally under stocked Macy's. It deserved a nice home, with someone who loved it, someone who would wear it and cherish it forever and ever.

I visited it the next day. And the next. I stopped by and said hello to the dress each day I was in Atlanta (five days if you were wondering). If I could not make it mine forever, I would at least sneak out for quick visits at lunch. And then I had to say goodbye for good. It hurt more than I thought it would. Luckily there were no tears as the sales girl who was watching me probably would have called security. It was a sad farewell, but we both knew the day would come eventually.

So of course as soon as I arrived back at work the following day I looked it up online. It was nowhere to be found save one website (oddly enough it was the special occasion section of a bridal website - if only I were attending a formal wedding, or of course a charity gala - blast!). Obviously I immediately bookmarked the website and have been diligently tracking the price ever since. It is almost like gambling in Vegas. "Come on, dress. We're looking for $100. Come on, I'm on a roll!"

I guess our out of town fling has turned into online dating. I really hope he is not lying to me, I think I may be falling in love.

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead Daiquiri

2008-08-21T15:27:00.000-07:00

I'll Sleep When I'm Dead Daiquiri

-1.5 oz Rum
-1 tsp Dancing until dawn
-1 tbsp sugar
-1 part AMAZING conversation
-1 gin and tonic
-1 gin and tonic
-1 gin and tonic
- 1 gin and tonic
-1 cherry

Combine all ingredients (except cherry) in electric blender. Blend on high into the early hours of a Tuesday Morning. Disregard all thoughts of being at work in a mere 3 hours because, like the name says, you'll sleep when you're dead.

Top with Cherry.

Serve in: Brand New BCBG mini dress and Nine West Gladiator heels.

Drinking Instructions: Best when consumed slowly over an entire night's span. Serve with tall glass of cold water on the side (for attempting to fight off that spinning feeling you get when you walk down the stairs. Or up the stairs. Or when you just sit down to take a break because your shoes are pinching your toes and that guy on the dance floor keeps looking at you like he's going to attack you with his Night at the Roxbury style dance moves).

Warning: Despite the feeling in your toes, taking off your shoes after consuming this drink would be a horrible idea. Taking off your shoes and walking barefoot down the streets of New York City (*cough* Sadie *cough*) would be an even worse idea. Think about it. You might step on a broken piece of glass and get an infection which eventually leads to your foot being amputated because of some strange, disgusting complication (ps it is NOT Gangrene. I mistakenly looked THAT little diddy up on Wikipedia and was bombarded with disgusting images that are now permanently marked in my memory - google that one at your own risk). Anyway, all in all, walking barefoot down a dirty, smelly, city road in the middle of the night - probably not the best idea any way you look at it.

Awkward Girl's Guide Pt 2

2008-08-20T18:37:00.000-07:00

So as soon as I posted the Awkward Girl's guide, Avry called to remind me about another awkward restaurant moment and rather than wait and post it days/weeks/months from now, I decided to do a follow up today because, well, I have some time on my hands and, why not? Thanks Avry - you really are the best fact checker/content manager I could have asked for (not to mention half of these stories would not be possible without you!

So this tantalizing tale takes us to Geisha House, an amazing sushi restaurant in Hollywood, for another midweek jaunt with close friends. (If you are as obsessed with the Hills as I am, you may remember Geisha House as the locale of many romps for Lauren and the gang in season 1 - yeah, yeah, yeah laugh it up but the music is good and they always showcase great places to go in LA). Anyway, this particular evening was a celebration. Nicole was in town from NYC (visiting family) and we had one night for a get together before she went home again. So Theresa, Avry, Nicole and I all met up for an exciting night of raw fish (mmmm...nothing better).

The evening was great to start. They sat us at an amazing table on the first floor (perfect location for people watching) and we attempted to decide on what food to get. Moments later, the Sommelier came by and (quite easily) talked us into purchasing a bottle of wine. Nicole, Avry and I were the only one's planning on drinking, but we figured we would just let the waitress know to only bring three glasses when she came back around. We weren't quite paying attention when the glasses were brought, so four were placed on our table.

The Sommelier made his return. He walked over to Theresa and before he started his speech (usually they are very long winded - they sure love their wine) Theresa put up a hand and said, "You can take my glass, I will not be having any wine tonight."

Wrong move.

Now, I am not sure how he did this, it was almost as if he had super human powers, but literally, in one swoop he was able to pick up all four wine glasses, while still carrying the bottle and storm off in a huff. Seriously, he was acting like a spoiled little brat who was just told that he could no longer play with his game boy for a week. For a minute I was kind of expecting him to cry a little bit, his face turning red as the other patrons stared in judgement. Alas, apparently no one else noticed this random act. He was was running away from our table before we were able to call him back and inform him that the rest of us still wanted to pay for the bottle of wine.

So, I naturally called over the waitress, not to complain, but to simply explain that we wanted him to come back with the wine (and also hoping that she would offer to comp us something for our trouble - maybe not the wine, but come on...at least dessert! We are talking serious emotional trauma here! That kind of argument would stand up in court!!) She apologized (no need, you did nothing wrong - just bring us our wine) and said that she would send him back over as soon as possible. We bit our lips and waited, fearful of what his return would bring. He already left a path of destruction as he left the first time, I was really afraid of what Hurricane "Crazy Wine Guy" would bring the second time around.

He finally returned (with what I can only assume was embarrassment) and placed our glasses back out on the table (only three this time - woo hoo! Good job wine guy, you can have your game boy back now)!

He stood over me, as if he were going to start his wine speech but instead leaned in and said, "I'm sorry ladies, apparently I 'stormed' off earlier. Here is your wine. Who would like to taste it to make sure it is what you want?"

Silence. How does one answer that? I am the queen of passive aggressive behavior but that was ridiculous. I awkwardly raised my hand slightly, as if answering a difficult question in class.

He began to pour a small bit into my glass. "I'm really sorry for the confusion," I said, "but we were just trying to explain that our friend did not want a glass, but the rest of us did." He stared at me in silence, waiting for me to approve or disapprove of the wine. I slowly took a sip. My eyes darted around the table in disbelief.

"MMMM...yeah. This is perfect."

He poured the remaining glasses, slammed the bottle down in the middle of the table and was off without another word. There was absolutely nothing to do but laugh (and of course call him an ass and talk loudly about how rude he was whenever the waitress came along). The rest of the night went off without a hitch and from what I remember, he never came near our table again.

Here's the kicker. Not two months later, I was invited out to a night at The Comedy Store for a night of stand up. If you've ever been to one of these shows, you know they usually start the night with first timers or "amateurs" and then work their way up to the big name acts. As I sat there contemplating what I wanted to order for my two drink minimum (at least the tickets were free) a familiar face appeared on stage. It took me a minute to place it, but I knew it was crazy wine guy the second he made a joke about wine and it (of course) bombed. Wine guy was booed off stage. HA. Sucker.

The Awkward Girl's Guide to Tipping at Classy Restaurants

2008-08-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

Back in 2006, when Avry still lived but a few miles away from me, we had a standing agreement that once a week we would try a new LA restaurant, bar or nightclub. The idea was that we would basically turn into living, breathing versions of "Citysearch.com" with the ability to recommend (or wholeheartedly not recommend) any place in LA (a girl can never be too versed in things to do in her hometown and the only way to do it, is to get out there and try EVERYTHING).

On one particular summer evening, we decided on Social Hollywood on Sunset. Granted, we had been there before but the mashed potatoes are pretty much to die for and the chicken is always cooked to perfection. So we decided to break our rule of only going to new places and head back to one of our favorite eateries.

What is amazing about Social Hollywood is that it has the whole package; good food, good drinks and amazing atmosphere. The Moroccan themed dinning room only adds to the grandeur of the space (it was once a huge athletic club wayyyy back in the day). This particular evening, the atmosphere came crashing down on us though when our waiter decided to hate us. One night with this guy as our waiter was like going through an entire relationship - the ups, the downs, the cold shoulder, the awkward break up - it was quite the roller coaster of emotion.

Let's get one thing straight from the get go. Avry and I dine out A LOT. And we're not just talking El Torito here (although, who can resist the array of flavored margaritas and the fresh guacamole made table side?). As stated before we are the proud patrons of many classy establishments from San Diego to San Francisco and being the classy broads that we are, we definitely know how to tip.

The beginning of the night was bliss. Our waiter, let's call him Tom, was attentive and funny. He wowed us with his knowledge of wine and food pairings. We laughed, we joked - we were having an amazing time. The food we picked was amazing (per usual). Our love affair with Tom was still going strong as he brought us dessert. It took him a while to bring the bill, but we were not worried, we knew he would come back - he always did.

When he arrived with the bill, he did so with his charming smile, the one that made us fall for him in the first place. Once he walked away from the table, we began to assess the damage. We realized that we were just a few $1 bills shy of being able to tip the valet once we got to our car. The bill came out to somewhere around $95 so we decided to give the waiter $100, get the $5 back for the valet and leave the tip using a $20 bill we already had.

Tom rushed by, grabbed the cash and bill and was running off into the kitchen before we could say "What time do you get off work?" We did not get a chance to explain our plan of action for the bill.

Twenty minutes later and Tom was nowhere to be found. We were confused, a little upset. We could not understand why he had not come back with our change. Was it something we said? We had not even seen him wandering through the room helping other patrons (I like to imagine that at this point he was in the kitchen throwing soup ladles and sobbing into the head chef's apron while the sommelier poured him a glass of his best Merlot and tried to convince him that death by lobster boil was no way to go). When he finally did make his appearance near our table, we had to yell out his name to get him to come anywhere near us.

"Tom, could we get the change from our bill?"

"Oh, that was change?"

He pressed his hand to his chest and let out a sigh of relief. He obviously thought that we were tipping him $5 for a $100 meal (jerk - how could he!). His big smile returned and he was bouncing back to the kitchen in no time.

We received the change, left the appropriate tip (yeah, we are classy Tom, I thought you knew us better than to think we would stiff you on the tip - what about all of the laughs that we shared?). We left quickly, without saying goodbye and went to pick up our car. As we stood there waiting (and staring at the red carpet that had popped up outside with cameras and hundreds of people walking down it and into a back part of the restaurant) we were once again put face to face with Tom. He stood just feet from us, smoking a cigarette as we waited with anticipation for the valet. (come on, come on, this is so awkward - why did we have to run into him, here - isn't anywhere safe anymore?). The car finally came and we set off for home (side bar - we also tipped the valet very generously).

Alas, we have not been back to dine, or see Tom since. It simply hurts too much.

They Say That Breaking Up is Hard to Do

2008-08-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

So last week we had a talk about bad pick up lines. My point in that post was that, despite popular opinion, there really are no good "pick up" lines. Honestly, if you have to put on an act to get a girl's attention...she is not the right girl. I have the same concerns about break up lines. The same rule applies, there really is no easy way to break up with someone BUT there is(contrary to popular opinion) a graduated scale on which these things can be done that makes it less awkward, less hurtful and all around easier to move on from.

The following is a description of the top two break up offenders on my "don't" list:

1. The Third Date 'n Ditch. You have gone on at least three dates with this person. There is vested interest, regular communication (via text, calls, email, carrier pigeon), and quite frankly you feel that you might have a connection. Suddenly, without any warning - all communication grinds to a halt. You text one day with no response. For fear of coming off like an obsessive lunatic, you decide to give him/her a day or two to respond. You're cool, you're calm, you're collected. Nothing. Okay, now you are worried. What did you do? What did you say? Did you have cilantro in your teeth during your last date at La Cantina? Does he/she hate that you did not vote in the last Presidential election? Is he/she judging you because you drive a Toyota Corolla and he/she's in an Audi?

Honestly, the answer is probably none of the above. This person is simply a Date 'n Ditcher. The one that just leaves you hanging with no idea as to why you are no longer receiving phone calls, emails, texts or singing telegrams. It is the worst state to be in because you are simply at a loss. If you did do something, you have no way of knowing what it is, no way of possibly improving it for next time.

Lesson: This Date 'n Ditcher can strike both men and women. Being female myself, I know that this approach to breaking up can be devastating and enraging at the same time. It makes you question everything about yourself when in fact, the other person probably just wasn't that into the whole thing.

2. The Liar. We have all dated this person. For the ease of typing and narrative flow, I am going to use the term "He" when referring to the liar. This does not, by any means, mean that women do not lie. They do. A lot. Even I, admittedly, have lied to get out of dating a guy that I was not interested in. But it sucks, especially when you know you are being lied to. You get into that comfortable dating place. Maybe you have been seeing him for, oh, let's say, three months. You may have even celebrated a birthday together. Perhaps, he's met a few of your friends. You do not consider him your "boyfriend" (hi, that term scares you just a little) but things look like they may be headed that way. Your mom even asks if you are bringing him home for Thanksgiving Dinner (that's a firm "no" by the way - four months is certainly not long enough to invest family in him as well) and it's a good thing you don't because just before you had a chance to say "want to catch a movie Friday night" the man is interrupting with his lies.

Warning: These lies can come in many shapes and sizes and are often disguised as compliments to you. "It's not you, it's me." Lie. If it were him, and he thought you were worth it - he would work around his insecurities. "I'm just, really busy right now." Lie. Again, if he really liked you, and thought you were worth it, he would make the time in his schedule. "I really like you. I want you to be my girlfriend, but...well, I just can't commit right now. I wouldn't want to disappoint you. I won't be as busy in the spring, maybe we should try again next summer."

Hold up. What? You want me to wait for you for nine months - the total time it would take for me to get pregnant AND have a child (if I wanted to right now - which I don't) - in hopes of the possibility that you might decide that you are ready for a commitment. And, can we play back that tape, because I'm pretty sure I never asked you to commit in the first place. I just wanted to know if you wanted to see a freaking movie Friday night!

So my point is this - breaking up is hard - I know, but why lie to ourselves about it? We make up these excuses or seemingly drop off the face of the earth to avoid a situation that is going to be uncomfortable. But in the infamous words of one Miss Carrie Bradshaw (yes, I'm quoting Sex and the City - deal with it) "Not having the 'uncomfortable break up conversation' - is what makes you the bad guy!" In break up situations, why can't we look past our own discomfort for two seconds and simply tell the other person the truth - "this just isn't working out for me. I'm not interested. Best of luck to you," and do it face to face (not over the phone, or in a cryptic text message or written on a banner that you send flying over Santa Monica on a hot June day). We can't all be perfect for each other so, breakups are simply inevitable. At the same time, those who are on the receiving end of a break up also need to learn to be adult about things. If someone is simply telling you that it's not working - you need to not immediately snap into 100 Crazy Questions as to why it went wrong. (Was it my lazy eye? It was my lazy eye wasn't it?)
Because asking those questions and turning into that CRAZY person, is what makes people fear the breakup conversation in the first place.

Although, on the other hand, it is also what makes for amazing break up stories later on down the road...and if we didn't have those, then what would we talk about over drinks at the Standard...

Bailey, I Think the Mob Just Bought Us Flowers

2008-08-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

My favorite martini bar in LA is a little hidden gem in Manhattan Beach called Side Door. Literally you would not know it was there if you did not already know it was there. No sign illuminates over the door (which is on a small side street rather than the main thoroughfare that the front of the building faces). The place has about 6 seats at the bar and maybe 5 booths for patrons to sit, eat, mingle and of course, drink the amazing speciality martinis on the menu. The best drink (in my opinion)? The Fuzzy Kitty. It is a peach martini topped with just a touch of champagne. Ummm, delicious.

Anyway, I recruit as many of my friends to go to this bar as possible, partially because it is so amazing and partially because I love being in the know about small fabulous places that very few people are aware of (social rock star/party planner/VIP, yeah that's me). I have had a few "write-able" moments at this bar but my favorite had to be the night that Bailey and I got hit on by the mob. Seriously.

The place was pretty crowded that night (hi 15 people is crowded in this bar since it is so small) and Bailey and I were resting in the padded window seats adjacent from the bar when my foot was lightly tapped by a man in his early thirties. I looked up at him as if to give him the obligatory (don't worry about it, it's fine) smile and nod, assuming he would do the "I'm so sorry" wave and be on his way. Alas, this Italian man would have none of that.

"I'm so sorry, are you okay?" he asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm totally fine. Don't worry about it. You barely tapped my foot!" I responded.

"No, I'm so sorry. I'm such a jerk. Let me buy you and your friend a drink. I owe it to you."

What?

Pretty sure I sat agape for a moment before I could respond. The man barely touched my foot and he was acting like he had stabbed me in the eye with a pencil. Not to mention, our drinks were still totally full, we were nowhere near needing another. So...I looked at Bailey and in the name of drinking on a budget, we downed the ones we had and allowed the man to buy us another.

"What are you having?" he asked.

"A Fuzzy Kitty and a Summer Hummer." Bailey responded.

He laughed. "Excuse me? Are you serious?"

"Very!"

"Are you really going to make me say that to the bartender?"

We nodded.

He overcame his awkwardness and ordered our drinks. When he finally returned we were able to talk and get to know him, way more than anyone needs to know a stranger they have just met in a bar.

Apparently he was really open to sharing. He was especially proud of his marijuana farm in his back yard down in Long Beach. Huh? And the Italian family run restaurant he owned in the same neighborhood. And the hit he just ordered on his cousin Rico who he caught stealing money from both of the family businesses. Okay, the last part is an exaggeration, but trust me, it totally could have been true with this guy. I wouldn't put it past him.

Let me tell you about his attempt to impress us.

"Oh yeah, I totally hang with celebrities in Hollywood. Yeah, those guys do some crazy shit. Totally smoked crack with Chris Rock once. Yeah, some messed up shit. Hey I'm going to a big party over at Shutters on the Beach later tonight, you girls should come. There will be a ton of celebrities."

Ok so let's dissect this statement one line at a time. He hangs out with Hollywood celebrities. Awesome. News flash, I live in L.A. It's the natural habitat for retarded socialites and movie stars. I board a plane with a celebrity almost every time I fly out of LAX.

He believes that said celebrities do crazy things. Agreed. Perez Hilton tells me so every single day.

Apparently he has smoked crack with Chris Rock. Okay, I have met Chris Rock and granted, I physically RAN into him while quickly rounding a corner at my internship senior year of college, he seems like a nice guy. He asked me where the restroom was and hummed a song while I sat at reception and he waited for his meeting to start. Then I had to interrupt said meeting to deliver a message to one of the company executives. Being new and socially awkward in such high power situations, I of course delivered the note to the wrong executive. I did not realize the mistake until three days later. I should have paid more attention during the orientation or studied flashcards with the executive's pictures on them. Hindsight's 20/20 I guess. Anyway, said Italian man may or may not have smoked crack with Chris Rock. That I can not confirm.

Smoking crack is messed up. Can't argue with that. Some might even use the term wack.

He is going to a party at Shutters on the Beach. Quite possibly, this is one of the ritziest hotels on the westside. For some reason I find it hard to believe that this raging party is happening there.

And what made him think that we would be interested in his drug den of a party? Or going anywhere with him in general? Honestly. Was it that we were drinking martinis in a small lounge in Manhattan Beach? Was it my jeans and conservative tank top that screamed "I love drugs"? Was it my healthy looking skin and my entirely clear, not blood shot eyes that perhaps sparkled at the thought of wasting my evening with this loser? Quite obviously we quickly declined and tried to finish our drinks so we could leave.

He stepped away to the bar for a minute and we planned our escape. Unfortunately, before we were able to get up and out, the flower lady came by. You know the one, she wanders through, constantly annoying patrons by trying to get them to buy roses. She came and shoved two of them in our faces.

"No thank you," I said.

"No, they buy them for you," she responded in broken English, pointing toward the bar. So of course the marijuana growing, crack smoking Italian mobster decided he would buy us flowers. Great. We accept them graciously and get up to leave. We say thanks and explain that we are expected at our friend's house (a lie) but that we really enjoyed talking with him (an even bigger lie) and that maybe we will run into him again sometime soon (not in your life if I can help it). Before we go, he introduces us to every single member of his family. His father was there (totally the godfather of this operations by the way) and about five of his brothers and cousins.

Suffice to say, as soon as they stopped kissing our hands and telling us how pretty we were, we ran out of there and to our car. In the car, the evening ended with the classic line that will ring in our heads for the rest of eternity:

"Hey Bailey, I think the mob just bought us flowers."

Am I Lost or Just Less Found?

2008-08-16T23:43:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had someone in your life who continually breaks your heart over and over again? They usually do not intend to and often times they do not even know that your heart is broken (tell people when they hurt you? Pssshhh...that is way to easy, right?) but they end up breaking it nonetheless. I wanted to make this post funny but I have not written anything in two days and now it is midnight and I should be sleeping and there is no way my brain can function at a witty or even semi-witty level right now and I can not stop thinking about this one person who, despite many attempts on my part to weed him out of my life, has managed to hurt me all over again.

He should not have this kind of power over me (I thought I took it away from him when I purposely stopped hanging out with him a few months back) and until tonight, I was doing a really great job of pretending that I hate him. Unfortunately for me, I do not. Is he the best person out there for me? Perhaps not. But my heart still races when he puts his arm around my shoulders or when he hugs me goodbye. And when we are at the same bar, party or simple social function I find my eyes wandering the room to find his. That means something, right?

This annoys me. It annoys me because I can not control it. It annoys me because nothing ever comes of it. It annoys me because most of my friends dislike him for all he has done to me. It annoys me because now I am sitting up at 12:02a on a Saturday night when I should be sleeping and instead I am watching Message in a Bottle, which may be one of the worst movies of all time (oooh ABC Family, I can always count on you to have the cheesiest movies and TV shows on anytime I need an awesomely bad movie to pick me up) and I might be a little jealous of Robin Wright Penn and Kevin Costner and their oh so unrealistic blossoming love story (I absolutely hate being jealous of characters in movies, particularly sappy romantic movies. It seriously irks me - and still, here I am).

PS, have you seen this movie? The tagline is (I kid you not) "A story of love lost and found." Pure. Movie. Genius. Except that tonight it is kind of fitting. Basically a woman finds a romantic message in a bottle, falls in love with the author and goes in search of him only to find that he is not the man she thought he was. He is now scarred from the unexpected death of his wife. So roll with me here on the connection because while I am not searching for the ghost writers of all the love letters I find strewn across Venice Beach I do feel a connection to this character. I have fallen for someone who exists in my head. He is a real physical human being, but the person that I have fallen for is the person who I expect him to be, not who he really is. If I have learned anything in the past year it is that people rarely live up to my expectations. The real problem here is that he can never live up to my projected image of him and thus, he is always letting me down. Ass backward logic or genius observation? TBD.

When we are talking one on one, outside of the influences of the other people in our lives, I see in him the qualities of a person that I could actually spend a lot of time with down the road (something that rarely happens with me, a girl who is far too afraid of getting hurt to look past the next blockade, yet alone all the way down said proverbial road). And the final piece of the broken heart business? Oh yeah, the fact that even if the opportunity finally ever presented itself (for real this time) I am not sure I could take it. It just feels like an "I told you so" moment waiting to happen. And yes, being strong, being an adult and knowing when to listen to your heart (not the most stable - may give conflicting advice) and when to listen to your head (stubborn, often right - but in a frustrating "I hate the world" kind of way) can often be the thing that hurts the most.

And now, just in time for heart wrenching midpoint, Kevin Costner has magically transformed into the perfect man. Stupid romantic movies. No wonder I have unrealistic expectations.

Bahama Mama

2008-08-14T17:58:00.000-07:00

Bahama Mama

-a dash of bathing suit

-a splash of tanning oil

-RUM

-A camera to capture the memories that you will not remember on your own in the morning

-1 cute boy

-1 tropical island getaway

While wearing bathing suit, have boy apply tanning oil to your body. Slowly stir in rum and pictures to taste. Best served cold on a warm, tropical beach location far from the worries of daily life.

Though the "5 tequila shots in one hour" days are far behind you (you are way too classy for that now) this drink will take you back to college when you could afford nothing more than a lawn chair, a slip 'n slide in your front yard (classic yellow, of course - none of that fancy Alligator Alley bull shit), a fresh batch of Jungle Juice and a handful of frat boys. And damn it with the work emails, stressful relationships and social engagements piling up back at home (they're filling your calendar and inbox as we speak!), you kind of miss those days.

Viva, Las Vegas?

2008-08-13T12:33:00.000-07:00

Awkward moments come in all shapes, sizes, colors and objectives. My past few posts have revolved around awkward moments with men, but women can certainly can create their own fair share of drama (yes, yes I know...hello Captain Obvious). But in all seriousness, some of my most uncomfortable (yet awkwardly hilarious) situations have not even involved creepy men trying to hit on me, they have instead been centered around strange women.

Case in point: Las Vegas, August 2007. Avry and I were planning a road trip from LA to San Francisco because, well, we had nothing better to do with our weekend. We would drive out on a Thursday and I would fly back home that Sunday, leaving her to start her new semester at school the following week. A few days before we left, I had an itch to go to Vegas. Since we both are basically in love with the city (it is a two sided affair, Vegas gives back as much as it receives in oh so many ways) I decided that it would be a great idea to just "swing by" Vegas. It is practically on the way, right?

Avry did not even have to think about my offer. Ten minutes later, we had booked a room at the Tropicana. Side Bar: I will never, under any circumstances, ever stay at the Tropicana again. I am honestly surprised that the grumpy old men and women shoving hundreds of dollars into slot machines did not attack us on our way out Thursday evening. We were not even dressed inappropriately and we were pretty much receiving death stares on our way out. Oh and I am 98% sure there was dried blood on the wall near the curtains in our room. And the view out our window was of Hooters. Do you see where I am going with this?

Anyway, aside from the horrendous heat and the sad state of our lodging for the evening (did I mention we were only staying in Vegas one night?), we were excited to venture out to the strip. We decided to head to Tao since neither of us had been before. On the walk over, we were even greeted with free admission passes (Note: Free Admissions passes in Vegas rarely include skipping ahead of the line). Something else I learned that trip - despite Thursday night essentially being a "party" night everywhere else in the world, Vegas has decided that that will be the one night where nobody goes out. After four years of Thursday night house parties and sneaking into bars before I was 21, I naturally assumed that Vegas would be rockin' that Thursday night (hmmm...did I really just say rockin'? Perhaps I'm bringing it back. It should be afforded the same status as "wicked awesome" or "bitchin" in the legendary word hall of fame). According to our cab driver - not so much.

There was a small line when we arrived at Tao. Avry attempted to sweet talk our way to the front, but the bouncer was not susceptible to her charms. We sadly took our places at the back and waited. Okay so this is the best part. Sometimes, I honestly can not believe that it happened. As we stood in line waiting to get in we were approached by a tall woman in full makeup, hair and Vegas outfit (ie really, really short dress and really, really tall heels).
"Hi! Are you going to Tao tonight?" She asked, bouncing in front of us with wild enthusiasm.
"Well, yes" I responded, "We are in line and all-"
"Is it just the two of you?"
"Yes."
"Where are you from?"

What is this? Who is this girl?? Why is she asking us these questions? Is this some kind of hidden camera show where she's going to lure us into leaving the line only to watch our pissed off reactions when whatever she is offering us goes south and we get hassled by security and escorted out of the Venetian entirely? Yeah that's right, I anticipate all possible dangers. Kutcher better watch out if I'm ever famous.

"Los Angeles and San Francisco" we responded.
"Great! That's so awesome! So would you be interested in Dinner at Tao tonight?"
"Excuse me?"
"My friends and I have dinner at Tao every Thursday for $20 each. It includes a full dinner, two drinks each and dessert. We have to have eight people here to be able to get that deal and two of our girls dropped out tonight. Would you two like to join us so we can make our eight?"

Okay seriously. Where the hell are the hidden cameras?

"I swear there is no catch. Just $20 and your company. Our friends are really cool. And you will get into the club for free afterward - no line."

We weighed the pros and cons silently. Food at Tao, two drinks and club entry for $20. It was a freaking deal! Two drinks alone at that place would probably cost as much! At the very least we figured we would have a great story to tell when the night was over. So...we agreed.

So that random Thursday evening in Vegas, we found ourselves eating sushi at Tao with our six new best friends. The best part? It was one of their birthdays. So we even got to sing "Happy Birthday to her when our fortune cookie dessert cake came out at the end of the meal. The meal was amazing I would recommend the food to anyone. The company was not as agreeable. They were nice but (as would be expected) they really just kept to themselves for the course of the evening. Avry and I were fine having our own conversation, which basically consisted of us mouthing "OMG" to each other, still in disbelief that this was even happening to us. What was odd was that once dinner was over and we all moved toward the club, one girl latched onto us and would not let go. Despite her saying less than five words to us at dinner, she decided to personally escort us around the club for the entirety of the evening. She also decided to start a dance off, the likes of which I have never seen. Please do not get me wrong, I love a dance off more than anyone, but this girl was flailing about all over the place and quite frankly, I was embarrassed to be associated with her and her insane dancing (she could have hurt someone!). Avry and I were finally able to sneak away but the place, as a whole was just a bit overwhelming so we took off.

Finally feeling safe from the insane girls we were formerly best friends with, we asked our cab driver where we should go next. It was only 1p - we figured we still had the whole night ahead of us. He offered to drop us off at a strip club. Yeah. Sadly, we declined and asked to be dropped off at the Mirage where we finished off the night at the center bar making friends with the bar tender. It was a quiet end to the most entertainingly random night I have EVER had in Vegas. EVER. Until, that is, the time I crashed two bachelor parties in one weekend. But that is a tale for another time.

Avoiding the Uncomfortable

2008-08-12T12:11:00.001-07:00

Okay. Let's have a talk about pick up lines.

They don't work. Well...Okay that is not entirely true. Sometimes they work, but it takes a very skilled, very smooth guy to pull them off, which (not gonna lie) is a very, very small percentage of young single men. And let's be honest, that very skilled, very smooth guy - probably an ass who is more interested in checking out his own reflection in your vodka tonic than having a real conversation with you. So nice guys (I know you are out there, I have heard wild fantastical tales that you exist - don't be so elusive) do not be fooled into thinking that this archaic form of introduction has a high success rate. Even if a guy is cute, I would rather gag myself with a swizzle stick while burning my favorite pair of Cole Haan black leather pumps than talk to a guy that approaches me with "Are you tired? Because you've been running through my head all day."

Perhaps I had been running through his head all day (barefoot now that my heels are burned to a crisp). Perhaps, (since before this moment he had never seen me in his life), he has telepathy or ESP or whatever it is the psychics are calling it these days and he was able to imagine the fabulousness that is me before he even set foot into this sad excuse for a bar! Or perhaps he's too lame to realize that a simple, "Hi how are you? My name is _____." Would have sufficed (and kept me from sacrificing my favorite pair of shoes to the dating gods).

Recently, Bailey and I were attacked by a new one. I would like to say that I at least give these guys points for creativity:

Imagine, if you will, two girls out on a Friday night, ordering drinks at a very crowded, very "college age" bar. We are leaning up against the bar paying for the drinks when both of our heads are yanked backward simultaneously. When I turn around I am staring into a tall, relatively cute stranger's eyes, completely perplexed as to why he is pulling my hair, and relatively pissed that he is probably messing it up (I spend precious time preparing for an evening out, I do not appreciate all of my hard work going to waste). He does not say anything except "Head and Shoulders."
"Are you trying to tell me I have dandruff?" I ask.
"No, the smell, do you use Head and Shoulders Shampoo?"
"No."
"Pantine Pro-V?"
"Nope."
"Suave?"
"Wrong again!"
He gives up (apparently that's all he knows of women's hair care products).
"So what do you use?"
I think about walking away but like a train wreck, I am stuck there watching, my eyes wide open, waiting to see what is going to happen next.
"I use Treseme."
"OHHHH! Man! That was totally my next guess!!!" He says with exaggerated enthusiasm.
"Awesome, dude!!!" I reply, "does that line ever work for you?"
"Well you're still talking to me." He winks. Seriously? A wink? Okay I can't handle this guy. I'm ready to make my escape as quickly as possible. I prepare my, "oh geez, I'm sorry I have to go to the restroom, but I'll catch up with you later" speech when I look over to see that his friend is latching onto Bailey in the same manner.

When I look back, he is gone, already making his way through the crowd to his next victim.

It was a hit and run pick up line. As could be predicted, his success rate is probably low so he has to increase probability by hitting on as many women as humanly possible in the span of one night. That, or he has ADD. A word to the wise - women do not like getting their hair pulled. We are not in third grade anymore friends. And women really don't like having to sacrifice shoes. So if you don't have something normal to say like "You look very nice tonight" please just don't say anything at all. If not for me, then, please, do it for the shoes.

Don't Let the Accent Fool You

2008-08-11T10:08:00.000-07:00

Life Lesson # 15: Acquire someone with amazing camera skills who would prefer not to be in the pictures. This person will act as your own personal paparazzi throughout the night, allowing the most amazing moments to be captured.

Life Lesson # 15 (Section A): Once said paparazzi is acquired make sure to schedule a photo shoot pre-going out. It is very - flashback to a seventh grade sleepover - only with real going out clothes and champagne (What? You never posed for endless pictures in full hair, makeup and mom's clothing at seventh grade sleepovers? Don't fight it. You know you love the one where you have blue eyeshadow caked over your eyes and red lipstick bleeding outside your natural lip line). Side note: NEVER Drink champagne BEFORE going out to a bar and drinking hard alcohol. You know the little song they have for beer -- beer before liquor never been sicker? Yeah there should be a champagne one too. Trust me on that one.

This particular night began as described above - with a full fashion shoot in my living room. Once we hopped in the Equinox and headed down to our favorite bar in Hermosa, Avry and I were stoked that we were able to meet up with Michelle, our friend who was in town visiting from New York City. We had not seen her for a few months so the night was bound to be exciting.

Once we arrived on location, the evening was in full swing. Party hoppers, social swingers, drunk girls dancing on the small platform that apparently passed for a stage were the main components of the first part of the evening. Relatively boring. Michelle was being constantly harassed by a random acquaintance (friend of a friend situation) and she was having none of it. He seemed to be one of those guys who did not get the memo that clearly outlines proper friend to friend of friend flirting behavior. Once the conversation awkwardly dies, feel free to eject yourself from the driver's seat immediately. Once you've hit eye rolls, you've gone way too far. Avry and I on the other hand were on the hunt for a good time.

It was not until the end of the night when we thought we were down and out and the situation seemed hopeless that fate taped Avry on the shoulder. I was talking with Michelle, who was on the verge of jumping ship from our evening (not uncommon - but we love her anyways), when Avry pulled at my arm. Upon turning around I saw her flanked on both sides by two attractive looking gentlemen. She leaned in and told me that they were British. I swear the ceiling opened and the light from heaven shined down on us like this was the second coming. Michelle was not as thrilled. There were two British men (and three fabulously single girls) and she was not in the mood to partake in the conversation at all. A headache had come down on her like the plague and she practically had one foot already in the cab door. After pleading on our part not to go home, she finally took off. Unable to catch her, we had to let her go. She was in the cab and driving home faster than either of us could blink.

Naturally, a dance off ensued (also not uncommon - Avry and I like to stir the pot a bit and challenge strangers to random dance offs - side bar: we are really good dancers). Avry grabbed her partner and I grabbed mine and the four of us found ourselves blissfully dancing the last hours of the night away. And by last hours I mean LA time...which sadly only means 1AM. None of us were prepared to end the night at that. It was decided that food was the next necessary stop, so we all jumped in the Equinox and drove on to Fat Burger singing loudly to Madonna and learning fun new British words (who knew our beloved Madge would be so popular with straight male Brits. I guess it makes sense. She is married to one). Apparently I was classified as "cheeky."

After Fat Burger we were "so close" to their apartment that it would have been silly not to hang out some more. So, onward we trekked. What was funny about this situation was that it ended so completely opposite of what one might expect. I would clock our arrival at their apartment in at around 2:30a. After the grand tour of the pad, we were asked if we wanted tea and biscuits (seriously I could not make this kind of stuff up). We accepted and for about an hour we drank our tea and watched music videos. It is how I imagine my generation will be when we are old - instead of staying in and watching NASCAR or old black and white westerns, we will be rocking ourselves to sleep while rocking out to classic Aerosmith, Good Charlotte, Jay Z and, yes, even NSYNC videos on VH1 Classics. One thing we did learn, Avry's new British friend Ben's favorite video is Oasis' Wonderwall (a song that will seriously come back to haunt me in other major life moments time and time again).

After a long discussion about how they both played for the LA Galaxy (we would discover that they were lying to us the next morning when we googled them AND the LA Galaxy Soccer Team) we literally all fell asleep. Somewhere around 4:30a or 5a I awoke with a start. I tiptoed into the bathroom to take a look at the monstrosity that was probably my face. Makeup smeared, hair disheveled skin looking less than glowing, to say the least I was mortified. Suddenly I panicked. Surprisingly enough, Avry was also wide awake and ready to go. We said goodbye and were out the door, down the street and into the car while the sun was rising in the distance. Not exactly your most romantic sunrise, but at this point we take what we can get.

I would never again speak to my dear British friend save for one awkward run in at a club a few weeks later (he ignored me completely but ultimately, I had the upper hand - that was the night I was being stalked by the "Italian Male Model" - I assume that was also a lie, but he was insistent - apparently I attract the really strange Europeans). Avry, on the other hand, would continue her lurid love affair with the Brits for a while. Texts flew and even a few meetings were arranged. But even wild hearts grow tame and soon he too was no longer in the picture Honestly, they lied about playing for a soccer team that is home to David "the beautiful" Beckham. Like we weren't going to google them immediately to see if we could use them to meet Becks. If you're going to lie, at least make it plausible. Amateur.

When the Curtain Falls

2008-08-10T12:25:00.001-07:00

I am pretty self reliant. As a single adult woman, I sort of have to be. I admit that I do not always know how to solve a problem, but if I am faced with such adversity, I quickly find a way to remedy it. I take such approaches to all things in my life. If I want a pair of shoes that are hard to find (and damn it I want them at a decent price) I scour multiple stores in multiple cities until I can claim them as mine. In this particular case, I want to hang curtains in my room but I lack the knowledge and tools. Okay…so admittedly, this should not have been as big of a deal as it ended up becoming. There are just a few simple steps; buy curtain and curtain rod, secure curtain rod to wall with screws and hang curtains. Unfortunately, my 24-year-old ass does not own the tools necessary to handle such handyman tasks, thus an excuse to make a trip to my favorite store of all time. I am pretty sure my shopping trips alone have kept Target in the black for the past 5 years.

Upon returning home, elated from my big girl purchase (one handy dandy electric screwdriver), I immediately moved into the task of hanging the curtains. I figured they would be up in no time! Wrong. (Ok so in my defense, I do not think I technically did anything wrong aside from maybe purchasing a crappy tool at target). So like a good consumer, I instantly read the manual as I removed the tool from its plastic prison (seriously getting it out of the plastic probably took 15 minutes alone). Insert bit into the hex. The drill is spring loaded – push in to secure and pull out to remove. I took said screw and curtain rod metal piece thingy (totally the proper name for it by the way) and lined them up on the wall. Press upper part of trigger to drive screw in, press lower part of trigger to remove screw. Ok. Was it supposed to make that sound? The screw made it into the wall, so I figured it worked. Ok great. Let’s move on to the other side of the window. Second screw out, line up curtain rod metal piece thingy and go! Oh. Hmmm. Another weird noise, but this time the screw simply turned and turned and did not drive into the wall. Strange. I pressed the other side of the trigger just in case I was doing something wrong. Nothing. The screw and metal piece both fell out of my hands and crashed to the floor – the screw rolled out of sight. Great. Now the cat is going to eat a screw that I am too lazy to search for. Obviously I was not concerned enough to take further action. I instead turned my attention to investigating the screwdriver. When I looked at the bit, I noticed that it had been pushed further into the hex (look at me using all of these handy man words) to the point where I could no longer pull it out with my fingers. I fumbled angrily with the bit for the better part of 10 minutes. I am pretty stubborn and often refuse to think that inanimate objects can get the better of me. I lost this battle so the only appropriate thing to do was to call my father, the master of, well basically everything.

I have been convinced from about the age of 10 that my father really does know best. He is a freaking genius. He watches boring science shows on the Discovery Channel for fun. He is also a former construction worker who now works as an engineer for the Department of Transportation (good luck living up to that future boyfriend/fiance/husband). He designs traffic lights or something (I was never invited to take your daughter to work day – I was a bit of a rambunctious child). Anyway, he was the first on my list of “Please GOD help me figure this out before I throw the electric screwdriver across the room and potentially harm the skittish cat who is roaming around here somewhere – probably eating screws.” My mom answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Is Dad there?” I like to get right to the point. She’s chatty.

“Yeah, what’s wrong?” See.

“It’s a tool question. I need to talk to him.” Short, sweet, to the point.

“Let me get him” she yelled upstairs for him, screaming that I was upset about something. Oh geez. Way to go straight for the frantic child in need of help, Mom! I never said I was upset! Dad finally picked up.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not upset. I just, I don’t, I bought, and I”

“Sentences. Try them.” He answered.

“Ok so I’m trying to hang my curtains and I bought an electric screwdriver at Target and now it is not working anymore and I’m halfway done with this project and I just want it to be over and please can you help me fix it so I can go back to feeling accomplished and grown up?” I whined. He reminded me that he can not really help me without seeing the problem (what? I thought the man was all knowing? This of course irritates me). I thought, maybe if I described in detail what happened he can visualize the problem and help me solve it. Apparently he’s not good at visualization techniques (I’m thinking I did not get my creativity from him).

“Ok…go into Andrew’s room and tell him to get on iChat.” I say.

“Why?”

“You need to see the damn screwdriver, so I’m going to show it to you.”

Not personally owning a Mac, he was immediately confused. Moments later I saw my brother's screen name log in on my computer’s iChat window. Video chat initiated. My dad appeared in front of me (damn I love technology). I held the broken piece of shit up to the camera built into my laptop to give him a good view. I even rotated it for multiple views and full problem solving potential. I totally could have been one of Barker’s Beauties, minus the alleged sexual harassment. – I so don’t put up with that crap.

“Ok so what’s the diagnosis? What do I do to fix this sucker?” I asked, positive he would come back with a simple step by step instructional.

“Have you read the manual?”

Seriously? That’s his answer? You would think my parents would have more faith in me!

“Of course I read it. It doesn’t have a section marked ‘What to do when drill bit gets stuck in the hex.’”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t think I can help you. I think the only thing you can do is try to use some needle nose pliers and pull it out. Or try returning it.”

Needle nose pliers. Of course. One more freaking tool that I do not own. Two hours into this fiasco and I am not in any mood to make another trip out of my apartment to purchase stupid little needle nose pliers.

“Is that really all you got? No other advice than to try and pull it out? News Flash! Already tried it. It is not budging!”

“Sorry, Sissy, (not an insult…just one of his many names for me) I don’t think there’s anything I can do for you.”

“UGH! What good are you if you can’t fix these things for me!” Uh oh. I retreated into my 14 year-old self who expected someone to do everything for her, from laundry to killing spiders in her room so she did not have to touch them. Luckily he laughed and did not take it personally. He knew I was frustrated. “Sorry!” he responded.

I calmed down and thought about the situation. “Well thanks for trying. Sorry I freaked out.”

“No problem, hope it works out for you.”

“Thanks.”

Unable to help, my dad left the room. My brother then popped up in front of the screen. He obviously witnessed the whole thing. At that point I find it appropriate to inflict twenty minutes of complaining on him. I was ranting and raving about my inability to hang my curtains and how it ruined my plans for the entire day and put me in a foul mood and how I hate living alone (ps I don’t live alone I have two roommates and way too much pride to ask either of them for help) and how I wish I had someone that could just do these things for me.

Then I turned on a dime and decide that no – I don’t need a man to do these things for me – I am a fully capable, smart adult woman and can do these things for myself. Stupid, shitty target screwdriver. I blame the power tools. Anyway, I decided that my brother was a saint for putting up with my ranting without saying anything. He just let me talk and talk and talk (I think he learned to do that as a defense mechanism when we were growing up – I used to push him for no reason at all – he probably thought I would go all Rambo on him if he ever interrupted me). When I finally finish getting all my aggression out verbally he paused for a moment of silence. He laughed.

“You can’t even hang your own curtains. HAHA. Don’t hurt yourself. Or I guess don’t hurt the power tools. They didn’t do anything to you – they were only trying to help.” Click. His picture disappeared and he immediately logged out. Ass. Now I remember why I used to lock him in the closet and play the scary parts of Thriller on repeat..

Girls Night Out

2008-08-09T16:53:00.000-07:00

I understand that the layout of this blog may be slightly confusing to the average reader who does not know me. The stories are told out of context and the blog as a whole lacks any linear structure - making it hard to piece together the order in which things happen. I think it is that randomness though that makes this blog what it is. The story need not make perfect sense as long as it is being put out there for the world to partake in. So partake, if you will, in my life - however messed up, mixed up or confusing it may be (trust me I'm as much in the dark as you are).

One cold and dreadfully foggy November evening when Avry was in town I decided that we needed to have a fun girls night out (mid week of course since going out on the weekends is soooo last year). Being the budding social planner that I am, I decided that we would have dinner at Dolce, Ashton Kutcher's famed Italian eatery on Melrose followed by swanky cocktails at The Rooftop Bar at the Standard Downtown (the location of the infamous pool where Britney Spears took those wild topless photos back in her "dark" period). So in celebration of Avry's triumphant return to the city of angels from the sad dreary thralls of San Francisco, (although not going to lie, with the fog rolling up on us that night we may as well have been in San Francisco), Bailey, Avry and I dressed ourselves up for a classic L.A. night on the town. Always a recipe for adventure.

Dinner was, of course, AMAZING. I absolutely LOVE Dolce, but save for my first taste of it back in 2005, I have been slightly disappointed on each of my return visits. It is never the food. The food is always spectacular. The problem is on my first visit, they served us Rose infused Creme Brule (yes that means there were real Rose petals in the fabulously creamy dessert). It was quite possibly the best dessert I have ever tasted in my life and I have yet to see it on the menu since that one fateful night. Alas, I keep returning in hopes that it will one day again grace my dinner table.

The real fun started when we finally emerged downtown from the thick scary, zombie infested fog (seriously not an over-exaggeration - okay maybe they were homeless and not technically zombies - but there were crazy people with shopping carts and scary grins popping up everywhere and we were taking a "shortcut" through a section of town we had never been in and Avry could not see two feet in front of her as she drove so really, it might as well have been zombie infested. Work with me here). Finally arriving safely at the Standard, we made our way up to the Rooftop Bar. A slow night for sure, but not lacking in interesting people, we found ourselves talking to three gentlemen from Europe, apparently in L.A. on a "holiday" sponsored by their company. By sponsored I mean fully paid for. Yeah. I am thinking about moving to Europe if this is part of the standard benefits package.

Between trying to understand what they were saying or trying to translate the random noises they made mid sentence, it was an informative and interesting conversation to say the least. Bailey was lovingly compared to Shrek and I was told that I was prettier than a monkey (a compliment? I'm not really sure). Despite these moments of misunderstanding, the vibe was fun and lighthearted and it was really cool to meet these Europeans. I was also informed that I will make it to Europe soon and I will apparently go to Belgium to visit my new friend! :-) A request I will happily oblige should the opportunity present itself. Don't you worry, emails were exchanged (a phone number would have been random seeing that international phone calls to people I have only met once are not in my budget at the moment). So now Bailey and I have international pen pals, which to be quite honest is so third grade of us (I totally remember writing letters to a pen pal somewhere in the Midwest when I was younger, and in all honesty, it felt like a million miles away. In fact it still feels like a million miles away - sorry Midwest but you might as well be on another planet - I am sure I will visit you one day but until you give me a good reason as to why you still wear overalls in 2008, we will have to remain secret, long distance friends).

All in all, the night was not HILARIOUS awkward. It was just random awkward. In fact, it happened so long ago, that the details are as hazy as the fog was that night. I can, however, sum up the things we learned that night in a short laundry list of randomness:

1. Europeans are funny. Very funny.

2. Brussels is Belgium

3. Apparently being compared to Shrek is a compliment and being compared to a monkey is practically a confession of love.

4. Never accept an engagement ring made from a swizzle stick. It can only end in a quick divorce followed by an immediate proposal by your ex-husband to your friend sitting next to you.

5. Apparently Britney Spears and Al-Qaeda have something in common - although I will not lie, that comparison went right over my head.

6. There is etiquette for saying goodbye to someone via "European cheek kisses." You kiss someone on the cheek once if you plan on seeing them again soon, you kiss them three times if you don't plan on seeing them again for a long time.

7. The Rooftop Bar at the Standard is always the scene for a good time. Always.

Philosophy Friday

2008-08-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

Awkward is an awkward word. Stare at it long enough and it just starts to look like a bunch of random letters thrown together and beat with a stick...

It is kind of amazing to think how awkward life can actually be. I do not feel like I ask for it, certainly do not think that I bring it on myself, but it is there, constantly rearing its head at the most inappropriate of times (otherwise it wouldn't be awkward, right?). The stories that we have, the stories that will fill the empty space in this blog, could literally fill a book – and who knows maybe one day they will. But I think it is those awkward moments that build my life and make me who I am. As embarrassing as some of them were and as many of them that I view as wrong choices that I have made, I can not imagine my life occurring in any other way. Many of those moments brought me tears but they would also bring me laughter and knowledge and eventually strength. Plus, without my blatant awkwardness, I would have little to entertain me at random social functions and I certainly would not have enough amazing stories to tell. A year ago I wrote this message in an email to Avry:

"One never expects to find themselves on the brink of insanity at such a
young age but as we dive into the precipice that is our twenties we find
ourselves asking a simple yet mystifying question. What is wrong with
the world? Or maybe the problem is not the world. Maybe the
problem is within us? Crazy dates, random hookups and bustling social
calendars on which there is barely time to breathe has driven us both into a
world of mad introspection. Connecting the dots is easy. Awkwardness makes up our lives. It pops up in every situation, in every moment, whether we want it
to or not. If our lives were movies, they would most definitely be
romantic comedies, without the blissfully happy fairytale endings (at least
yet). It has even driven us to look into The Secret. 'If you believe
you'll get a car, a car will appear in your driveway!' So silly."

Back then I thought that it was ridiculous that at 22 and 24 we should be entertaining the idea of questioning ourselves but now, only a year later, I realize that that is exactly what we should be doing at this age. Without questioning ourselves, how do we learn who we are going to be when we grow up (because face it, we still are not quite grown up yet). And maybe this little rant is silly and makes no sense and you are thinking "this is not funny, why is she saying this" but I think it needs to be said. Comedy and tragedy are interlinked; one cannot exist without the other. How can we know what is funny if we have never experienced true sorrow. Our hearts grow light when we are so low that there is nothing left to do but laugh.

Thirsty Thursday!

2008-08-07T13:41:00.000-07:00

He's Just Not That Into You Mixed Shot

-1 part ends date early without going in for the kiss
-1 part unreturned phone calls

Shake well, pour into shot glass. Light on fire, blow it out then drink!

*Good for forgetting what he looks like - may cause temporary memory loss. If this occurs DO NOT have cell phone nearby. May cause inappropriate late night hate texts or rambling voice mails that will only be regretted in the morning.

Variation of Shot:

SHE's Just Not that Into You Mixed Shot:

-1 part avoids eye contact in hallway
-1 part has to wash her hair (can be substituted with babysitting or cleaning the house)

Best served chilled.

*Warning - objects of your affection are NOT as close as they appear. Proceed with caution.