Samantha: Frankly, I think it's sad, the way she's using a child to validate her existence.
Carrie: Exactly. Why can't she just use sex and a nice cocktail like the rest of us?
It happened. I got the first of my friends' baby shower invitations by mail today. I have sort of gotten used to the whole wedding thing, but a baby shower? I just don't get it, really. Here I am, pill-popping and taking every precaution -- trying so unbelievably hard to not have babies, and yet there are people my age out there who see a little pink line on a cardboard stick, jump for joy, and start registering for Diaper Genies and discussing sonograms with the enthusiasm of discussing the new Colin Farrell flick. How is this so?
It's not that I don't love babies, I really do. I think they're very cute until they poop themselves, and then I'm ready to hand them off to Mommy. But I am mature (or immature) enough to know that kids are not something I am going to dabble in until...well, a while. Like at least another 5 years. I want to have enough time to find a Husband and not a Baby Daddy, get married, enjoy having sex in weird places because no one cares and you don't have any kids running around bitching that their red crayon got stuck in the sink, travel a little, and then start a family. But kids now? Who are you kidding?
So now I'm stuck looking up another registry and picking out some "adorable" little cloth burping set with daisies on it, and paying out the nose for a baby which, quite frankly, I think the parents should be able to afford to have, without my gift.
I think that marriages and babies are conspiracy theories in order to suck more money out of others. I'm sure that when my time comes, I'll be trying to milk everyone for all they're worth in the china department and in the pashmina baby blanket department, or whatever the cool things for kids to throw up on is, but still, these things are really taking a chunk out of a girl's paycheck.
In honor of Monday, and what was, for me, a pretty shit day at work, I think it's time we discussed the merits of corporate life. I have a lot of friends who are starting new jobs, or entering the working world for the first time, and I think it's important that we de-bunk some myths and let you know what you're getting yourself into. So let's review some of the so-called "perks" of working, and keep it real:
1. Business cards: "Oh, how fun! Little index cards with my name and work stuff on it to make me look really important!" Truth: You will never give these cards out to anyone of importance. And you can't really give them out to guys at bars, if not because it makes you "that girl" that thinks she's cool and hands out business cards to guys, then because you don't want, as has once happened to me, a sketchy guy calling your place of employment and asking you out over voice mail. (He never got a call back strictly for that reason.) 2. Expense accounts: This is corporate plastic, designed to make you think that you will be able to spend other people's money without paying for it. Truth: Save for the occasional expanding file folder or lunch that you are forced to take some clients to because you messed something up and hope that a chopped salad will make them forget about it and move on, you really can't use the plastic for anything personal. And after "losing" my stapler a couple of times, frankly, the novelty wore off.
3. Direct line: You are so important that you get your own phone line, so people can reach you directly. Truth: You are so important that you get your own phone line, so people can reach you directly. This is so that people have a direct way of getting a hold of you when something went wrong and it's your fault, or even when something went wrong and it's not your fault. It's a guarantee that you will answer the phone for someone to inevitably make a ridiculous request or lay blame on you.
4. Out-of-office: The novelty of this Outlook feature wears off slowly than others, but still - do not be fooled. Truth: The out-of-office reply you set up when you're in meetings, on vacation, etc. is really just another means for someone to yell at you or lay on the guilt trip when you forget to turn it on, i.e. "I tried to get a hold of you because I really needed that report/dust mop/invoice/highlighter, but you never put your out-of-office on so I finally had to call someone else and figure it out!" 5. Client lunches: If you work in the business that I do, client lunches, charity events, and excuses to drink and have someone else pick up the tab are endless. Sounds good, right? Truth: You usually end up knowing very few people there, and the two or three that you hang on to are people that you can't remember anything about, except for that their favorite Subway sandwich is the turkey special on Wednesdays, because that's what you talked about last time. So you bring up Subway again, and it's a never ending vicious circle of Subway and the one story you always tell about the "sandwich artist" putting too much mayo on your sandwich and you having to order another one. It's boring, shitty stories like this one that get you through the hours, days, and weeks, and it's depressing. And sad. In my case, you end up running into the same one guy that you dated like, two years ago, for one month, and despite having him at the top of the list of people you don't want to see because it reminds you of what a f*cktard you were to be interested in them in the first place, he makes a huge ordeal out of seeing you every time and then makes sure to tell anyone and everyone he is work-related to that you once dated and it's really awkward. Asshole. So secretly you remind yourself that he's just compensating for his lack of manhood, smile, and shut your mouth.
Did I leave anything out? I'm sure I did. There are lots of hidden "perks" that really aren't perks. Consider yourselves warned.
This Is How My Enlightening Conversations With Beth Go
With Beth, discussing lesbians:
Beth: "Well, she basically is..."for girls", if you know what I mean."
Me: "Like, 'for gun control? Or 'for the Yankees'?"
Later, continuing discussion about lesbians:
Beth: "If a bisexual person who's with a guy hooks up with a girl, is that still cheating? I'm confused."
Me: "Beth, do we need to have the 'bees and the bees' conversation again?"
My career involves a lot of number crunching, and lately I've found it a lot easier to just summarize in numbers, so the below should pretty much sum up last night's Vanilla Ice experience:
Number of people in attendance: approximately 500
Among the attendees I spotted - an Amish man wearing suspenders and a bowl haircut, an African American midget, and a fortysomething man who looked like Mr. Belvedere and danced by himself on the dance floor all night.
Number of guys wearing Armani Exchange head-to-toe: 153
Number of Slim Shady wannabees: 138
One of them came complete with Dr. Dre doppelganger companion. Wow.
Lbs. of silicone on the ladies: 478
If there had been this many fake boobs on the Titanic, it wouldn't have sunk.
Number of sequined handkerchief tops that were cool for girls to wear in 1999: 29
Hours Ice took to finally get onstage, despite being scheduled to go on at 11 pm: 1.5
Who did he think he was? Times Ice played "Ice, Ice Baby": 1
Unfortunately just once. Number of times Ice asked, "Who f*ckin' tonight? Who f*ckin' tonight?" while rapping: 73
Number of times I was offered a neon-colored shot with whipped cream on it by some skanky girl wearing aforementioned handkerchief shirt: 3
Number of times I was shot in the eye with a squirt of water that Ice was throwing into the crowd, as he threw plastic water bottles at us: 9
Number of times it occurred to me, while being splashed with said water, that it would have been cheaper and more fun to have just bought myself a Slip-and-Slide and put it in my living room, had I known I would have gotten hit: 2
Number of nice, normal, adorable guys I met at the Ice concert: 1
Oh Shawn. Smokin' hot. He was pretty much the only other normal, cool person there (aside from my friends), and we hung out all night. Yeow.
Well, I'm out tonight, headed to see Vanilla Ice at Excalibur downtown. Ew, wait. What?! Yes, that's right. Who's sweet ass scored a free ticket to see VANILLA ICE, aka Rob Van Winkle, play at the cheesiest and worst tourist bar in Chicago? Actually, it was Carl's sweet ass that scored the free tickets; I am just along for the ride in the passenger's seat, banging on the 808. When he called me this afternoon to ask me to go, there was not a shot in hell I could have said no. I had to immediately cancel all scheduled plans and rearrange my life, because this is one of those "awesomely bad" things that VH1 is always referring to, and there is nothing I like more than laughing at Guidos, being blinded by bling, paying $15 for some neon green drink with Red Bull in it, and listening to the Ice. I haven't been this pumped since my first music concert ever, Milli Vanilli, in 1990.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to try to make a last-minute trip to Target for some 8K gold earrings and a Milwaukee Brewers jersey before the show. Wouldn't want to stick out like a sore thumb, now would I? Details to follow.
Always Use the Safety Word When You're Doing the Safety Dance
Today, I was emailing to and fro with a friend of mine (name withheld to protect the guilty). We had a good little banter going about my earlier handcuff post, when he replied and told me that "the safety word is banana." I replied and asked him what the hell that means and received the following response, which I found so funny that I had to post it in its entirety:
The banana reference is to an episode of Family Guy where Peter and Lois are complaining about how drugs are inflitrating their kids' high school (the kids are liking Central American toads and experiencing psychedelic colors and highs), all the while, Peter and Lois are putting on leather S&M bondage devices and Lois switches from the caring, everyday Rhode Island housewife to a dominatrix. And the last words they exchange with each other are: Lois: The safety word is banana. Peter: I love you.
Then Lois zips the leather mouth opening shut on Peter's mask and proceedes to open hand smack him onto the bed and the fun begins. So a safety word is a way to stop the other person that you're "getting it on with" that they're going too far. My friend Amanda calls it the backboard theory. Meaning if the one person is doing something below that is causing discomfort, then the person experiencing the discomfort (who is "normally" up at the top of the bed near the backboard) pulls back on the backboard or hits it in a way to get the other person's attention and to get them to stop doing what they are doing. I asked her what if you're in the 69 position, what then? She had no answer. But since I don't have a backboard for my bed, I really don't have to worry about that. Although one of my ex-girlfriends had to use the wall as a brace to stop herself from going thru it. I'm a big guy, damnit! There's a lot of mass moving here. Just what you wanted to hear, right? "Thank you slow gas leak."
Thank you, Nameless Friend, for the new term and description, as well as your overshare about the moving mass. You learn something new every day. I wish I had known about the safety word sooner! I think my safety word is going to be "potatoes".
Did anyone catch "The O.C." last night? Holy hell, what is going on?! I don't believe for one second that Marissa and Alex are a thing. It's just obnoxious. When Marissa told Jody, Alex's ex-girlfriend, that she wouldn't leave her "girlfriend" with her for a night, I just about dropped my bowl of Honeycombs (good cereal) and fell off my couch. Clearly, Marissa is a faker. She loves Ryan, and always has. And if she really is a bisexual, why wouldn't she have gone for Summer? Summer is hot.
Speaking of which, I am hoping for a reunion between Summer and Seth, even though I like Seth so much that I am even jealous of fictional character being in a relationship with him. And Zack, this season's new Luke, needs to be 86'd immediately. As my co-worker and fellow "O.C." fan says, "His hair is wicked. Wicked bad."
Also, last night's episode marked a milestone, as we were introduced to Rebecca. Rebecca is Sandy's long-lost, ex-fiance, hot Jewish unattainable chick. Good to see they're putting more of us on television. (Although props to Grace Adler, she's the original.)
For recaps of episodes you might have missed (we can't all have TiVo because we don't all have landlines, now do we), check out Television Without Pity. They have these obnoxious, hilarious writers recap episodes of popular shows every week. The recaps are really long (usually around 14 pages or so), but once you're done you don't even have to go back and try to catch a repeat because they're so thorough.
This week's poll results are in, and after a fierce battle, eyes, body, and "other" tied for first. The only conclusion one can draw from this is...no conclusion, really. I thought about casting the tiebreaker vote, but pollsters are supposed to remain unbiased, so I'm staying out of it. (Although in case anyone's interested, I think eyes and strong arms are big attractors.)
Great comments, though. Responses ranged from the expected ("Face") to the completely bizarre ("bone structure and a good calf"?). I am hoping that response was meant to be plural, because I do know so many guys out there with one good calf, I mean, you're really not narrowing it down, now are you. My favorite was "personality...ehem". Who wrote this? You're great. You are invited to be a guest contributor here at Drama Queen anytime, just let me know. I have some educated guesses about what "ehem" means, but if it's not what I think it is, then I need to go out and get myself some more "ehem" immediately.
New poll TBD...look for it later tonight or tomorrow.
Unrelated: I was almost shot in a cab today, on Chicago/Orleans, while running an errand for work. And by shot, I mean assaulted by an angry biker with a bike lock. It seems my asshole cab driver almost ran into said biker and I bolted as soon as they got out of the cab to rumble. Quick thinking.
Number one: Jeff Buckley is so good. My co-worker and I have been talking all morning about how the Jeff Buckley "Grace" album (1994) is one of the most underappreciated. The guy has a killer voice, great lyrics, and is hot. It's too bad he has passed, because he had some amazing potential. If you don't own this album, buy it, or at least check it out on iTunes if you don't trust me unconditionally.
Number two: I am pretty straitlaced at work, but lately I've let it slide. Upon recommendation of another co-worker, I downloaded this program that is probably spywaring as we speak, but allows you to customize your cursor via a toolbar on your web browser, and you can also send crazy smiley faces and graphics to people via email. Currently, I am using a little naked sumo wrestler cursor that bobs up and down. It's annoying, yet so amusing that it's worth looking at for 8 hours a day.
The Word of the Day is Dots. Let's Go Back to My Place and Spread the Word.
What the f*ck?! Was I not on the memo that went out, letting the general public know that Domino's Dippin Dots or whatever the hell they're called are no longer on the menu?
Maybe it's been a long day, or maybe I'm just feeling like my sassy self, but imagine how pissed I was when I decided that a tough day at work merited some pizza and dippin' dots or whatever those little donut hole things that you dip in icing are called. Now, I am not a regular pizza eater, and I haven't eaten these dots things for at least two years, but it's bad enough that there's not a single Papa John's in the entire Chicago metro area (cheese sticks, I miss you). So as soon as I had reconciled that I was going to have to order Domino's, the little Indian man on the phone tells me that they no longer have dots on the menu. (For the record, I know he is a little Indian man because I walk by Domino's on my way home from work sometimes and I see him behind the counter. So no, not racist.)
Basically, I almost had a coronary, and I feel bad, because I really didn't mean to yell at little Indian pizza man, but per the usual, my temper got the best of me. Those dots were just about the only thing Domino's had going for them, and now they've squandered their success. Way to go, punks.
So I'm starting a campaign to bring back Domino's Dippin' Dots, or whatever they want to call the little donut holes with icing dip. I will be spamming everyone's inbox shortly with a petition demanding your signature and mandating that you forward to 10 friends in 5 minutes or less or else you will catch a VD. And then Mary from Virginia will write up her little testimony about how she forwarded the email, brought back Dippin' Dots, and found true love two days later.
Are There Any Vices Left That Won't Leave You Sick or Dead?
As if it wasn't annoying enough that drinking, smoking, drugs, and promiscuous sex are threats to your health, you can now happily add text messaging to the list. According to Italian doctors, it's just one more thing that's bad for you.
Truthfully, I didn't become a big fan of text messages until a few months ago. I was a late-bloomer in this department. Even now I am usually much more of a "pick-up-the-phone-and-just-talk" kind of person, but one thing I don't think I will ever be a fan of is when "ppl abbrev wrds or rplce with #s", like "lol, u r the best!" or "r u ok 2day? lmao, bff, lylas" or whatever kind of shit people write. That has always been a major pet peeve. I can understand not wanting to write the whole word out, but doesn't practice make perfect? If you're so text-saavy, why the f*ck don't you just learn how to punch in whole words faster? This is so annoying to me that it's almost a dealbreaker.
The benefits are obvious, though. It's a lot easier to talk to people in loud bars, and it's sort of like email - the format of texts gives you liberty to say some crazy shit. I have definitely gotten my share of dirty text messages, which normally I would find gross, but when I actually see "ur hot i wish u were naked" or something ridiculous like that, it does put a smile on my face. My favorite text message ever - I must share - is courtesy of Emily, August 2004, and all it said was "have you ever been handcuffed?" I couldn't think of a cute response, though, which left me bummed for about a day or so.
I have a lot of friends who are big on the text - even a couple who have dumped someone via text. Props to you guys, because if I ever had the balls to dump someone via text I'd be in hiding right now, afraid of having a cap popped in my ass. Although at least that would be a faster death than the inevitable acute tendonitis you would have from text messaging people too much, right?
I am learning the art of sports gambling. I consider myself a pretty educated person who knows about a lot of things, but sometimes, people talk about things, and I wonder where the hell I've been living for 24 years. For example, no one has ever been able to taught me how to play poker or euchre. Twenty-some years I have lived without those little black and red chips, and I have felt really left out of society. Go Fish? I've mastered it. Blackjack? I'm decent. But no poker, and no euchre. Second Chance once tried to teach me how to play poker a few months ago, but gave up when I got into an in-depth conversation with his roommate's girlfriend about her shoes. But I digress.
Last night, for no apparent reason whatsoever, the topic of sports betting came up, and Matt was cool enough to give me a basic overview. And I am now proud to say that I understand how it all works. Sort of. It's not that sports betting is rocket science - I mean, I know some pretty dumb people who bet all the time, but how do you learn about who oddsmakers are and what "covering the spread" really means unless someone, at some point in time, explains it to you? (Or unless you are a straight male - I think they are born with a built-in sports chip in the brain.) Thankfully Matt is a cool, patient person, so he answered all of my questions and didn't tell me to shut up when I made some crude reference about what I thought covering the spread really meant.
So now I think I'm going to start dabbling in it, in preparation for the 05-06 season. And as soon as I master it, I'm moving on to poker and euchre, too.
Is anyone looking at the counter? As I type, we are at 1,000! Do you understand how exciting this is? It means that there is an assload of people out there reading what I have to say, which is both thrilling and sort of intimidating at the same time.
My tracker, I have learned, is not the most accurate, because I know that there are some people out there who read and do not register on the tracker (and it shows me that the number of actual hits, or times this blog has been accessed, to date is 5,029, which is pretty amazing). But I feel like I should do something special for the 1,000th person that the tracker counts as reading this. Maybe like a personal email or a voucher for a date with me. I like that idea - you're the 1,000th visitor, so you win the honor of taking me out to dinner? Hmm, tempting.
Anyway, if anyone has a suggestion as to what to do for our special 1,000th visitor, please let me know.
I, truly innocently, slept at my friend Grant's house last night. Maybe even unfortunately innocently. But the whole night was fun, particularly when we were thrown out of the late-night bar because I grabbed a couple of ice cubes out of the huge metal tub that holds the beer they sell and threw them down Grant's back, which apparently went allllllll the way down his back. G, being true to form, retaliated by picking me up, threshold-style, and yes -- dipping me in the tub full of ice and beer. I was soaked from head to toe, and laughing hysterically. We were then promptly, and probably rightfully, thrown out of the bar. But when we got back to his house to continue the going-out debauchery, I was faced with two options: I either had to change into a pair of his scrubs and a sweatshirt, or die of hypothermia. I opted for the former.
And I'm glad I did, because I love his clothes. They smell so good, like boy. And they are so comfortable. Once I am done wearing and washing them, I think I am going to add them to my rather disturbingly large pile of clothes in my closet next to the sweaters that I affectionately call, "My Pile of Shit". What this pile consists of is belts, boxers, t-shirts, sweatshirts, scrubs, and a pair of socks - yes, even a sad pair of socks, that once belonged to boys of yore.
I know how this began - either the guy left it here by accident, or I borrowed something, with every intention of giving it back as soon as it was washed. But days turn into weeks, and months, and embarrassingly, even years, and next thing you know, you have a pile of shit that you wear on occasion, and cannot bear to part with.
You're probably wondering why the hell I would keep all of this stuff. I mean, I have my own clothes, ones that fit me better, don't have holes in them, and don't have weird guy patterns, like pajama pants with horses on them, or boxers with little orange slices on them. (I don't remember whose those are, but I'm sure he's come out of the closet by now.)
But I think girls keep these little mementos for a couple of reasons. For one, they're comfortable. I mean, screw the guy if he ever gives you a brand-new Hanes t-shirt. If he's a real man, or a typical one, he's going to give you a nice, worn, comfortable shirt to wear. Also, unless you are a fat beast, most guys are, generally and hopefully, bigger creatures. Which is great, because there's nothing more comfortable and sort of adorable about an article of clothing that is all loose and baggy - something you can swim in. Plus, this makes me feel like I don't have ass for weeks, and any boost in the self-esteem is always good. And finally, guys clothes remind us of good memories. Even if they are ex-boyfriends, or flings of the past. Yes, you're probably still a dick, and if you are a fairly recent ex (within the past year or so), we still probably hope you break every bone in your body, but there are always good memories attached to clothing, and it's nice sometimes to revisit.
With that said, I show no remorse in wearing his clothing, or keeping it. And I don't think I'm returning anything else to anyone, either. I am proudly hanging onto everything. Even the socks.
In light of my recent decision to make a concerted effort to meet fresh meat, I read an article online called, "9 Opening Lines As Smooth As Jazz" . I saw a link to it via Hotmail, and said to myself, "Self, you could benefit from being smoother, like jazz." Well, let me spare you the migraine and give you a brief synopsis of the 9 tips these losers gave me:
1. Stroke the male ego.
Well, they got the verb right on this one, but like men need more ego stroking. At least the cocky assholes I know don't.
2. Talk sports.
Okay, this one is worth a shot. (Or a touchdown for hockey, or a goal for football, or whatever.) I'm sure this guys would appreciate this one, but important to note that this would not work particularly well in reverse - I'm not sure how I'd react to a guy whose opening line to me was, "So, have you been to Nordstrom's lately? They have a f*cking awesome sale on Uggs!"
3. Yawn.
When first reading this, my eyes were really tired and I thought it said "yarn". But then, upon discovering that it recommended that you actually yawn to get attention -- my subsequent thought was that even "yarn" would probably be a better topic of suggestion. Anyone who yawns indicates to me that they haven't had enough to drink.
4. Giggle
The whole little blurb after this tip was about online dating, which made me wonder what particular brand of crack these so-called authors were smoking, because "lol" and "lmao" doesn't count as giggling. And if, while "really" dating in person, you were to giggle, make sure you're not crossing the line into cackle, which this tends to evolve into if you are either a major giggler or a drunk. 5. Monkey Wrench
Apparently, in this article, "monkey wrench" is code for "act dumb and ask a guy for help, like in a hardware store". Sadly, I have tried this before, except for that I was in a restaurant and asked a smokin' hot fellow male patron where the (ladies) bathroom was. Eek. Make sure you're not really stupid like I am if you're going to use this tip - it will probably get you into trouble.
6. Tongue
Up the sexy factor. In other words, act like a slut. Shouldn't this happen after you hooked him? Luda says he wants "a lady in the street but a freak in the bed". I'm with Luda on this one. 7. Simple
Ask him out, straight up. Excellent choice if you're forward, but I think that if the man's worth his salt, a woman shouldn't have to do any asking. 8. Groove
Use common interests to your advantage. Although I'd recommend avoiding the obvious, like being out at a bar and talking about how great it is that you both like drinking and hooking up.
9. Results
Basically, this tip tells you to throw your hands up and admit you like the guy and want to go out. Not my style, and man, would the divorced ladies who wrote that "Rules" book be pissed if they saw that. Not that anyone should listen to them anyway. Do you want to know what my favorite approach is? Be a bitch. Yes, a straight up, ballsy bitch. This has worked for me so many times it rivals the number of pairs of black boots I own. At my birthday party a couple of weeks ago, I told some guy that I liked him. When his face lit up, I told him not to take it too much to heart because I had low standards. He followed me around the rest of the night.
Case in point #2: Last weekend, I bumped into my Mobster boyfriend and said, "Excuse you."
He said, "Excuse me, it's my birthday; I can do whatever I want."
I replied, "Not around me, you can't."
Next thing you know...ahem.
But hey, different strokes for different folks. I'm just here to feed the masses.
If I were placing a personals ad right now, the above subject would be my headline. "SWA" is code - code for "Single White Aspirin". I don't seem to have any in my house right now, although I am also borderline brain dead. At what point in the night last night did I decide it would be good to do a shot of Stoli O, a Lemon Drop, and a shot of chilled vodka? Oh right, sometime between glass 4 and 5 of Riesling. At least the drinks were free (part of my benefits package, I like to think). I am also trying hard to remember if I kissed my friend Grant. I don't think I did, but I'm sure I will find out when we go out again tomorrow night. Gotta love surprises.
Quick: anyone have a good hangover cure? I am about to sit through 8+ hours of training and I need a pick-me-up. I'll probably resort to the usual - a 24 oz. bottle of real Coca-Cola (not Diet, not C2) and a sausage, egg, and cheese from McDonald's. Okay, so maybe it'll induce a coronary, but it tastes so good. Especially the "real" Coke. That usually does the trick. Well, and usually an aspirin, which I unfortunately am out of right now.
In honor of...well, nothing, check out this link. My co-worker and I spent a good two days laughing about it.
Otherwise, I am in meetings all day today,with a work event tonight, and training all day tomorrow for some new application that I don't think I'll ever even use. Not that you care, but I do. If I can type tonight, I'll post.
I haven't done a "don't date this person" post in a while, so here's one for you:
Don't date guys who have no guy friends. Conversely, don't date girls who have no girl friends. Why? Well, it's weird.
Who was I talking to the other day that was telling me that they preferred to be friends with guys only because girls are petty and shallow? I can't remember who this girl was, but I do remember that she had major issues. There is always reason to speculate if someone can't handle building and developing friendships with members of the same sex. I usually find that girls in this situation are the kinds of girls who are really competitive with other girls over men and must have male attention constantly. They threaten any potential for female friendships because...well, they're slutty. And they'll steal your boyfriend. And no one wants to befriend a girl who's f*cking their boyfriend.
Same deal with guys. Well, actually, no - the only similarity between the two sexes in this scenario is that it's weird. I find that guys who have no male friends are...often batting for the other team, or at least hovering by the water cooler as a double agent. Shit, my metaphors are confusing me. But you know what I mean. And if, by Jesus, this is not the case, then usually, it's because the guys are extraordinarily effeminate and hypersensitive. I don't know about other girls (different strokes for different folks!), but I don't want a potential or existing boyfriend crying because Fantasia won "American Idol", or because Oprah gave a blind deaf mute with no arms and no legs a cruise vacation to Turks and Caicos to hang with Diddy.
On the flip side, guys who have no girl friends - well, that's also weird. Again, same with girls. I'd like to think we've long since passed third grade, when the peak of male-female interaction involved throwing spitballs in someone's hair, or playing "Seven Minutes in Heaven" at someone's birthday party. Admittedly a good game, though. To me, guys who have no girl friends says, "I am someone who can't possibly cross the gender gap to relate to a chick." It also tells me that the guy probably objectifies women and just sees boobs (or lack thereof for some girls) when he looks at them. And yes, it's totally okay to look at boobs, as long as you make eye contact every now and then, and talk about something other than how big you are.
Of course there are exceptions to this, but not really. There really aren't exceptions. I think that if you are dating or are thinking of dating someone who doesn't have any friends of the opposite sex, or has no friends of the same sex, and you really think it has no bearing on that person or your relationship, that you should sit back and enjoy the breeze that is coming from the big red flag that is waving in front of your face. Because it will probably become a problem eventually.
Imagine my surprise when I noticed that I was linked to a blog that I have been reading pretty frequently. The very kind Sara at _words has linked me. I don't know her, but I like her. (Actually, I know her through a friend of my friend Kate, small world.) Why do I like her? Well, we seem to have hatched from the same egg. She likes hot hockey boys who don't know her name, and she is very anti love-blog (for more on that, read her site). I also like hockey players who clearly don't know me, and for Christ's sake, if anything, this is the anti-love blog. Coincidence? I think not.
So thanks much for the link - I have added her to the sidebar, because her blog merits permanent linkage.
I've always heard a lot of complaints from guys about girls traveling in groups. "Why do you always travel in herds? It makes girls so hard to approach when they're with like, 5 of their closest girlfriends."
Seriously?
I have noticed, especially recently, how many guys I see out in herds. Droves. Packs, if you will. Is this a new trend? Have guys always gone out in groups of 10? Or does every group of friends coincidentally have a bachelor's party or a birthday to celebrate every single weekend?
Last weekend, we were hanging out with a group of at least 6 guys. Now, they approached us, which is great, because once approached, we now have fantastic odds, and barring unforeseen skanks, our pick of the litter so to speak. (I can't believe I just likened men to kittens, but whatever, it fit.) But when 6 dudes just hang out and play pool, either they'd best be expecting a nice, boring night with their friends, or they're going to be sorely disappointed. I don't know how many girls would respond to, much less approach, a guy who is out with a huge group of male friends. It's definitely weird, especially if the guy goal is to pick someone up.
I've heard so many complaints about girls being unapproachable by virtue of traveling in herds, but guys, don't you think this cuts both ways? Why do you feel the need to have 10 of your buddies back you up at a bar? Is the purpose of going out with a bunch of guys to establish some home base you can go back to in the event that you strike out? Explanations would be helpful.
You said it, not me. Our little weekly poll has closed today, and the winner - by a hair (pun intended) - is brunettes. They have defeated blondes, redheads, and all of the liars that said hair color didn't matter. (Just kidding, there is a point to be made with that, which I will make in a moment.)
This is probably the most interesting poll I've posted to date, if only because the results were so surprising. I would have (mistakenly) assumed that blondes are the winners, because from my one-sided, subjective point of view, I see far more flaxen-haired people running game than brown-haired people. Purely subjective, of course. Although now that I have grey hairs and have to hit the bottle anyway, I guess if blondes won, for me it'd just be a matter of changing hair colors, right? (Wrong, I think I would be a very ugly looking blonde.)
Redheads - congratulations. Two people voted for you in this poll, and I think that's pretty impressive. Not that I have anything against redheads, but I sort of figured that the color in general would lag behind brown and blonde because redheads are a minority. And an acquired taste, I believe. I do know that one of the people who voted for this category is a friend of mine who's currently dating a red-headed guy and wanted to support him, but her vote still counts. This is a democracy.
And for those of you who said it didn't matter - there is a point to be made. There are other features that are far more important than hair color, and from the little knowledge I've acquired in my lifetime, I know that confidence is key, and usually the #1 impetus for inspiring attraction. This is why you will always see the cockiest guy in the bar working the room - girls love a guy who knows what he wants. Guys love a girl who isn't self-conscious. Makes sense, right?
But I am just so glad that brunettes won out in this poll. Sorry, had to gloat.
In lieu of posting anything meaningful today, I stole this little quiz from Tim, who stole it from his friend. The usual rules apply here. Don't care? Don't read it. But I feel like I'm letting people down if I don't keep things fresh, so...
Three Things
3 names you go by: K, KK, Kare
3 screen names you have: kadler4, one undisclosed, and no third
3 things you like about yourself: creativity, sense of humor, and chest size
3 things you dislike about yourself: the fact that I wear my heart on my sleeve, my short attention span, self-involvedness
3 parts of your heritage: Iraqi, German, Israeli (talk about conflict)
3 things that scare you: big city sewer rats, firecrotch, being tortured
3 of your everyday essentials: iPod, cell phone, and Honeycomb cereal for breakfast
3 things you're wearing right now: sadly and truthfully, my dad's long-sleeved t-shirt, Mike's flannel pajama pants with horses on them that I borrowed last summer for volleyball, socks
3 of your favorite bands/artists (subject to change at any time): I don't know, check the iPod lists
3 of your favorite songs at present: This Is The Last Time - Keane, Extraordinary - Liz Phair, Dare You To Move - Switchfoot
3 new things you want to try in the next 12 months: skydiving, much-needed cooking lessons, Pilates (but not the classes, the one with the actual creepy machine that stretches your limbs)
3 things you want in a relationship (love is a given): loyalty, commitment, sexual chemistry
2 truths and a lie (no particular order to keep you guessing): I am left handed; I do not like more than one boy at once; tomatoes are my favorite food
3 physical things about a love interest that appeal to me: blue eyes, strong arms, cute smile
3 things you just can't do: not a gentleman, someone who's in the midst of some sort of identity crisis (no more of those, there have been too many to count), long-distance (with few exceptions)
3 of your favorite hobbies: reading shitty rags like "In Touch", rollerblading on lake in the summer, downloading new music
3 things you want to do really badly right now: Wear a tank top without freezing my ass off, go see a movie at the theater, magically be able to do my laundry without leaving my apartment
3 careers you're considering: a "Triple-Threat" like Lindsay Lohan (singing, dancing, acting); television programming director; tv/film casting director
3 places you want to go on vacation: Turks and Caicos, Buenos Aires, South Africa
3 kids names (either boy or girl): I have always liked the name Benjamin for a boy and Hannah for a girl. I also think Gonorrhea would be a pretty name if it weren't a venereal disease.
3 things you want to do before you die: get an award in my chosen career field, visit at least one location on every continent except for Antarctica (too cold), and have a family (a legitimate one at that)
At Tilli's, shortly before seeing Mobster boyfriends for the first time.
All I have to say is "Yeow"!
It's just after 3 pm and I just got home. No, I didn't just come to from the roofies - I was out until 5 and had a big sleepover with some people at Sandy's.
Before I begin, can I emphasize how much fun it is to go out with San? I think that she wins my "most fun" award. We are different in a lot of ways, but we do enjoy a shared love of soup and messing with people's heads, and that is really the glue to the friendship. Some guy last night compared us to Starsky and Hutch, and when we heard it, we immediately got into an argument about who would be Starsky, because he was clearly the uglier and worst dressed of the two. San is such a good friend that she offered to be Starsky. Gotta love that. I'm pretty sure that most things that happen to us when we go out are not funny to other people, but if that's the case, then I have never been more amused by my antics with a friend as I am with ours. Because funny shit happens to us - all the time. Or do we make funny shit happen? I'm not sure.
Can I retract an earlier statement? When John Sam mentioned that meeting people at bars was a good idea, he was absolutely right. I was en fuego last night with the boys at the bar ("en fuego" = on fire, for those of you who took Latin as a foreign language, dorks). I scored two dates in the span of three hours. Yeow.
Sandy and I went out for a long-overdue night of good times. We had some dinner at Tilli's, and on the way out, spotted some extraordinarily good looking guys, but we had to leave at that point to celebrate the 25th birthday of Tim. It was at Tim's house that, in my ever-growing stupor, I thought it funny to steal a tube of his toothpaste and floss and try to sell it to people at the bar for 25 cents a squirt, or $1.00 a string. (Sandy, marketing queen extraordinaire, came up with the clever pitch of walking up to people and saying, "Hey, you've got some shit in your teeth." I know, brilliant, right?) Sadly, we didn't make any money, because we kind of forgot about it until some hot guy in passing asked me if I had a lighter and I reached into my pocket and pulled out Crest Whitening. I felt pretty cool. Sandy laughed. The guy laughed. Good fun.
From there, we had to meet others at Kincade's, so we headed there and I met Guy #1, whose name I cannot remember for the life of me, yet I can manage to remember that he is a very cute tax attorney, which I didn't think existed. Overall USA score probably 7.6. Yeow!
From there it only got worse. We went to a late night bar and ran into the very same extraordinarily good looking guys from earlier in the night - must have been fate. Turns out that these guys were with a hot hockey player I knew at Miami who I had a crush on for about two weeks my senior year when I was going through a hockey phase. (Hot hockey player was there, and when I told him that I knew him, he very kindly said, "Oh yeah, well, I guess it's possible." What a dick. I don't like guys with dentures anyway.) This all coming from the guy that used to ask me how to check Hotmail in the computer lab. Hindsight is 20/20.
At least Hockey's friends were great. Sandy's boyfriend, Andy ("Sandy and Andy" - mildly nauseating), was more or less in love with her and kept asking me how to "woo" her the entire night. My boyfriend, Michael (this makes three - hey Jesus, why couldn't you throw down a Joe or a Brad or something???), was incredibly hot, dressed nicely, spoke Italian, told me I was hot every 5 minutes, and, in my esteem, is a suspected member of the Italian mafia. Yes, I think he is in the Mob. Not because he's Italian - I'm not a racist by any means, but I did get some weird vibes from him, particularly when he mentioned living in Lake Forest and stated he was "currently not doing too much, just having good times and hoping to open an Italian restaurant with his cousin". And then he proceeded to buy countless rounds of shots. Where is all of his disposable income coming from? I kind of hope that he's in the Mob because then I can say I was a mobster's girl. I must say it would add to my already-interesting love life experience.
Anyway, it was decided at some point that Sandy, Andy, Michael, and myself would be double dating in two weekends, which I must say, I am pretty excited about. I actually kind of like this guy, or at least what I know of him. I must like him, especially because I turned down a 3:42 am phone call from Dr. because I was still drinking at the bar with Mobby. I think I'll like him even more if he's a mobster. That would be very cool. Okay maybe it would scare me a little, but there is something undeniably sexy about a guy who illegally packs heat. Sandy told me this morning that she thought it'd be funny if I dated Mobby and got into a fight with him, and then someone asked where I was, and she pointed outside her apartment and said "See? That's her head, bobbing down the river". Sick, sick humor, but humorous nonetheless.
From there, the night snowballed into debauchery and more good times, and before you know it, Sandy and I were by ourselves at Tempo Cafe this afternoon eating French Dip sandwiches and trying to overcome massive hangovers. Last night was awesome.
So the moral of the story is this: earlier statement about meeting guys at bars retracted for the time being. At least until this guy asks me to "get out my f*cking shinebox". ($1 goes to the first person who can name this movie reference.)
Also, pretty sure that at one point I mentioned that I like to blog so that it prevents me from making an ass out of myself and prank phone calling people or punching them in the face. (See November archives.)
This is not true.
What prevents - or should prevent me - from not pranking people, is not drinking until 5:30 am, not going to bed late, and not waking up at noon, still drunk. Because when this happens, I have some very, very bad ideas that, more often than not, are executed.
Earlier today there was correspondence exchanged with multiple people in which, after some disguised text messages and phone calls, I identified myself as "69 tap". I also identified myself as "Jillian's pool table". I then proceeded to tell people that I was calling from an undisclosed location in a bunker.
I just wanted to publicly explain, as I know that some of the aforementioned people might be reading, that I cannot be held liable for my actions, as I was still under the weather and not completely coherent. I also thought it would be fun to claim that I was hiding in a bunker because really, who ever says that. And I am not apologizing, because pranking people is fun. I think everyone out there should indulge in a little harmless pranking every once in a while - let them know you care.
But as a result of my actions, I will be laying low for at least approximately two months, because I managed to sufficiently screw things up to where there needs to be a long road to recovery.
Remember these hilarious losers from "Best in Show"? They met at two Starbucks located across the street from one another.
I went out to lunch today with a friend/client, Jules. Trying to get off the topic of work, we started talking about how her friend met some guy through Friendster and now they are going on a date. I guess the girl saw the guy's profile on the site, started emailing him, and as I speak they're probably putting perfume/cologne on their pulse points or unmentionables in the hopes of getting some action and getting ready for an awkward two-hour dinner before they finally decide to drink a little to loosen up and end up making out in the back of a cab where some driver from Nepal is talking to his girlfriend on his cell phone.
Now, I have to hand it to this girl. She has balls. I don't think I could ever be that aggressive. I'd much rather have the guy approach me, and to be honest, I usually have that happen often enough to where I don't have to take the initiative. (Part of this is pride, but the other part is admittedly laziness.) But maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to ask a guy out.
So Jules and I are talking, and we're like, "Hmm....where could we meet quality people if we wanted to ask them out?" We were both a little skeptical of online dating, so that's ruled out. Bars are kind of tough, because most people are out for a no-strings-attached hookup, so that's probably not the best idea. Plus, throw the drunk factor in there, and that's just a big mess. Through friends seems like a plan, but if things don't work out that always threatens to put your friendship with the mutual friend in jeopardy. The gym is a viable option, but is anyone thinking about meeting people while they're wheezing on the treadmill? And finally, there's Starbucks. Starbucks, or your good old coffee joint. But I don't think that any male I've ever gone out with, much less any male friend I have, goes to Starbucks. And if they even go, it's probably to run in and get something to drink. No one actually goes to meet people. It's usually just a crowd of people engrossed in their laptops, or pretending to read "War and Peace" so you'll think they're f*cking literate geniuses. So where is a good place to meet quality people?
Also, the problem for girls is that if you're sort of old-fashioned, like I am, you assume that no guy ever wants to be approached by a girl. I figure that if he likes me enough, he'll probably grow a sac and do something about it. But is this true? Is it acceptable, or even preferred, to let girls call the shots?
If so, then I'm headed to Starbucks tomorrow morning to try and catch myself an Adam Brody lookalike.
Okay, I admit - I have not felt like going out lately. Maybe it's the -5 degree wind chill, or maybe it's just that I'm tired of going to 25th birthday parties. (Why does everyone I know have a birthday this month?) I still don't feel good, and I already have confirmed plans to go out on Saturday and Sunday, so barring unforeseen circumstances, I am staying in tonight.
As luck would have it, someone very near and dear to me loved me enough to buy me "The O.C.: First Season" on DVD, and it arrived from Amazon today, so shortly after I finish posting, I will be committed to the 27 hourlong episodes. Obviously I can't watch them all in one night, but I set a deadline for myself to get through them by the end of this very nice, very long weekend. (Hearty thanks to my employer for giving us the day off on Monday.)
I didn't start watching "The O.C." until about three weeks ago, when I finally had a free Thursday night to watch, but now - well, I'm addicted. I know this makes me pathetic, nostalgic, and/or a loser, take your pick. But it's just so scandalous and...well, dramatic. That Adam Brody is one hot motherf*cker. Slightly dorky, but hot. He knocked out Chris O'Donnell - The Three Musketeers (1993) to barely cut my Top 5 All-Time Celebrity Crush list:
1. Luke Perry - Beverly Hills 90210 (1992)
2. Joey McIntyre - NKOTB (1989)
3. Christian Slater - Kuffs (1992)
4. Kirk Cameron - Growing Pains (1987)
5. Adam Brody - The O.C. (2005)
So my point is...um, I don't think I have one. Other than that to publicly state that Adam Brody is really hot.
My body is, inexplicably, in so much pain today that I have no idea what to do with myself. Everything aches - my head, my bones, my ears - this is bad. It is causing the following problems:
decreased productivity at work
short attention-span
zero creativity
zero ability to articulate/communicate with clients
no patience whatsoever
In the meantime, I am posting a link to a clever little ad from my peeps overseas for the new McDonald's shawarma, courtesy of my friend Tim. They are a little behind the times, but don't knock the peeps. They're trying.
There are many things in this world that I am good at, but remembering to get the mail every day is not one of them. When I came home from happy hour tonight, I found a pile of mail inside with a handwritten note from the mailman that simply says, "Clean your box."
Okay, here's the deal. Over the past couple of weeks, various friends have requested that I address phone etiquette, so last week I posted a poll on this site to gauge what you thought proper etiquette was in terms of returning a phone call if you are on the receiving end of an initial contact, or when to expect a call back, if you are on the initiating side of contact and want know whether someone's into you or not.
Judging by the poll, half (that would also be known as 50%) of you agreed with my initial call, which was that if someone calls you on Wednesday night, you should return the call by Friday if you are interested. Conversely, if you call someone on Wednesday night and do not receive a phone call by Friday, either move on or prepare to spend some more time with Fingula and Awristula because chances are, this person is not into you.
If we were to convert time into a unit of mathematical measure, this means that a person should return a phone call within roughly a day and a half to two days from when the initial phone call was placed. For our more challenged readers, I have made the following helpful cheat sheet:
If the call is made on [first day listed] , interested response should be by [second day listed]:
Sunday, Tuesday night
Monday, Wednesday night
Tuesday, Thursday night
Wednesday, Saturday night* Thursday, Sunday night*
Friday, Monday night
Saturday, Monday night
*Weekend phone calls have extra allotted time, as they are generally the most socially busy time of the week and include allowance for out-of-town travel, excessive drinking/long-term recovery from excessive drinking, or weekend guests.
This is a general rule - exceptions are always a given. Think of exceptions as the same types of things that would excuse you from school back in the day - illness, death in the family, having Cingular service, pants-wetting, or, in this newfangled age of technology, lost cell phones/lost your number. (But be very cautious when analyzing the lost cell phone excuse, as people can and will use this excuse to trip you up and mess with you, or because they are wimpy. Best to wait it out a little longer and give them another shot before making a call on someone who uses the "lost cell phone/number" excuse.)
Also, please note drunk dials/booty calls do not apply to this schematic for a number of reasons:
a) Drunk calls are at the receiver's discretion. The receiver is never obligated to return a booty call, even if they are interested, because you were a dumb f*cker and couldn't even call the person sober, and shitty behavior begets shitty behavior (this does not apply to platonic drunk-dials, as the motive is generally free of sexual desire);
b) Booty calls are generally made between the hours of 1-5 am CST (hey, I live in Illinois, so I'm applying this to me), which would throw off the entire schematic, since the initial call would be considered early-morning hours;
c) Booty calls have a lower return in response rate because it is difficult to ascertain whether to take them seriously, whether they want you to call them back after the booty call time period, and they also depend on whether or not you are currently hooking up at that time and are not physically able to take their call (if this is the case, props to you, dirty bird)
Everyone warned me that when I entered my mid-twenties all sorts of funny shit was going to start happening to me, especially physically.
So far, I haven't encountered anything out of the ordinary - nothing on my body has dropped just yet, and I've been feeling pretty good...until today. Today I discovered not one, but multiple grey hairs on my head. And by multiple, I mean between 5-10. And I'm freaking out.
My first instinct was to pull those little f*ckers out, but that old myth/truth says that more will grow in its place, plus I don't want to get into the habit of pulling my hair and end up with clumps on my head later on in life from that weird hair-pulling syndrome I've heard of. My other option is just to color my hair periodically, which is fine. I've done it in the past because I wanted to, but now that I have to - well, that almost brings a tear to my eye.
I am an Instant Messenger user, and I've had the same screenname since college, so occasionally, I will get random IMs from people I haven't heard from in a long time. Today was one of those days - a really old, old friend who I haven't talked to in a long time, and haven't seen since high school, sent me a message. Always down to talk to old friends, I IM'd back and we conversed for a while.
Then, he made a jokingly dirty comment, and I made a joke rebuttal about his manhood being less than standard. And the next thing I know, he offered to show "it" to me live. Now, I am a pretty tech-saavy person, but I seriously didn't see how this little joke offer was possible...until we "directly connected" and the next thing I knew, his face was on my screen. Apparently, if you have cameras and microphones, anything is possible these days. Unfortunately for him, I have neither the equipment nor the crazy sense to do anything like this, so it was really a one-man show (pun intended).
Now, I thought he was kidding. He is a notorious jokester. In fact, I didn't think it was possible for him to be serious. But then he made the offer to drop trou again and I realized, I am in over my head here. I thought it was a joke. That's just um...a little too much for me to handle. And by "too much for me to handle", I mean that it borders on icky and weird. So I told him no, thanked him for the offer (as a lady would), and told him to fold his laundry because I could see that in the background, there was a pile of unfolded and it was just sitting on top of the washing machine, and signed off. Sorry buddy, it is good talking to you, but I don't think I can handle the manhood.
Drunk dial post #57 - last night, Ex Matt (alias: DDX) called. This is not out of the ordinary, as he will usually turn up to touch base every couple of months. It is so great talking to him, even though we were interrupted by call waitings from the Dr. (who thought it was fun to call me and hang up on me once I would click over - v. mature). Anyway, personality-wise, Matt and I could not be more alike. I used to joke that we hatched from the same egg, as we have exactly the same sense of humor, and are both pretty social and notoriously flirtatious. Beyond the basics, though, we couldn't be any more different.
I have to share the story of how we met, if only because it makes me laugh every time I think about it. Matt and I met, rather appropriately, on a 3 am trip to Burger King my senior year of college, through a mutual friend. Both of us a little wonky on alcohol, he jokingly proposed to me, and caused my knees to go so weak that I ended up leaving my purse at the restaurant and having to go back and get it. As luck would have it, I saw him at a bar the very next night (weird how that happens), and the rest was history. After I moved to Chicago, he made plans to move here...until some uh, legal troubles prevented him from doing so. Those same troubles led to the demise of the relationship, but we stayed in touch every so often, hence last night's dial. It was great talking to him, as it always is. He is a one-of-a-kind guy - and the only guy I know that thinks that playing tennis with a beer in one hand, your racket in another, and a cigarette dangling out of your mouth is customary.
Weird that we are able to be cool with everything despite how different we really are. We have had completely different upbringings, and lives. I can say that he's one of those rare people who really opened my eyes to a lot of stuff I hadn't ever seen before, which is a good thing. But I think the same shit that attracted us to one another in the first place inevitably killed the relationship, too. (Well, that and a lot of other things.)
Anyway, it was good to catch up with him...and in case he remembers the address and does end up reading this, I just wanted to give him a shoutout, which was sort of the purpose of this post.
I may outgrow a lot of things, but I don't think I will ever outgrow loving the drunk dial. Even when I am in deep slumber, if it's someone good, I can't resist picking up the phone to answer.
...another one opens. Jude Law may be engaged, but some pretty reliable sources (my mom, and AOL news) announced that Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston have officially separated. I have never been much of an Aniston fan, especially since she made that awful movie where she tries to impress Kevin Bacon by pretending she's engaged. Horrible. Anyway, I'm not ready to settle down, except I think I really could settle down should circumstances involve Brad Pitt.
As predicted, Ghostbar did suck as badly as I had expected. Interestingly enough, it was an older crowd...particularly on the dance floor, where about ten forty year olds were wearing these glowing pins and doing a dance that looked strangely like the Hava Nagila. For a moment, I was convinced that I had accidentally walked in on the Greenbaum bar mitzvah or something. I was embarrassed for them, really. Thankfully, we went to two "more normal" bars after that, which salvaged the night. I got home at 4 in a pretty interesting state...I have no idea how I'm up right now.
At Ghostbar, though, after a couple of drinks, I proceeded to have a "dance off" with some guy wearing Armani Exchange Outlet head to toe and a cell phone on a belt clip (note: cell phones worn on belt clips are a dealbreaker for any guy whatsoever - even if he's a doctor). We had about fifteen people crowded around us when he tried to outdo me by spinning around on the ground on his back, breakdance style, and the bouncers threw him off the dance floor for endangering other patrons. I won!
Surprisingly, I only ran into one guy I've ever hooked up with in college, Rob (popular name, I guess), and another guy I went to some fraternity formal with, Jon. Neither one of them looked very good, which was bad for them and good for me. I also apparently insisted that Dr. Rob meet me at an old hangout we used to go to, but then I left the bar by the time he called me to say he was on his way. If memory serves me right, I was bitched out over the phone and promptly hung up. Whoops.
And this morning, I turned on my iTunes to discover that I have downloaded three different versions of Tesla "Love Song". Now, why I felt compelled to download three different versions, I'm not sure, but the song was playing at the bar last night and I made a mental note to myself to download it, because it's one of those songs that falls squarely into the "Songs That Should Suck But Don't" Category. At least I'm downloading songs instead of calling people, though. In the long run though, better to be a drunk downloader than a drunk dialer.
So I just locked in some plans to head to Ghostbar tonight. I haven't really been to a "scene" bar in a long time - I usually stick to good old-fashioned watering holes featuring boys that wear oxfords and cargo khakis - but seeing as this is for my co-worker's birthday party and I am a good friend, I guess I can suck up a night of being surrounded by Guidos, neon-colored drinks, and Chingy remixes. At least it gives me a chance to wear one of the cute dresses I bought a few weeks ago.
Theory time. The Universal Scale of Attractiveness (USA) was developed by yours truly while pursuing undergraduate studies about three years ago. It was created during a conversation with a friend who, at the time, was convinced that her crush was super hot. I brought her back down to reality with the aforementioned theory.
USA is not yet endorsed or approved by any substantial association, but I have the feeling that once I leak this info, it will spread like wildfire, and next thing you know, Oprah will be discussing Stedman's USA ranking with Dr. Phil.
The Universal Scale of Attractiveness is an "objective" scale on which every human being's physical attractiveness can be ranked. There are many different forms of the Scale - physical, intellectual, financial, and overall, but the most common use to date is the physical. These scales can be combined, and numbers can be crunched to achieve averages for each one of the elements, but generally, we use it to evaluate how hot someone is.
How do you rank people? Well, basically, let's start with the principle that a 10.0 on the overall scale pretty much does not exist. It's nearly impossible to find a 10.0 (everything is measured in a whole number by tenths - for the math challenged, it means a whole-number-point-something). I mean, this isn't f*cking Mary Lou Retton on a balance beam here, it's a scale of people. A ten is like, flawless. I think only two or three tens exist in the world today. And so far I have never encountered any of them. Brad Pitt, who most women consider to be one of the most attractive men in Hollywood, is still only a 9.7, which should say something. Conversely, a 1.0 (or less) is easier to come by, but still rare. The best way to describe a 1.0 was on a t-shirt I saw on Tshirthell.com. Forgive the crassness, but a one is someone you "wouldn't even f*ck for practice". Also, just so you know, rankings are pretty static, meaning that they rarely fluctuate. Certain things obviously give to fluctuation, like plastic surgery, or a good haircut, but really, it doesn't usually change anything dramatically.
Why would we use this? Well, for one, it explains lots of things. It explains why someone doesn't call you back (out of your personal Scale range, usually). It's also quite good at putting things in perspective (getting over your friends, who give your ex a 6.1, isn't that hard). It's also great for comparing (would you rather be with the 5.4, or the 7.7?) The scale is really a byproduct of the Ladder Theory, or so I like to think. Your goal, as a dating human being, is to continuously date, and possibly end up with, a person who ranks as high as possible on the scale. It's a fine balance between not lowballing yourself, yet keeping your expectations reasonable (i.e. if you, yourself, are a 4.5, you're really not going to do any better than a 6, and even a 6 will probably cheat on you or kick you around, because they probably know they're superior). If you really feel that you'll never top out any higher, MARRY THEM. Lock 'em in is what I say.
Personally, I have topped out at an 8.0 on the scale, but only once, about two years ago, and sadly, no one has come very close since. And I didn't date the guy, per se, it was more of a long-term fling. Getting over that, when it blew up, was pretty tough. The guy is now a friend, but irrespective of relationship status, he will always be an 8.0. Chris, one of my best friends who I openly acknowledge being in love with, is somewhere in the upper eights. It is just too bad that he is GUD (geographically undesirable, read: Cincinnati), or else we would be together and then I would easily top out my scale. Someday, maybe.
Angelina Jolie falls somewhere in the nines. Danny DeVito is a 2.9 (but he just barely breaks 3 on the overall scale, because he is rich and sort of funny). George W. Bush is a 6.4. My friend Kyle is squarely around 7, but his score increases a lot on the overall scale, because his personality enhances his attractiveness, and he's quite smart. Media Maguire is a 6.5, redeemable only by his smokin' abs. Jennifer Garner manages a 8.3, give or take. See? It's pretty simple.
If nothing else, the USA celebrates superficiality, and it gives us something to do when grocery shopping, taking the subway, or drinking with friends. It's a nice little theory, no?
Your assignment: keep the Scale in mind for a little bit. I dare you to try to find a 10.0. Report back to me if you ever find them, and if they are male. Shit, give the guy my number.
Holy shit. It just took me forty minutes in a cab to get home (stupid idea). Cabbing home from work is usually 15 minutes. It was more than twice as long tonight because cars were sliding up and down Michigan. Yes, even Michigan - it's that bad. Christ, I should have just bought a pair of f*cking cross country skis and skiied home.
When I was younger, I used to love winter. We would just go down to the basement and lounge on the orange velour couches and watch movies until the snow let up and we could actually leave the house. But this little wonderland was all before I had a job, or had to drive in the winter, or had to walk 15 minutes to the f*cking El to get to work. And now, in my old age, I have become one of those crotchety winter people that believes that it's sort of a worthless season.
Thank heavens I am home. Too bad it's not Thursday, or I could just watch "The O.C." tonight. And any of you lucky bastards who lives in warm weather right now, suck it. I'm jealous.
If you're into some serious reads, scroll to the below. But since I use this blog as a vehicle to vent and/or question, and I sometimes don't care if the readers like it or not, I'm posting some rhetorical questions. Well actually, they're only rhetorical if no one wants to comment on this, and they're real questions if you want to comment.
Why does every girl I know (including myself) open her mouth while applying mascara?
If Hamburger Helper really helped, then why do you have to cook it? Shouldn't it cook itself?
How is it that boys (or girls too maybe, I don't really know) can always sense when you've just gotten over them, so they know the perfect time to reappear and mess with you?
Does anyone really care that Motley Crue is back together for a reunion tour? Everyone I know likes Van Halen way more than they ever liked the Crue.
Since when has VH1 turned into a forum for shitty unknown comedians to comment on pop culture?
If people who can't see are blind, and people who can't hear are deaf, what's the term for people who have no sense of smell?
I know I just got done complaining about how women don't act like ladies and how men don't act like men, but since we've already gone to hell in a handbasket, I figured I would just throw in the following link.
My co-worker's birthday is coming up, and I'm trying to break the mold of a traditional Bath and Body works smelly basket. Instead, I've opted to get her a funny t-shirt and a gift card to Dunkin' Donuts, knowing that she is a faithful daily coffee drinker.
In my web shopping travels, I came across this site...again. It was originally recommended to me by my friend Pat a couple of years ago, and I forgot about it until now. Please note that the politically incorrect t-shirts I have just linked to do not necessarily, in any way, represent my personal endorsements or opinions. They are just funny as hell. (Although I think the general "hell" page is funny, the "worse than hell" section is a little too much for me.)
I know a lot of guys would argue that chivalry died with the women's movement, but that's not true. It happened in a much longer time span than that. And some might argue that chivalry isn't dead, but then why don't I see more guys taking girls out and being nice to them instead of bitching that some slut won't (insert rejected request here).
I was reading people's instant messenger profiles from my buddy list today, and I came across a quote from a girl I used to have a class with in college who I still talk to occasionally. The quote:
"A good friend picks you up when you fall... a best friend laughs her ass off, trips you again, and calls you a slut"
Hmm, something is amiss. The fact that this girl is proud to have her friends call her a skank, and actually values their friendship...frankly, that's disturbing. And in my opinion, it's only contributing to this ever-growing evaporation of "true gentlemen" in our age bracket.
I have always been a big supporter of women's rights to choose whatever they want to do, and to be given opportunities to excel. And no, this doesn't make me a lesbian, and it doesn't even really make me a feminist (in fact, surprisingly, I am more old-fashioned at heart than you might think). It makes me a strong person. But - and here's where it gets tricky - I think that in spite of having the same opportunities and lifestyle choices that men have (which I believe we really do at this point, so mission accomplished) - that men should (gasp) still act like men, and women should still act like ladies. Since when has opportunity been directly correlated to chivalry?
Admittedly, acting "like a lady" is an uphill battle for me sometimes. I'm an ambitious person, I have a trucker's vocabulary, and I've been told that when it comes to certain things, I tend to "think more like a man" (whatever that means). But hey, at least I put asterisks in my more abrasive swear words. Like a f*cking hip lady would.
Guys, chivalry is not dead. I speak on behalf of many lady friends and acquaintances. Acting like a gentleman means that you should pursue girls. Call us, talk to us, take us out. Open the f*cking car doors. Stand on the outside of sidewalks so that should a car hit us, it hits you first. Pay for dinner, at least on occasion. Last time I checked, no girlfriend of mine has ever complained that she felt uncomfortable with a guy doing "guy stuff" - like making her feel safe, or getting a little (note: a little) protective when jealous about another guy. I speak on behalf of many of us when I say that we expect you to be this way. We like you this way.
For me, more masculine = better. I love a guy who watches sports (even if I don't), can chug a good beer, and throw a mean punch -- after he offers me his jacket when I'm cold.
Which brings me to the present - I just don't see/hear about this stuff happening anymore. And it's a sad snowball effect. I think men aren't making the effort because women don't expect them to. And the fewer gentlemen there are, the less women will expect of men. I'm not sure if it will ever turn around, and that's kind of scary.
Well, I am in my usual Monday slump. Anything juicy usually gets posted on a weekend day, since those are the days after it usually happens, and if not a good story at that time, then I usually have time on those days to think of things that I really want to throw out there to you. But pretty much by every Monday, I am slumped over my desk, exhausted after just one day of work and wanting to jump out of my first floor window so that I can call in sick for the next four days. Not that I necessarily dislike my job, but I am generally not really a fan of the work week. I think that we should have three or four day weekends, and if not that, then at least revise the work day for nap time. There is nothing better than a little afternoon siesta (preceded by some action to wear oneself out). God, wouldn't we all be a little happier?
Anyway, at lunch today, after my co-worker and I spent the morning coming up with a dumb nickname for one of our male coworker buddies ("Sprinkles" was the name winner, and let me tell you, we notified the guy, and he is not happy about it), I actually fell asleep with my eyes open. Yes, like a dog. (No comments from the peanut gallery, thanks.) My vision went blurry and everything got sort of glowy for a couple of minutes, until I almost fell into my Hot & Sour soup face-first. Maybe someone slipped me a roofie or something when I left my tea in the conference room this morning. Or maybe I have cataracts, which would be a great excuse for a little medical marijuana.
At any rate, I was pretty productive, which is good. I managed to read my astrology forecast for January, which predicts the following:
Socially and romantically, you certainly will be brimming with sex appeal -- Mars in Sagittarius will give you that! You'll be noticed. Forget about "blending in", as there is little chance that will happen!
Wow. What a load of shit. Oh, but I'm pretty sure I will stand out because my "tan" didn't work out quite as expected over Christmas break. I will stand out as an albino. And I don't see how much sex appeal anyone in Chicago (or the Midwest, for that matter) has in the dead of winter, unless the criteria of sex appeal has since been redefined by turtleneck sweaters, goofy hats, and those horrific Ugg and Mukluk boots that all the little seventeen year old, Paris Hilton-wannabes are sporting (And there are still some in the 20s age bracket that are sporting it. You know who you are, you are on borrowed time with my friendship because of it, and you willbecome persona non grata if you keep wearing these ugly f*ckers). Will someone tell me where the sex appeal is in wearing a short skirt and a f*cking large woodland creature on each leg? I have done many fashion trends thus far in my lifetime - notably, the leg warmers and Jams in the 80s, the Hypercolor shirts, Umbros, and flannel shirts in the 90s, and most recently, the long-sleeved flower child shirts (2002) and the knee-high black leather pointy-toed boots (2001-present) - but this is, as some of my college friends at Wittier Banter would say, a whole bucket of wrong.
?
K. was my freshman year college roommate, and thus is owed a link and a Post-It, if only for that one night in October 1998 when she rescued me from my alcohol-induced spaghetti incident outside of Randy's frat house. Not sure if I ever thanked you for that until now?
I have standards, and those standards do not include strutting down Michigan like an furry hooker.
Okay, time to stop there. I really did just use the phrase "furry hooker". I will put on my best thinking cap (or caps really, considering it's going to drop well below freezing tonight and I'll need the extra metaphorical layer), and post something worthwhile tomorrow. If you're still reading, thanks for making it thus far. You're a real team player.
Sorry if this is a little belated, but before I forget to tell you, my favorite movie of 2004 came out on DVD on December 28th. Even if you haven't seen it, just buy it on DVD. It's one of those rare masterpiece movies that, in the small way in which it is capable, will sort of change your life, or at least have you thinking for a good day or two. It has a little bit of everything - drama, comedy, and romance. Sorry, no guns, though. At least I don't remember any.
The soundtrack, as previously mentioned, is also phenomenal, and has a couple of bands on it that I have listened to since college that are only now receiving proper credit (Remy Zero, Thievery Corporation).
For more info, and fun reads, go to the Garden State blog. This is actually Zach Braff's blog, and he's so cool it's scary. Anyone who signs off with "nobody puts Baby in a corner" (we miss you, Jerry Orbach), and recommends Keane songs is automatically good in my book. ?
For more on Keane, see below iTunes playlist post. They're a great semi-new band that my friend recommended. Good stuff.
I was tempted to leave him a post with a marriage proposal, but figured that was too forward, so I think I'll just have to try and find him the next time I'm in LA (which will be...um, not for a really long time, probably.)
Lord, this is so random...some are new, some are re-discovered, and some are downright embarrassing, but that's the chance you take when you practice journalistic integrity. I must post what is true to the playlist:
Dare You To Move - Switchfoot
Let's Get It Started - Black Eyed Peas
You and I Both - Jason Mraz
My Place - Nelly
Your Eyes Open - Keane
You and Me - J-Kwon
Extraordinary - Liz Phair
True - Ryan Cabrera ?
Chris, how dumb is this song, but it makes me think of our NYE conversation, and um, yes, I totally love you.
Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
My Boo - Usher and Alicia Keys
This is the Last Time - Keane
Such Great Heights - The Postal Service
Destiny - Zero 7
And finally, my personal favorite, TQ's "Westside". Anyone remember this from '98? I was looking something random up on iTunes and downloaded this one again. So good, really quite the anthem of our times.
