I found myself with no job, no car and no boyfriend. I searched for all three. And I found them! Then I lost them. Then I found them again, and a bunch of other stuff happened. So I guess what I wanna know is... Are we there yet?
I think I got tired of posting the same shit wrapped up differently that I stopped posting. Dating sucks. Blah Blah Blah. Work sucks. Blah Blah Blah. And even less interesting, I have a great job and a boyfriend. blah blah blah
I suppose I should have worked harder on making my life different or more interesting, but instead I succumbed to the monotony of shitty dating in LA and eking out a living wage. Which I must say, earning a living wage in LA is no small feat when you are doing the side hustle jobs and your "career" doesn't have a straightforward trajectory like more classic choices. And said "career" doesn't exactly "pay" when you are not "famous." Or it does "pay" but the "pay" is "deferred" until the film/show/short/webseries/whatever makes money, which is usually "never."
Anyway, I digress.
I have been dating, and working a job that doesn't suck. The dating, well, that pretty much has stayed sucky. I have been stood up THREE times this year and ghosted I couldn't even tell you how many times. I am absolutely sick and tired of guys who just don't even seem to try. Uhm, hello??? We matched, we chatted, and then.... *poof*
Or we match and don't even chat before *poof*
I long for the days where a guy actually had to come up with the nerve to call you. At least then they were partially invested and had a small iota of follow through. Maybe it might even culminate in a date!!
Pretty sure this is how old timey phones worked.
ANYWAY I say all this to preface the next post where I will regale you with the tale of crazy-pants Dan* who managed to hide his crazy for nearly 3 full dates before it came out faster than a dick-pic from an online troll and with more 180˚ turnaround than a bought-and-paid-for politician after election.
I have never claimed to be a fashionista, or an advertising maven, or costuming expert. I have my basic uniform of t-shirt and jeans that I wear most days, swapping out for a tank in the hottest days and a button down shirt or plain sweater in the winter. It's pretty basic (but not BASIC, uhm-kayyyy??).
So even though we have now thoroughly established I'm no clothing expert, I am appalled every time the Botox for migraines ads come on TV. The lead gal they cast is *basically* (pun intended) beautiful, and does a reasonable job pretending to walk around migraine-free.
"I need a venti soy half-caff extra hot PSL stat!"
But. Her. Outfit. It is the most unflattering, ugly, horrendously dated frumpy thing I've ever seen. Boxy, blousy, too-big, droopy button down shirt tucked in to frumpy, pleated, too-big, cankle-length khaki pants.
Maybe if I put my hands on my waist you'll know I have one...
They have taken a reasonably attractive woman who likely has a "perfect" body under that mess and made her look like a lumpy dumpy homely frump-meiser. That costumer should be fired! S/he obviously has a grudge against this poor lady who is just trying to make a dollar for herself by doing a really stupid Botox ad.
*just think about the paycheck. smile for the paycheck. moneymoneymoneymoney*
I mean, look at this woman! She more than likely has a body most women would kill for and you can't even see it under all those pleats and poufy clothes. She might not have migraines anymore but she has a headache from looking at herself in the mirror.
I got an email this week from a popular sweatshop-made underwear store (I'd tell you the name but then it wouldn't be a Secret...) telling me I could get new underdraws for the bargain price of 5 for $15! Three bucks a pair? Extending the time between laundry drudgery by five glorious days?
Plus, Vicki usually charges $28 for five pairs of drawers. I am a frugalista at her finest, and saving $13 was enough to make me brave the mall and all the trolls and kids and other horrible excuses for humanity that reside there.
I head straight to the undie store and weave craftily among the women with strollers and toddlers, the ladies clutching their winning scraps of fabric, only to realize that the "deal" underwear was a clever ruse to get me in for their semi-annual sale. And since the sale has been going on for a while all that was left of size medium were the strangest, ugliest chonies you ever saw in your life. And far too many "bride" rhinestone encrusted lacey bits. I even looked through the other sizes to see if somehow some magical set of size medium cute (or even wearable) skivvies were hiding from me. Not a decent foundation garment to be found. F*ck you Vicki, you lying vindictive little con artist. (Bitter Betty, underwear-less party of one)
Since I was at the mall, I figured I should at least stroll around to a couple of the stores and see if anyone had any wayyyy after Christmas sales where a thrifty princess could find some swag. As I swiftly mall-walked I realized if anyone heard the thoughts in my head I could be put away in jail, nay, solitary confinement in jail.
The middle-aged couple stumbling along, managing to take up the entire walkway weaving about, would have been stabbed in the head to be out of my way. The angsty-goth twenty-somethings I mentally shoved into the cement fountain. The darling elderly couple who stopped completely blocking the path between sweaters at the Gap would have been punched in the neck. The women unwrapping the noisiest hard candy in Macy's would have had the mint shoved down their throats and choked to death.
I'm a really nice person. Ask anyone. Super nice. So when I was mentally cursing the designer of the escalators and their insignificant pea-brain for installing them opposite of how I would have I knew it was time to leave.
This is why I rarely go to the mall anymore. This is why online shopping is great. I like being not in jail. And slow, inconsiderate, annoying, f*cktards can still go to the mall in peace.
My Romcom-in-Real-Life Romance was short lived, as Hank* was unable to follow through on his romantic gestures. I was disappointed to say the least, but at least I found out quickly.
Next came Tony*. He was a tall, successful, ruggedly handsome business owner who seemed to think I hung the moon. I was really warming up to him as well, and considering our future options. We had been out a dozen or so times, when Hallow's Eve's Eve gave me a fright! We were hanging out at a bar talking with some people we just met. The election was quickly approaching and out it comes that Tony had already voted absentee/mail in ballot for HitlerVoldemortTrump, a man who scares the bejeezus out of me. A man who has a life-long reputation of being a sexual predator and a scam artist of a businessman. A man who regularly makes racist comments, and (at the time) had two pending trials in the next couple of months for fraud and for the rape of a 13 year old girl.
I told Tony that we needed to just not talk politics (so I could consider what to do with a guy I like who is obviously morally at odds with me). We talked about other things. We left the bar and were headed back home when we passed by a Hollywood iconic hotel and he asked if we could hop out for a drink in the hotel bar. Sure. More drinks sounds like a swell addition to this evening. At the bar, we started talking with the other people bellied up, and lo and behold Tony brings up Trump again! I am pretty drunk, so things get pretty heated. Long story short, I got so mad I got up and left him there! uhmNOthx buh-bye you can keep your selfish reasons for voting for evil.
Next was Johnny*. His online profile pix were dapper and handsome. When we met, his IRL self was moderatly attractive, but I felt no spark at all. On the plus side, we had a blast hanging out! He was hilarious. After 2 beers, I was ready to leave, but he doesn't ask and orders us another round. ...ok... well, I won't be rude, he is sweet, I'll hang out. After beer 3, I say I really must leave, and he very sweetly walks me to my car. I go in to give a polite hug, and he shoves his tongue down my throat. Dude. Johnny. I gave you no indication that I was open to that! Ugh. Next.
Finally I met Tyrone*, a gorgeous tatted up former musician turned real-job-holder. He was funny, smart, not voting for Trump, and seemed to be really my type. We had a first date that turned into practically three dates. Charming, sweet, and seemingly into me. Until he reaveals on date two that he is moving to Phoenix at the end of the month, but if things go well, we can fly back and forth on the weekends to "romp" and if things go really well, maybe more. Well call me flattered, you want to be FWB with me? Ugh. #ByeFelicia
I feel like I'm on an episode of MTV's Next.
But you gotta kiss a bunch of frogs to find your prince, right? Pucker up and kiss it...
All I learned about love came from cheesy 80's movies, where men vie for the attentions of unattainable women, nerds get the hot girl/guy, bad guys get the good girl, and if you pester someone enough they will fall in love with you.
Nerdy (hot) Patrick Dempsey was willing to spend his hard earned cash for a pretend girlfriend.
Lane was willing to nearly kill himself skiing for Monique
Many moons ago I was engaged to a guy who broke things off, then we got back together, then broke things off, then got back together... and so on, and finally I ended things because of my reasons. But I always held out hope that he would come chasing after me and (in the figurative sense) show up outside of my sister's wedding in a porsche 944.
But, heart-crushingly, he did not. Fortunately with time and wisdom I see that it all turned out for the best, but there is that little 80's kid part of me that still wanted to be worth storming a castle.
Well, last fall I dated a guy Hank* for a few months, and he seemed to be quite the catch. Handsome, funny, considerate, loves animals, liked me... and then he couldn't handle being in a relationship at the same time as having a sick and dying dog. So, things fizzled out. I was really sad, but hiked up my big girl panties and moved on.
Well, the beginning of the year marked a Happy New Year text from Hank, and then he proceeded to spend the next few months "liking" my facebook posts and photos, and then it all culminated with a facebook message (not a text, even though surely he still had my number) that he would like to take me out for dinner. When he returns from working in Boston. In four months.
Uhmm... OK? I mean, sure? Not sure what he wanted from dinner. So I waited. And waited. And then finally a phone call asking me to dinner. I agreed, not knowing what he wanted. My best guess was he felt badly about how things ended and wanted to make amends so that we could "be friends." Sure, buddy, whatever. I had said everything I wanted to say when we ended things, but he didn't really, so maybe he was just holding on to that and needed closure. I figure, free dinner is worth letting him feel better about himself. So I go... and really nothing prepared me for what I was met with.
Hank basically fulfilled my every 80's movie fantasy by letting me know he took full responsibility for how things ended and that he wanted to date me again, if I was willing to date him.
holy sh*t
This is basically what dinner looked like:
the movie where I learned the sax is sexy
I was floored, to say the least. And he was leaving the next day for a trip, then back to Boston for work. But he wanted to fly me to Boston for a date. Lawd have mercy. Every 80's fantasy rolled into one. We ended dinner with me needing to collect my thoughts, and him getting on a plane.
What is next for Hank and I? Not sure... but even if it is nothing, my inner 80's kid is glowing, knowing she is worth fighting for.
And I was reminded of this brilliant troller of trolls...
And for a brief moment considered writing back Mister John Fola. But I couldn't decide which tactic to take -
I didn't realize I had helped you before? I must have been in a fugue state and not been aware of what I was doing. I am glad that despite my apparent hypnosis I was able to assist with the funds transfer. I would be glad to accept the small stipend of One million five hundred thousand United States Dollars, but I fear I will not know what to do with it unless I am fugue-ing again. Do you happen to know any good hypnotists?
Or perhaps to say -
I'm sorry to say I seem to have forgotten you. I must have amnesia. Are we friends? Business associates? How did we meet? Why am I trying to help you? How is it that little 'ole me could help such an esteemed person as you? I do want to experience the joy with you after safeness (at least I think I do) but feel a little uncomfortable since I don't remember who you are. Please do not take offense, I do not mean to hurt your feelings by not remembering you, but feel that since you are offering me One Million Five Hundred Thousand United States Dollars I should at least be honest with you.
But ultimately I don't have the same kind of spare time as the guy in the video, and opted to just delete my entire spam folder full of crap.
buh-bye One Million Five Hundred Thousand United States Dollars...
Gay as in happy. Pair-ee as in Paris, with a French accent.
I just returned from Paris, where I spent a week flopped on the futon in my parent's studio apartment. My parents have become quite the jet-set travellers in their old age, and have recently acquired a 1/8-th share in a "quaint" little shithole 300+ year old apartment in the 2nd Arrondissement in the City of Lights. The location couldn't be better, and the apartment couldn't be dumpier. But hey, the price was right! *free*
We tromped all over the city, shopping on the ritziest street and in flea markets, eating at urban hipster hot spots and old world historical landmarks, saw Mona at the Louvre and Barbie (the one that dates Ken) at Les Arts Decoratifs. It was a blast, despite the rain that persisted the whole week.
I forgot my razor at home and embraced my inner French girl. I ate loaves upon loaves of bread and basically an entire government cheese wheel amount of every melty rich mama-animal-teat- producing goodness I could. I drank gallons of wine. And I'm pretty sure my waist is smaller than when I left home.
French women eat. They eat carbs and fat and they drink and they are all thin. They might work out, but you would never know. In the whole city I saw one gym and one yoga studio. In a week of wandering through packed streets I saw two women wearing activewear. French women dress. And French women smoke. eww.
I'd like to be more French - eat rich delicious foods, drink rich delicious wines, dress with purpose each day, maybe even smoke a cigarette or two. Ok, maybe not the smoking (ewww).
this cigarette is so angry!
But food is different in France. There you buy your bread from the boulangerie where it has been freshly baked that day, you buy your cheese from the fromagerie where it has also been made fresh. Your wine comes from grapes raised without pesticides and is monitored by a commission yearly to be kept to a certain standard. Restaurants offer what is fresh and local and in season.
Here in the states we shop at huge conglomerate grocery stores that stock huge conglomerate bread and cheese that comes from some warehouse made by industrial machines and unskilled workers. Our produce is available year round thanks to genetic modifications, pesticides, and other unnatural growing processes.
Clothes are different here. Jeans and t-shirts and yoga pants are all anyone wears. Even the high end stores sell the same casual clothes, just at 10 times the price. Kanye will give you a plain white cotton t-shirt for $120, the Gap will give you the same thing for $12. Lululemon gives you stretchy pants for $100, Target has them for $30.
It didn't used to be like this. My mother's generation hardly ever even wore pants, much less jeans. They set their hair on Sunday night and wore it purposefully styled every day. Even a casual outfit was styled.
Women in New York City come closest to the lost era of style in America and French women, but if you get on the subway you'll still see every assortment of clothing option possible.
As much as I yearn for the days where women dressed I can't say I didn't enjoy going to Target and the grocery store today in my active-wear, with no makeup on and my greasy hair shoved under a baseball cap. Is it possible to have both? Methinks I need another trip to Paris for "research"
