Click that link to read all about it. Her husband is probably feeling really good about himself right now.
My favorite part of the article: “…there’s nothing to indicate why the house was attacked. There’s no marijuana growing in the home, for example, West said.”
…
Woah - calm down, West. No one said anything about marijuana…
Defensive much?
In response to a friend’s shocked/appalled/aghast/bewildered reaction to the intense level of inactivity in my dating life, I vowed to liven it it up a bit. Two nights later, a tall Australian entered the scene. He had flown into NY that Thursday for his best mate’s birthday party, and was scheduled to depart on a business trip Saturday morning. His one free night was Friday and he would love to take me to dinner.
I ran through my mental checklist:
6’2” or above: Check.
Sense of humor: Check. (Though dangerously close to the cheesy side, not so near as to dismiss immediately.)
Broad-shouldered, athletic & attractive: Check, Check, & Check.
Easy conversationalist: Check.
Has a real job: Check.
Looks like I was saying yes.
My initial concerns:
1. He appeared to be slightly older than I am generally comfortable with dating. Perhaps he had over-indulged a touch in all that Australian fun-in-the-sun?
2. I was still worried about the cheese factor, due to a couple fleeting moments in conversation - and also due to his shirt, of which I was not particularly fond.
Early afternoon on Friday, he calls to say he has made 8pm dinner reservations, and perhaps we can meet at 7p to walk along the westside a bit first. I say fine. Around 4p, he texts to confirm 7p at his apartment in SoHo. I respond that this should be fine, as I am currently frolicking around the West Village with friends. He replies back that I can come around 6:30 instead, if I would like. I’m not entirely certain what it was about, “frolicking around the West Village with friends” that led him to believe I would want to meet up earlier; regardless, I choose to ignore the text.
I arrive in SoHo around 7:15. (West Village antics may have segued into vegan ice cream bars and margaritas with mylifeissonotironic. Oops.) We thankfully skip the previously planned hour and a half pre-dinner stroll due to my delayed appearance. I mean, it’s a first date. Let’s not kill all conversation topics before we even get to the restaurant.
We walk through SoHo and over to the Flatiron district to Pure Food & Wine. The walk was actually quite lovely and entertaining, and dinner proceeded to be both lively and delicious. I found myself remembering why I like dating. Fun, flirting, White Light Tinis…I really should do this more often.
As he handles the check, I reach to check the time on my BlackBerry. F. Dinner had spanned more than three hours. It was currently pushing midnight. So much for going home to change before meeting up with my friends. (Yes, I had post-date plans. And no, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.)
I assumed we would do the whole hug-goodnight-I-get-in-a-cab-in-front-of-the-restaurant thing, and I’d be with my BFF’s in less than twenty.
This is where things began to unravel. As I’m trying to politely extricate myself from the situation, Aussie has turned his game on, angling to get laid. This is not a stellar combination.
He wants to walk. Curbside, of course, as his grandmother instructed him to do when walking with a lady. Ok, fine. I can saunter through the park with him and hail a taxi on the other side. I message my friends, giving them an ETA of 30 minutes. 30 minutes later, Man-From-Down-Under is still ignoring every semi-cordial attempt of mine to end the date. I’m making a concerted effort to not be rude slash abrupt, but my companion has made the full transition from amusing and charming to annoying and cheesy. I KNEW IT WAS IN THERE.
As our meandering path veers suddenly and suspiciously toward his flat, I am rescued by back to back phone calls from my besties. (Said phone calls may or may not have been precluded by SOS alerts.) Hi! Yes! I’m coming right now, I swear! Sorry! Literally getting in a cab right now!!
“Are you sure you have to go?”
Is he serious?
“Yep! Oh! There’s a cab! HadagreattimethankyoufordinnerBYE!”
His reply?
“Oh man, you’re totally running. I wish you wanted to stay and chase the passion with me.”
CHASE. THE. PASSION.
…
“Yeah, ok. I’m going to chase that cab.”
This is why I don’t date.
Hi, cats.
In honor of my birthday (*cough*narcissism*cough*), I have compiled a Glossi of a few of my favorite moments with the opposite sex.
Because there’s nothing I love more than a whole lot of awkwardness, all in one place.
Click to view Awkward Encounters With the Other Gender on GLOSSI.COM
I get it. It’s so cool to hate Coachella this year.
No, really. I get it. It’s not what it used to be. It’s a pain in the a$$ to get tickets. Expensive tickets. Expensive tickets that not all of your friends were able to get, even after spending an hour in the online waiting room of death during pre-sale, totally f*cking up your standard Coachella group. And half of the ones who did manage to get tickets got them for the second week. F*cking up your standard Coachella group even more.
I, too, was slightly disappointed by the line-up. I f*cking love music, but I don’t go to nearly enough shows where I should be able to say that I’ve seen almost everyone on said line-up live.
And, of course, 90% of the people storming the desert could care less about the music, and are more concerned with parties, attractive strangers, and their ensembles. Hi, welcome to life. Do you hate that, too? (Totally cool, if you do. Just curious.)
The recent newsfeed-clogging, Coachella-bashing article on Bullett covered all of this. Its writer, Luke O Neil (no apostrophe after that O, Luke?) took it even one step further to say that music festivals aren’t for music lovers and basically shouldn’t exist.
Um, who made you king of the music lovers?
As I mentioned above, I f*cking love music. I also love music festivals. Because in addition to music, I love sunshine, happy people, friends and frolicking.
Yes, I will want to stab the oversized/underdressed whore in the Sahara Tent who won’t stop saying the stupidest things I’ve ever heard, in the most annoying voice imaginable, while stepping on my feet, elbowing me in the ribs and spilling her $15 beer all over my carefully planned Coachella outfit. (Yup. I plan my outfits. I forgot to mention that I also love playing dress-up.) But, while I’m staring her down with my most severe look of death, I will be surrounded by some of my best friends in the world, creating unforgettable* memories to an awesome soundtrack. Best friends I never get to see because they decided, at one point in their lives, to move to another country. They’re not going to fly to LA for a one-night concert, but they will trek out to the desert for three days of unabated bliss.
Sure, that awesome soundtrack could be a bit more enlightened. And it’s a bummer that it’s not. But, there are still a few names on there with which I’m unfamiliar, and I’m totally stoked to latch onto a new bestie’s hand and sprint in sheer euphoria across the polo fields for the chance to check out a possible new fave musician, in the most commitment-free of environments.
So yeah. As much as I would love Coachella to be as it once was, and as much as I loathe the masses for always ruining everything…I’m about to drive out to the land of dry heat for an amazing weekend filled with my favorite things.
If you want to sit in a dark room with your headphones, hey - you do you.
*We’ll take plenty of pics, just in case things get a little hazy. You’re welcome, Instagram.
15 seconds of fame is almost too easy to come by nowadays #benandjerrys #freeconeday #sometimesipretendimnotlactoseintolerant
Just clip ‘em in and go!
I guess I’ll be getting my own flowers, then…
“Stuart kissed me today,” I pronounced. Cheeks pinking slightly at the confession. Wide eyes sparkling with unabashed glee.
I was seven. And he had. A sweet little peck on the lips, while we were lined up to head in from recess.
My mother set down her fork, head slightly atilt. My father cleared his throat. Parentally speaking, how were they supposed to react to this news?
Step 1: Ixnay any further sleepovers at Stuart’s house.
Step 2: Enroll their precocious baby girl in some etiquette classes, where she will hopefully learn a thing or two about appropriate dinner conversation.
If they had only known this was to be the peak of my boy-meets-girl prowess, they might have relished the landmark moment a bit.
Most years, I concoct highly elaborate April Fool’s Day tomfoolery, for the sake of my own entertainment. One such year’s tear-stricken phone call to my mother, alerting her of my horrific ankle injury on an abandoned, out-of-reach trail, had my entire family scrambling to figure out how to get an emergency helicopter to my essentially unknown location. (In reality, I was on the beach in Hermosa. My phone may or may not have cut out mid-folly. Forgiveness was hard to come by for a few months.)
This year, I decided to keep it simple. A few clicks of the mouse, and my Facebook status shined as, “In a Relationship”. One of my acquaintances recently made a similar change, her post eliciting a bevy of ‘likes’ and congratulatory comments: “Who is he?!” “I’m SO happy for you!!” “Pictures! Pictures!” “I can’t wait to meet him!!” “Is he coming for Easter?!”
I sat back and awaited the laudatory remarks.
Zero. There were no such responses. Sure, my post received comments and likes…but not a single one of my 1,821 FB friends bought it for a second. One shimmering soul contacted me via text message to find out who I deigned to dine with on a more frequent occasion. He shall be known as my favorite person in the world from this point on.
My sister’s comment that it was, ‘The best April Fool’s joke she’d seen yet,’ got plenty of play. Awesome. The biggest joke of the day was that I somehow managed to wrangle up a steady plus-one.
It is literally more believable that I would be dying on top of a mountain than that I’d actually have a boyfriend.
Good to know. I wonder if Stuart’s still single…
The man-child next to me at Le Pain, breaking things down for his new assistant:
“Andrea is annoying. I’ve given her unrealistic budgets on the projects she wants to work on; so if she says yes, we make a sh*tload of money. If she says no, we don’t have to do it. Because we don’t want to do it.”
…Someone might want to tell Andrea.
The next half hour of conversation covered everything from what to do when everyone ends up blackout at a celebrity-filled after-party: “Drunk girls always try to do business. Take note of that. I don’t want to work with b*tches like that.” - to how to handle “star-f*ckers” in meetings: “She kept staring down at her t*ts, and I was just like, I’m not in the mood today. Get her out of there.”
Charming.
The poor child across the table from a-hole extraordinaire just kept smiling, nodding eagerly and nervously rubbing his legs.
Living. The. Dream.
Everyone has to do their part.
Alternate caption: There, their. It’ll be okay.
Last Saturday, my besties and I stormed the Ace Hotel late night, after an evening of in-house capers with Palm Spring’s Finest. Proper noun. (You don’t want to know.)
As I danced my medium-sized heart out with the most amazing gays you will ever meet, I was rudely interrupted by an overly drunk, underly coherent soul. I attempted congeniality, as someone in our group pronounced Awkward Drunk Guy a friend of a few of our own from LA. This is how that worked out:
ADG: “This is so crazy.”
Me: “What’s so crazy?”
ADG: “This.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
ADG: “It’s just…you know…crazy.”
…
Me: “Ok.”
…
Scintillating.
Luckily, the aforementioned gays are equipped with excellent swoop-and-rescue skills. Let the revelry resume!
Unfortunately, ADG was not at a point in his night to be picking up on not-so-subtle social cues. As my fav fellow frolicker made all attempts to twirl me out of reach, ADG trailed my beat-friendly footsteps around the dance floor, occasionally capturing me in brief moments of conversational nothingness.
All in all, a slightly hilarious scene, which we proceeded to rehash the next day, as we sweat out our hangovers poolside.
…And then one amongst our crew (we shall call him DD for the purposes of this post) proceeded to rehash the whole thing once again upon his return to LA. With ADG. I love full circles. Here’s how that exchange went down:
DD: heyyyyyyyyy
ADG: hey! that was funny
i hope i didnt do anything too embarassing (sic)
DD: you were creeping on that girl
it was a topic of conversation the next day
ADG: i was creeping on everything
DD: ha
why were you there?
ADG: for a wedding
why were YOU there?
DD: friend’s birthday
ADG: oh fun times
i only hit on that girl
b/c everyone else seemed gay
and she talked to me
…
And here I thought it was my good looks and charming personality.
Chalk. Win. Meh.
Westboro Baptist Church gets a “Santa Monica Welcome”
Got an interview in the City of Angels? “Be sure to factor in traffic.” And parking. And over-botoxed soccer moms blocking thru traffic on Robertson. And the out-of-commission light that has turned Highland & Franklin into a completely dysfunctional 8 way stop…
And these things:
1. Kinko’s will lose the print job order containing your resume & NDA. Why are you picking up your resume at Kinko’s? Because printers have apparently gone the way of the home phone. And you don’t live with your parents.
2. Your awesome belt (slash “personality piece”) will suddenly have disappeared. Most likely due to the fact that you recently decided to “put it away somewhere safe & totally easy to relocate”.
3. You will drop your keys in THE GAP. (You should probably get one of these.) You will also hit your funny bone on the wall next to your car, in the midst of your hand & knees rescue mission - oh, and you’ll probably find a snag or two in your tights when the whole thing is said and done. Super awesome.
4. That red lipstick you’ve worn three days a week for the last decade or so? Lightly smudged above and below your mouth. Apparently your skill set does not extend to applying mid-right-turn-on-red.
5. Hollywood Blvd. will still be closed due to the weekend’s Oscars festivities. Seriously? And even though you happen to love nostalgia-rife awards shows, you will find yourself asking…yourself what the Oscars have ever done for you, anyway.
6. Once you finally hit the no-man’s-land section of Burbank, you’ll find yourself at a complete stop. Because they’re filming. And you get a front row seat. As they push carts of nonsense across the street. Again. And again. - Wait - are they done? Maybe? No? Yes? Nope! - And again.
Hi, red light.
7. You will miss your turn, as the addresses seem to be hidden from public visual consumption, and there will be No U-Turn signs at the next three intersections. Conveniently, there will be police present to enforce said restrictions. Said police will like your red lipstick - or feel sorry for you, due to the awkwardly still existent smudges?
Finally, you make it inside the building! The application will ask for your previous residences, reminding you that you used to live in NY, where almost all of these things never would have happened.
Leave interview. Move back to New York.
On me hanging a mirror on the back of my door:
My father: Do you have a level or a tape measure?
Me: I have a tape measure. Fingers crossed!!
My father: I have faith.
Me: Thanks, Daddies!
My father: I meant to put a ‘little’ in there.
…
Get it? Like he has little faith?
…
Jerk.
Is that a bell on your head, or are you just ecstatic to see me?
