My Advice is Better Than Glamour's.

EM was flipping through Glamour last night and reading some of the listy-article bits that they classify as super important information for EVERY WOMAN! This information included anything and everything sexual that we all learned in middle school health, "diet" tips that common sense should dictate, and all kinds of things "your man" is "thinking" at any given time. I choose to not go into detail about *why* it is ridiculous for a masthead of predominantly female (I'm guessing) editors to deconstruct the complex male psyche. Glamour? Just stop. Let's all accept that men do NOT psychoanalyze why you wore that color shirt, because they are too busy thinking of 1. hot naked broads, 2. any kind of sandwich or red meat, 3. alcohol and getting drunk with their homies, and 4. some kind of hobby that most women don't give a rat's ass about, including but not limited to: sports, cars, what you *just* did in the bathroom, something nerdy with computers and/or something nerdy with tools.

Get ready for the obvious: men and women are different, so you should really stop trying to quantify their behavior in the same terms. If I want to know why an apple tastes like an apple, I'm not going to eat an orange to figure it out.

That doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but I imagine you get where I'm going.

Anyway, since Glamour sucks and really pissed me off with editors selling you bullshit information you ALREADY KNEW, I've decided to give you a list of things that you may not have known and can use at your discretion.

List of Things Glamour Probably Won't Publish:

1. There is a direct correlation between how whiny a man's vehicle is and how whiny he is. You can rev that crotch-rocket next to me in traffic all you want, but I know you're going to end up bitching to me about why you can't eat fried food anymore or how you want to have a "sit down" about "where the relationship is going." Beware, ladies.

2. Sluttiness is relative. Don't get all crazy Samantha Jones on me here, but there is a fine line between being a morally-loose skank face and not remembering if you made out with that guy in college. In short, don't be a skeeze (that goes for you, too, guys) but if you want to go out with that guy whose last name you just can't remember, consider this my blessing.

3. Alcohol may not help your immune system by killing germs, but if you want to get technical, neither do placebos and people get better with placebos all the time. I'm just throwing that out there for the next time you feel like an alcoholic wondering if that 2pm Jack and Coke is really gonna fix your sore throat. The answer is: yes.

4. It is a waste of time for you to feel guilty for the following things: sitting around in your pajamas all day long and then going to sleep in them again, eating anything fried, cheesy or sweet because unless you live on fiber pellets, there are a LOT of things that taste way better than thin feels, spending a lot of money on a bar tab, staying home and doing nothing instead of going out on a Sat. night, buying the $400 shoes with your tax refund instead of using it to pay off your credit card, flirting with the bartender so he'll pour you free drinks, screening calls when you're depressed and in the midst of a spectacular mope that you don't want anyone to interrupt.

5. The older you get, the more okay it is to be shallow. When you're young and naive and idealistic, you can afford to love based on personality (and maybe looks, if you're reeeally shallow) alone. When you get to a certain age, however, material things become a sign of maturity. For example, my rules are that in order to land a date, a man must possess: 1. a car, 2. an apartment or abode that is not his parent's basement, 3. a job, preferably of the legal variety. Tolerance varies with the male and location, (if you're in NY, obviously having a car isn't as important) but those are my stipulations. I don't care if you live in a dirty hovel above an Indian restaurant, drive a rusted bucket of bolts or work at McDonald's, but if you don't have the maturity or fortitude to possess those three things, you will not last long with me and I will eat you alive.

6. Even if you think you're cool (and I do), you are *just* as crazy as every other crazy broad. Don't try to fight nature, ladies. Accept that on some level, you can and WILL be *that girl* who will slash your philandering ex's tires, lie and say that you have chlamydia so that he has to get that painful STD test, slander him on Facebook and boil his rabbit. It's all in us. Everyone is someone's crazy ex. Accept it and learn to deal with it. And men? It's your job to accept that we're all that crazy. Learn to love it, because like your boob-staring-reflex, we cannot change it.

7. HE DOES NOT KNOW WHY YOU'RE MAD. Screw the silent treatment, tell him why he's being a dbag, accept the apology and move on. Do NOT bring it up later because you have MOVED ON.

8. It is entirely unnecessary to send more than one email or text to inquire if someone received your communication. Sending five emails about the same topic in one day and calling my office to ask, "Did you see my email? Did you get my text?" are superfluous. Yes, I saw it. I will answer you when I have time, and you only have to ask me once because I do not have the memory span of a goldfish.

9. 'Please' and 'thank you' still go a long way. So does snail mail. Getting an email will never be as cool as getting a letter.

10. Know when you need to stop dicking around and buckle down, and also know when to chill the fuck out. If you need help, spend some time in New York and then spend some time in California. Then, learn from the people around you and take the best of both worlds.

Glamour usually stops at 10 per list, I think. There you have it. 10 bits of advice that I think everyone should know. Some of it may seem like common sense, but whatever. Take it with a grain of salt, a wedge of lime and a shot of tequila.

Most days I am happily single. Today is not one of those days.

I went to an engagement party this weekend with EM and EM's boyfriend. It was EM's best friend from high school, so I've known her by proxy practically just as long, and she's getting married to her girlfriend this summer and moving to a random southern state to go live as happily ever after as you can in a random southern state. I congratulated EM's friend and her fiancee, who were both so obviously happy, shoveled some heavily frosted cake in my face and washed it all down with Guinness. EM, EM's boyfriend and I then piled back in the car and sat through northbound traffic heading home to LA, all while my hormones tap danced around my lady-parts, making me feel very melancholy.

Sometimes, when you're single and crazy like me, happy couples nauseate and irritate you, despite how fabulous you are (and I am) for no reason other than that they're privy to some echelon of happiness not quite achievable for single people. It's worse when not-single people want to put an end to your singleness because they feel it's their responsibility, as evidenced by an encounter MEH described to me with his friends this weekend.

"I hate it. Even the etymology of it - 'the fix-up' - like we're broken!" I said indignantly to MEH.

"I know!" He indignantly agreed with me. Indignantly.

"I'm not broken," I repeated to My Friend With Great Hair after explaining the story to her, too.

"You're not broken," she agreed.

Then another engaged coworker came into my office, grinning from ear to ear and I irrationally wanted to punch him for no reason other than that he was happy.

Maybe I am broken.

My boss knows I'm hungover and is sympathetic.

This morning in between fighting waves of hangover nausea, choking down cup after cup of green tea and trying desperately to not look like I had pillaged the small Mexican town of Mas Tequila, J.R. emailed me a link to a paparazzi blurb about Rihanna showing up at the restaurant we had visited last night, obviously after we had left. The blurb said that she closed down the restaurant for her own private dinner party, which I feel is pretty unnecessary, considering J.R. and I were there for a few hours and even through happy hour there were at most, 8-10 other people there. Regardless, I felt that for The Average Broad, this was something newsworthy.

"Rihanna showed up at the restaurant that I went to last night!" I texted my fellow celebrity gossip absorbing friend. Even in L.A., some of us still get excited about these things.
"Wow!" she texted back, dutifully sharing my text excitement.
"I KNOW! I was bummed cuz I wanted to stay and drink more and we totally would have seen her, but at the same time I would've been pissed if I had to leave just because she wanted to eat."

I have such a love/hate relationship with the celebrities in L.A. I mostly just love to hate them, but I think I would love them more if I was getting invited to private dinner parties that close down restaurants all over the city. Definitely more of a thrill than ending your night tequila drunk on your couch, eating pudding cups and watching "Volcano" on TV.

Can you *not* sniff me please? Thanks.

I'm lucky enough to work in one of those offices that is open 24 hours a day (no, I don't work at a 7-11, I would surely be fired on my first day for thieving Slurpees and fashion glossies) which sounds horrible, but gives me the opportunity to keep my ungodly hours at 7am to 4 (or 5) pm. Coming in earlier means dealing with fewer people, as most don't stroll in until 9 or 10 and I'm generally able to get a lot of my work done in the wee hours of the morn. Occasionally, however, this means my path will cross with a man leaving his night shift who, (putting it delicately) creeps me the hell out. Perhaps it's because he reminds me of a child molester on CSI, perhaps it's because I've seen him in sweat pants at work, perhaps he's just a nice guy who smiles a lot and I'm just an uberbitch with an overactive imagination who judges people too easily... most likely it's all of the above. Despite my general ::shudder::ing reaction when I'm caught with this man in the elevator, he has only ever been nice and being the product of two unshakably diplomatic parents, I am always polite in return.

Last week after an awkward elevator encounter, Disconcerting Guy followed me into the kitchen when I went to gourmet up some microwave oatmeal and coffee sludge. As it turns out, I am not able to control the universe with my focused brain power, because instead of turning around and leaving me to my breakfast-making, Disconcerting Guy leaned up against the counter and stared.

"Hey," Disconcerting Guy said. "What perfume do you wear?"

::So awkward pause:: "Um. Yves Saint Laurent's Parisienne."

"Oh, yeah!" (I'm sorry, sweatpants wearing Disconcerting Guy, you're familiar with YSL?) "Well, you've left it lingering in the elevator a few times."

"Uh." I said intelligently, clearly recovering from this awkward situation like a seasoned journalist. "Sorry...?"

"No, it's nice. I was just wondering. I'll have to get some for my ::mumble mumble::."

Wife? Ex-wife? Daughter? Person you keep in a secret basement room? I didn't know what else to do, so I squeaked out a tense "Heh. Thanks." and walked out of the kitchen, coffee and oatmeal left behind.

I had thought (re: hoped) that this would be the end of all conversations involving Disconcerting Guy smelling me, but today I was proven wrong again. It amazes me how often I am actually wrong, given that I am from a family where women are always right.

"That's a different one today!" Disconcerting Guy grinned at me outside the elevator.

"Uh. What?"

"What perfume are you wearing?" Oh my God. Please do not lean in like you are about to sniff me.

He did.

"Versace's Versense."

And then I ran (no seriously, RAN) straight to my office and closed the door, shuddering the whole time. I feel like I need a shower. Or a drink. Or more logically, a drink in the shower. Sigh. 7 hours to go.

TAB: Expert Bad Decision Maker.

Sometimes, My Friend With Great Hair comes into my office for little chats that will inevitably turn into long, depressing discussions about our parallel love lives. I usually end up bitching, whining and complaining about TOL and she ends up relating it to her last disaster relationship and by the end of a 5 minute, "Hey! How are you today?" conversation, it's like we're those two old guys at the bar crying in their beers about "the one that got away" - but much less awesome because 1. we are not guys, 2. we don't have beers in front of us, and 3. we are the ones the others were getting away from. (Suck it, grammar)

Yesterday, I mentioned to My Friend With Great Hair that I was considering the possibility of continuing to date eHarmony guy in an effort to get over TOL, and hedged the suggestion that maybe defriending TOL on Facebook (I'm not that connected, mostly...) was a bad life choice because now I just *wonder.* (I defriended TOL some time ago when I saw ambiguous, passive-aggressive status updates that may or may not be related to me and what we once were and it drove me closer to insane than I was before.)

"TAB," Friend With Great Hair said, "I don't think you're ready to Facebook him again. I think he still writes about you, and it won't help you get over him."

This, of course, sent me into girly panic mode like only patent leather heels and new nail polish and Guinness on sale can do. I wanted to know what he had said, and when, and if it was related to the last time I mistakenly texted him. Friend With Great Hair sighed, clearly convinced this would do me no good whatsoever, but she showed me the updates anyway.

From the day he texted me after I deleted his number and I responded with "who is this?" even though I already knew: something about how quickly one forgets or moves on or whatever passive aggressive nonsense he usually writes. Not only does this do me no good, but I can't tell if it *is* good.

"I think he's sad," Friend With Great Hair said because she's also a great friend. "I think he misses you."

This, in turn, made me sad. I caved and texted him. We ran our familiar emotional gamut going from happy to him being a dbag to me being pissed at him, and pissed at myself for caving and texting him. Now I'm irritated AND confused, which are scientifically proven to be excellent drinking conditions.

"You should come out with me," Friend With Great Hair said, implying that I should join her WeHo lesbifriends and have a "therapeutic" lesbian evening, instead of continuing to date eHarmony guy. I explained the situation to MEH at work this morning.

"Don't go crazy bi-chick on me," he bemoaned.

"I can't," I said. "I'm a testosterone junkie. Hey... :: lightbulb moment:: ...maybe that's why I date dbags."

"That's exactly it," MEH said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Isn't it disconcerting that I used to have an advice column?

Beware the D-listers.

Living in L.A. sounds so glamorous, doesn't it? Sometimes, when I tell people I live in Los Angeles (if they're not from or familiar with the city) they think it's red carpets and Brangelina sightings at Coffee Bean every day. On occasion (read: when it involves getting a free drink and/or food thing), I will admit that I perpetuate this delusion. Sometimes it's just better to roll with it than to destroy someone's vision of such a charmed lifestyle. When I was studying abroad in the UK some years ago, The OC was stupid popular and everyone at the pub/club got excited upon hearing that I hailed from this state (nevermind that Orange County is hours away from my former college) and repeatedly asked if I knew anyone famous. To be fair, I was sure karma would kick my ass if I lied, so I would politely inform them that Cali is a huge state and no, Seth didn't live next door to me. Towards the end of my time across the pond, however, I didn't see any karmic benefit to being honest and found myself telling lavish stories about how Marissa and I went to elementary school together and scoring free booze because of it. Dude, things are expensive in the UK and you gotta get creative, savvy?

Anyway, the truth of the matter is that 1. L.A. is 98% D-list actors, 2. you will encounter them and 3. they will act like they are A-list actors and be complete dbags most of the time.

The proof I have to support my bubble-popping statements (sorry, non-Angelenos) is numerous enough that I considered turning it into a book, until I realized no one wants to read a book about dbags. (Get that, Miley?) I draw from a LOT of sources because the only thing anyone here really cares about is who you know, and let me tell you, the people I know have to deal with the D-listers every day. Most recent examples:

1. Today, MEH informed me that he went to cover a club/label party and upon approaching a D-list actor (who may or may not have been on Boston Legal) for 5 minutes of his time and a short quote about the event, D-lister Dbag turned him down and walked away all without making eye contact. Perhaps he needed his manager to help him formulate a thought, which brings me to...

2. Not so recent, but funny nonetheless, during my stint at an L.A.-based magazine, there happened to be an event during L.A. Fashion Week, in which The Average Broad was glamorously stationed as the guest list girl (insert collective groan and facepalm from my fellow low-on-the-totem-pole intern friends) and was stuck dealing with a D-lister who, I kid you not, introduced himself to everyone as "SoandSo, from the CBS show Moonlight," which, I later found out, involved a guest spot on ONE episode. The show is canceled, I think, but it was new at the time and after whining about not receiving a gift bag from the event (crappy gift bag at that, not like it's the Oscars here) and forcing his overpaid and lecherous manager on me to secure said crappy gift bag, proceeded to call my (at the time) red hair "sassy" and ended with "I could show you around the set sometime." Well, D-lister, I thought, I could show you my fist in your face, but you look like the type who would press charges.

3. Being a fanfreakingtastic makeup artist, EM has dealt with some doozies in her line of work. A couple weeks ago, she texted me about working with some "I'm-a-hotshot" actor-type who, as it turns out, was on Buffy the Vampire Slayer for maybe two minutes of screen time total. I don't think he's done anything since, but he definitely classifies as a dbag D-lister who was an arrogant-rude-guy to EM when she was trying to do her job, as in, make him look good. Brill idea, D-lister, to piss off the makeup artist who has the ability to make you look like a pimpled, wrinkly assface on camera. Ever the professional, EM kept it classy, but we had a fine time texting about it later.

Here's the deal. L.A. is about appearances so it wants you to think it's really all red carpets and Brangelina sightings, when it's really a pretty filthy city with a lot of selfish, stupid people who only really want to talk to you if you can help them get somewhere in life. I'd be totally happy to dish more celeb gossip, too, if you could just tell that friend you know at that one magazine that I'm looking to fill that superb EA posish. If you hear from her, call me and we'll do lunch.

Happy Hangover Thursday! Eat some chicken.

I didn't wear green yesterday, even though I love St. Patrick's Day and am proud of the fraction of Irish blood in my veins. I also didn't go out, because I had a crappy day after other crappy days and didn't feel like being that girl at the bar who smiles at you provocatively and then yells at you for talking to her when clearly, she just wanted to drink alone and not be bothered.

I wanted to yell at people yesterday, and probably would have been in that situation. Plus, going out in LA is annoying unless you can walk to the bar, which is rare. I'm a much better drinker when I don't have to focus on anything but drinking.

In other less exciting news, I figured out the nail polish situation, which I know kept you on the edge of your seat. Sephora tells me this color is black with multi-colored glitter, but it doesn't matter since OPI chips like a mofo and I've resolved to go back to my faithful brand, Orly. Best. Nail Polish. Ever.

Right now, there's a man emailing my company named Karl (with a K) and it just reminds me of this ridiculous collection of quotes pulled from a Karl Lagerfeld interview I came across on The Cut, including my absolute favorite: "I admire porn... And I personally only like high-class escorts. I don’t like sleeping with people I really love. I don’t want to sleep with them because sex cannot last, but affection can last forever. I think this is healthy. And for the way the rich live, this is possible. But the other world, I think they need porn. I also think it’s much more difficult to perform in porn than to fake some emotion on the face as an actor." Karl, you sassy minx! I can't wait for Chanel-inspired erotica. Step back, Kiki de Montparnasse!

Random Thing I Love Today:
- That Michael Bastian was nominated for CFDA. His Fall 2010 Men's made me get my panties in a bunch... in a good way. Next time, casting call for THAT runway show at my apartment please.

Seriously, what color is this nail polish?

It's not that I'm slacking, it's just that I figured out blogging once a day was useless considering I have a somewhat mediocre and occasionally boring life. Regardless, because I didn't have the opportunity to write anything this weekend, I now have plenty of things to cover.

Friday ended with EM and I getting our happy hour on at Chevy's because $3 margaritas are assuredly better than $8 margaritas - especially when they are accompanied by steak nachos. I became blatantly aware that I shop really well when I'm under the influence, evidenced by the fact that a stroll through IKEA yielded me with a very lovely magazine-organization-system, a.k.a. "box" because I have serious issues with throwing my beloved glossies out and the stacks of Vogue, Vanity Fair and Rolling Stone are threatening the structural integrity of our abode. EM and I headed to another bar, only to be lurked by a senior citizen in a sparkly St. Patrick's Day party hat. I was under the impression that he was "special," but EM was sure that he was just drunk, and so after a drink and a game of pool, we left. Seeing old people alone at bars makes me sad, or so I tried to explain to EM. You have to think that there's just something awful in their past that had led them to this point, you know? EM and her boyfriend disagreed, though.

"Maybe he's there alone because he's an asshole," EM's boyfriend said. I guess he could be right... getting old doesn't automatically make you a good person. Right?

Anyway, Saturday dawned gloriously! EM's boyfriend (must come up with a better name for him) had a hankerin' for waffles and promptly ran out to buy a waffle iron. So good. Post-tastiness, I grabbed my wallet and ventured to the Beverly Center for what turned out to be a splendid day of shopping. Whoever said "retail therapy is a joke" clearly didn't stumble onto the Bloomingdale's denim sale.

Of course, just as I was leaving with full shopping bags and a lighter heart, TOL seemed to sense it from across the country and texted me. Nothing important, just an annoying little reminder that he still hasn't been hit by a taxi and enough to make my stomach flip and give my heart a painful squeeze. Sonofabitch.

Much of this anxiety was cured by a long, involved phone call to The Bestie in New Orleans. I definitely need to plan another trip out to see her. First, though, Seattle! The countdown has begun: 22 days. After that, I think San Fran. EM and I were discussing it on Friday and I think it's about time to get back up to NorCal and explore.

Last random thought of the post: I bought a bunch of nail polish from the Sephora/OPI collection and I have no idea what color "Never Enough Shoes" is. When I bought it, it was brown-ish, when I put it on, it was more of a navy color, but now it looks black. So weird.

Anyway, today's going to be a productive Monday. I can feel it.

A Powerful Case of the GimmeGimmes.

Okay, I didn't blog yesterday. I did, however, work on transcribing some interviews so the day wasn't a total loss, and technically I kept my promise to write something every day. Besides, Thursday night margaritas didn't happen and I spent the evening cleaning and reorganizing my room, which is probably the most uninteresting thing in the world to write about. I decided to spare you those deets.

Yesterday was pretty uninteresting as well, with the exception that I pitched a beauty piece to a website regarding the new item on my ever growing wish list:

Tarina Tarantino's New Makeup Line. Behold~ the Victorian Punk collection available on Sephora.com. I have a powerful case of the gimmegimmes.

Before I tell you my name, I'd actually rather you didn't talk to me.

Okay, let's try this one more time.

For me, feelings of extreme sadness are fleeting. I'm easily distractable. EM text-convinced me to go get margaritas at Chili's happy hour, and I'm thinking today is the perfect day for them.

Other random distractable things:
- I'm wearing my pirate boots today, but one of the heels squeaks a bit when I walk. It's annoying, but I love my boots so much I kind of don't care it sounds like a horror movie basement scene whenever I return to the coffee machine.
- I decided that I'm going to suck up my fear of feet phobias and get a pedicure before I go to the BeHills store for my dream Loubs.
- I'm going to go shopping this weekend and fix the disaster that is my wardrobe. I keep thieving EM's sweater and I think it longs to be back in her side of the apartment. It will need a replacement before this happens.
- I voiced my creative rut problems to a friend who lunched in my office today, and he gave me some really great suggestions: clean your room (clean your mind), relax and take a breather (thank you, shopping trip of future), and do something fun. Maybe if I'm not too drunk tonight, I'll start cleaning my room or writing my short story for the Writer's Workshop of Death.
- My hair refuses to behave and I need to do something with it. Maybe pick a new color... and fight the urge to chop it all off.

There might be more to this post later, again... depending on how drunk I get. Let's hope I don't get drunk enough to text TOL. Quel disastre!

In other news, two sales execs in my office just prank called the corporate office, and my boss yelled at me about not eating enough fruit.

I make bad decisions.

Today, I feel the horrible effects of a creative rut. In an effort to find something entertaining to post today, I scrolled through some old emails between MEH and I and accidentally stumbled upon old email exchanges with TOL. I glanced at them, and they made me so sad I felt ill. I didn't delete them. I should, but I can't really bring myself to. Emails from the day that he left still break my heart.

How annoying. I need to be over it already.

My heart hurts.

Tuesday Part Tue.

I often joke with my coworkers about how our office is just like Office Space. We have almost all of the same characters - even a Milton. Today, I had a facepalm moment with Milton in the copy room.

I went to pick up several things I had printed out at the network printer shared by my half of the office, none of which were really "work related," so to speak. Milton stood at the copier, perplexed by the blinking red light and the NO PAPER icon. Milton looks like a younger, beardless version of Santa Claus, but less jolly and without presents.

"I think it's out of paper!" Milton exclaimed after a few minutes. He looked at me as if I had just come to deliver him from this problem of epic proportions. Instead of acknowledging him, I came back into my office. The copy room has cupboards full of paper reams for just such a conundrum, and I was sure he would refill the paper tray so that the rest of his documents would print. Seconds later, Milton poked his head in my office.

"I just wanted to let you know that I didn't refill the paper tray," he said. "I didn't see the right kind of paper and I don't know where we keep the other kind."

"The...supply...room?" I prompted incredulously. Milton has been here much longer than I have, and the supply room is smack dab in the middle of the office floor. Think about it.

"Oh, yeah! I'm sure there would be some in there. I didn't get any though," he said thickly. I got up, went to the supply room, got two stacks of paper and returned to the copy room to refill the paper trays. Milton was standing at the machine again, trying to clear the screen. I put the paper in the trays, and miraculously, the copier sprang to life.

"Oh! Looks like it's working now!" Milton chuckled, more to himself than to me. I collected my documents and left him standing there, trying to figure out how to make color copies - quite possibly for a poster of a red stapler.

Yay Me! Give Me Cake!

It's also my first week blogiversary. And my boss just danced into my office singing Ke$ha. I'm going to pretend it's to celebrate my blogiversary.

Bowling With Napalm

Sometimes at work, I stave off boredom by entertaining myself with my coworkers. I know you're thinking that my glorious grid monkey job could not possibly be boring, but you'd be wrong. Below is one of the conversations that I had today with my close friend/coworker/fellow writer, MEH.

The Average Broad: I really want to try to get press coverage of punk rock bowling this year. I think I'm gonna email the press guy and see if we can get hooked up.
The Average Broad: I def don't want to bowl, but hot damn, it would be sweet to cover that lineup
MEH: bowling's fun!
The Average Broad: bowling is the worst of the white trash sports
MEH: I thought that honor belonged to nascar
The Average Broad: no, it's right above frog gigging. NASCAR at least has the possibility of explosions. Get out of here unless that bowling ball is filled with napalm.
MEH: only explosions I've seen at nascar events is the condiments rack letting out too much mustard/ketchup
The Average Broad: that sounded vaguely like food porn, and I didn't say it happened EVERY time.
MEH: MONEYSHOT!
The Average Broad: that makes me want to steer clear of condiments.

Sorry, James.

The Oscars. Hollywood's night to award some of the highest paid, Armani Prive and Chopard wearing people with little golden men, whose purpose is ultimately to raise the salaries a little more. Tonight was no exception - if last year was more subdued because of the economic recession, this year was rife with extravagant, full-skirt ball gowns and way too much back-patting. The red carpet coverage was more awkward than a nerd going through puberty, but everyone looked pretty damn great, and at least Avatar didn't sweep.

Karmic retribution for my sharp tongue lies in the fact that I think I have a cavity. Possibly my first ever. Hopefully not...

Saturday Nights With Troglodytes

Well, I'm still keeping up with this blog-a-day business. Last night I had a stupendously drunken time out with EM, TL and EM's boyfriend at his wrap party. Drank mucho, was repeatedly groped by enough d-bags to start a fraternity, very nearly punched a swaying, incoherent stranger who kissed my neck, and chatted with a guy at the bar who made me remember why I suck at dating.

"Are these yours?" he asked, gesturing to numerous empty glasses at the bar.

"Yes," I said. "Every single glass on this bar is mine. I was quite thirsty."

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow, trying to figure out if I was either an alcoholic or just a bitch. I could see the wheels a-turnin'.

"Here," I said, sliding an empty shot glass over to him as I collected the round of beers I had purchased. "Have a shot on me."

"You're sassy. I think I might like that," he charmed. Or tried to, at least. I stared.

"Don't think about it too hard. Cheers." I walked away with my beers. Upon reflection, perhaps I should have tried harder. Made small talk. Said something else "sassy." Tried to flirt. Whatever. I was too busy having fun. The music at the bar was like taking a step back in time and we all enjoyed dancing to 90s R&B hits and Gaga.

Today, fighting a hangover, I did the day date coffee thing with eHarmony guy. So far, a success. He was funny and sweet, and we enjoyed a couple hours of effortless chatter. I feel like it's an actual step back into a social life and farther away from the devastating wake of TOL. We'll see how it goes. In regards to eHarmony - I bid them adieu and closed my account today. While it may have been a great way to meet people, it was a little too intense for me. It'll give me lots of information to write about, but I don't think I'm ready for the Internet equivalent of a Yiddish matchmaker foisting gents upon me. Keeping up with the emails is a job in its own, and I already have enough work as it is. There's probably more I could write about it, but it's raining softly, my bed is toasty, and David Attenborough's soothing Planet Earth narrative is slowly lulling me to sleep. Until tomorrow...

TGIF: Thank Gaga It's Friday.

For some reason, I've been having a lot of dreams about Dita von Teese lately. This is weird in itself because for the most part, I never remember my dreams. I guess when your subconscious has you making out with a famous burlesque dancer and your Dad walks in, there's something odd going on. I do remember her having a great red lipstick, though.

"Let's take stock of my love life, shall we?" I asked a close friend of mine today. "I'm having homosexually inspired dreams of Dita von Teese, the closest thing I have to a relationship is the video game time I'm logging in with Kratos from God of War, and the one potential date is with a guy from eHarmony who thinks I'm some kind of 'bad girl.'" He was sympathetic. Another friend, however, suggested I just get a cat and be done with it. Maybe I'll start knitting or scrapbooking, too. Screw it.

In other news, I'm 98% sure my office thinks my job is useless, evidenced by the fact that my bosses keep trying to stick me with random tasks that have nothing to do with my job description. Perhaps I'm supposed to represent some sort of catch-all, like that junk drawer you have in your kitchen - or in my case, entire bedroom. Regardless, it's irritating because most (okay, some) of the time, I work really hard and frankly, I don't have time to be your junk drawer. I'm protesting by blogging at work. Suck it. One day, I'll hear back from one the countless editorial jobs that I've applied to in New York and this won't matter.

Bad things about today:

-I forgot my lunch today, thought I lost my glasses yesterday, and am having memory problems in general which makes me feel like I'm closing in on some younger strain of Alzheimer's.

-Random realizations about my ridiculous love life.

-Still no news about Mamma-San's most recent cancer scan.

-P.S. I'm really hungry because I forgot my lunch.

Good things about today:

- I'm wearing my new nOir spike rings from Gilt.com that would leave horrible dents in a person's face, should I choose to punch them.

- I'm going out with EM and her boyfriend to his productions wrap party, where EM and I will get to play Surly Artsy Types, drink in the corner, and judge people.

-No cancer news is *usually* good news.

Okay, divide and conquer. It's Friday, let's stick with the good things.

The eHarmony eXperiment Continues

Some time ago, I started writing a book about dating. It's probably just like every other dating book you've seen and/or read, but without the advice and with a lot more of my ridiculous experiences. That's how I classify my love life (or lack thereof): ridiculous. It covers a wide range of instances involving my failures with the fellas, from my cheesy pick-up line rejections to dates *so bad* that you'd think I was a pathological exaggerator. Trust me, if I had the creativity to fabricate some of those stories, I'd definitely be putting it to better use. I'd probably be a billionaire.

Anyway, through a random and laughable series of events that I will not go into right now, I ended up on eHarmony. It began as a joke, and a pathetic attempt to boot my ass out of a heartbroken depressive no-man slump and back into the world of bachelors and douchebag daters. Fast-forward through some anti-climactic nervous breakdowns on my part, and you arrive at today, Thursday - two days before the nervously anticipated coffee date with eHarmony guy #1. Literally, my first date in months. My palms have already started sweating.

The idea of dating has pretty much repulsed me since my last fiasco, That One Love, wherein I actually (unfortunately) discovered that I am capable of f...feh...feeeh...feeeeeelings and made up for years of dating without them by having them all at once. Now, I can't figure out how to turn that part of my estrogen-oozing lady brain off, so instead of going out and meeting gents willy-nilly and with reckless abandon, I mostly just avoid the subject altogether. EM says it's "emotional progress" and "all part of growing up." I say it's "annoying, unnatural, and wrong." We'll see what happens this weekend, though. I'll feel very defeated if EM is right... again.

Hi New Blog!

I am a wannabe-writer-type who sucks at keeping up with blogs, diaries, journals... pretty much anything you have to write on a daily basis. Today, however, I've decided to get on the bandwagon with the rest of the blogging sheep. It might be fun. It might feel like work. More than likely, I'll only update it when I want to procrastinate from the writing that I already *have* to do.

What is The Average Broad? An absolutely average broad - no foolin'. I have a boring job of drudgery 9-to-5 that actually goes from 7-to-4, 5ish that involves a lot of skill with an Excel spreadsheet and a completely outdated DOS-like system. You're already bored, which is fine. So am I. Additionally, I'm a struggling writer, which basically means that I spend almost all of my free time writing stuff and trying ceaselessly to get paid for it, all while hunting for the elusive magazine masthead job.

Why should you care? You probably shouldn't. I have no idea why you're reading this, but I'm sure you have your reasons. The Average Broad is just an average broad taking solace in her own literary catharsis.