Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Bugs are freaking scary, okay?

The other day, I was catching up with a friend of mine who lives in New York and she shared with me something so completely and utterly terrifying, it has seriously become a factor in my wanting to move there.

Bed bugs.

I really, truly, seriously did not think bed bugs were real, but NY Friend tells me that not only are they real, but they are a serious infestation problem in older buildings on the east coast. She also went on to tell me that they are like LICE and they have to be EXTERMINATED because they're tenacious little fuckers and it just becomes a huge ordeal because hello, you have freaking INSECTS LIVING IN YOUR SHEETS.

TOL is dating someone new, and so after finally removing any lingering delusions I had, we have again reached a point where I do not wish him a life of abstinence and getting hit by cabs. Though we text only rarely (re: when I am drunk or mistake him for my friend just below him in my contact list) he has become a sort of NY authority for me to direct my many questions to, and so was the brunt of my panic when I found out about this life-altering news. He then told me not to worry, that it was only really gross apartments that were infested with the things and that you could actually find any kind of vermin in certain NY apartments, even ticks.


He is, of course, trying to calm me down and tell me that I will not die of Lyme disease (I will) and that it's not EVERYWHERE (it may as well be) and that it's not that bad (it is). My rationale was to yell at him about the time we both freaked out in his apartment because there was a spider on the wall and neither one of us wanted to get close enough to kill it, and to tell him to shut up and let me have my fear of bugs because I'm not afraid of snakes, rodents, small spaces or dark alleys. I would rather take on a velociraptor armed only with a spoon than to have ticks or bed bugs or any other kinds of creepy crawlies in my apartment.

Hi, my name is TAB and I'm here to tell you that it's okay to be afraid of bugs. They are small and evil and will ef with your shit if you don't watch out.

How do I get myself in these situations?

Being a female music journalist often brings you to the limits of your sense of morals and ethics, because you are often confronted with very difficult choices. It can be difficult, on occasion, to present an interview or a review in a frank and unbiased manner when you canNOT stop thinking about how cute the guitar player is and if he fancies Guinness just as much as you do. Fortunately, I swore off dating musicians long ago and have never been so distracted by musician hotness that it has compromised my craft or my sense of journalistic ethics, but I do sometimes wander into "gray" area.

Earlier this year, J.R. and I interviewed an up-and-coming rock band composed of all beautiful, charming men. Since they happen to live a hop, skip, and a jump away from me, the interview of course progressed into the lot of us talking about meeting up and drinking together. This has not yet happened, but since it has been months since J.R. or I have written anything about this band, we feel that it is now within the realm of possibility to hang out with these beautiful, charming men in a not-so-professional capacity.

The other evening while procrastinating, I spent some time Facebook-chatting with one of the beautiful, charming men and proceeded to inquire about the lack of drinking happening between all of us. There was a lot of good-natured challenging and jokes, which seemed to degenerate into a really weird conversation:

TAB: Oh, hey! Did you see the pictures of MutualFriend's puppy? They melted my heart!

Hot Musician: No, I'd rather have an unmelted heart, thanks.

TAB: (Sends picture of cutest puppy) MELT, DAMN YOU!

Hot Musician: (Laughs at me) Okay, you're right. It's pretty cute.

TAB: HA! Now I will tell all your screaming female fans that I melted the heart of Hot "Freezer Burn" Musician with a picture of a puppy.

Hot Musician: Ha! That has got to be my new nickname!

TAB: Oh, I'm already using it, Freezer Burn. And do you realize how many amazing pick up lines I just gave you?

Hot Musician: So many.

TAB: So many. I have a burgeoning career as a wingwoman. You should pay me.

Hot Musician: Is that something you're proud of?

TAB: What, that I want money for my wit or that I have a career in the sidelines?

Hot Musician: That you have a career in the sidelines!

TAB: You know, I've spent more than my fair share in the dating game and here on the sidelines, I don't have to worry about my date's prison-mandated ankle bracelet, whether or not he's really married or if he's going to run away from me when I try to kiss him. The sidelines are fun, and have beer.

Hot Musician: (Laughing at me, yet again) Please tell me none of those have every happened to you.

TAB: Oh, Freezer Burn, all of those have happened to me.

After this, there was more joking followed by Hot Musician leaving mid-conversation. I am pretty sure that this does not really bode well for me, considering I would love to make out with Hot Musician and I unintentionally made myself look like a dating leper. J.R. and I still have plans to go out drinking with these fellows, but now I'm kind of unsure about it because they are like the cool kids in high school that always sort of tolerated me but never really found me irresistibly charming enough to ask to the dance... We'll see. If anything, at least there will be whiskey.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Ceci N'est Pas Une Fashion Blog

This is not a fashion blog. My relationship with fashion is, at best, a watch-from-the-sidelines kind of thing. For me, fashion is like pool (billiards, not swimming pools, which are also awesome but irrelevant to this post), I absolutely love it but am really not very good at it. Maybe I could be... but as EM once told me very lovingly and honestly, I'm too low-maintenance. The conversation was actually in regards to a new haircut I was considering, but I figure it kind of goes across the board.

Anyway, I'm the type that likes to take it all in and absorb it. I'll peruse fashion glossies whenever I can, click through fashion blogs in bulk, hunt through everything from Etsy to The Cut and stare longingly into store windows, mostly at things I cannot afford.

If I had any kind of personal "style" (seriously, I'm in jeans and tees 90% of the time) I would have to say it could be described as "eclectic", but it could probably also be described as "what-the-hell-is-that-girl-wearing" or more colloquially, "wtf". I chalk it up to my lack of discriminating tastes, random ventures into numerous music subcultures ranging from punk to rockabilly to indie, and ease of distractability (totally made that phrase up juuust now, but it really conveys how quickly my attention can shift from one thing to an-OHMYGOD SOMETHING SHINY!). Anyway, for this lovely Friday I've decided to throw caution to the wind and list a few of my want-it-need-it-gimmegimmes. Will I ever own any of them? Probably not. Will I lust after them anyway? Absofreakinlutely.

Christian Louboutin Very Jaws Platform Pumps. $840.
Yves Saint Laurent Gold and Blue Green Aventurine Stone Bangle. $570.

Laura Dahl Raven V-Neck. $62.

3.1 Phillip Lim Mini Pencil Skirt at Barneys New York. $495.

Alice By Temperly Striped Jersey Dress. $325.

Sigh. So many more things. For now, though, I have some nail painting to do. Bon week-end, mes chers!

Thursday, April 22, 2010

So you can't be a Capricorn *and* a criminal?!

I often enjoy telling people "I'm a Capricorn" because, though I don't really believe horoscopes and astrology hold much weight in the natural-scientifical-logic-y world, it is an excellent excuse for me to explain some of my more undesirable neuroses. For some reason, a lot of people in L.A. follow horoscopes pretty closely, so when I get asked about my need for detailed 'to do' lists, my devotion to my less-than-fulfilling job or forgoing things like "a social life" in favor of staying in to write, I can merely shrug my shoulders and say, "Ha ha! Well, I'm a Capricorn!" They'll nod knowingly, and I'm spared the embarrassment of having to say something like, "I have to have 'to do' lists because I can never remember anything unless I write it down. I actually don't remember what your name is, or why I'm talking about my 'to do' lists. Where am I?"

As a Capricorn, I make a lot of well thought out plans that almost never come to fruition. Case in point: The New York Move Financial Plan.

After doing extensive research (typing things into Google and asking friends), I came to the conclusion that in order to move to my dream city without a job waiting for me, I need to have enough money saved to support myself for three months, plus moving expenses.

I need $10,000.

That is not an exaggerated figure. That gives me about $2,500 a month for three months, plus another $2,500 for moving expenses and plane tickets. Unfortunately, I have never seen that kind of money in my life because I am a law-abiding citizen (but not in that cool way like Gerard Butler) and I do not have the patience to net myself a Sugar Daddy (the financial supporting type, not the candy, which is delicious and much easier to come by). I'm not a computer genius like Bill Gates, the only 'old money' I know of is the change in a piggy bank at home from my childhood, I do not have publishers salivating to publish anything of mine, and I do not play the lottery because as long as the Twix bars in the vending machine are 75 cents, my dollar bills will never see the inside of that 7-11 cash register.

This leaves me with two options:
1. Drug dealing, and
2. Stripping

The problem is that what little I knew about drugs from junior high health class has since been replaced by other important facts and skills, like acceptable two-letter Scrabble words and Great White shark trivia and general game rules for beer pong. Additionally, I have never bought drugs or sold before, so I'm pretty sure the interaction would go something like this:

Drug Buyer: "May I have a bag of drugs please?"
TAB: "Of course! Here you go. Your total comes to $500. Would you like a receipt?"
Drug Buyer: "This is a bag of Oreos."
TAB: "Right. Ohh... I see! Did you want the bag of goldfish crackers instead? Or perhaps this bag of rocks?"
Drug Buyer: "Crack rocks?"
TAB: "No. Just some rocks I picked up outside on my street. There's one in there that looks like a potato, if that should sway your opinion..."

That pretty much cancels out any hope of earning my thousands with drug money. The other problem that I have (just one, you say?) is that I have never been in a strip club. I have (of course) seen them on the teevee and in the movies, and I have read about them in books and magazines. I have a very basic, theoretical knowledge of what strippers do, which brings me to another roadblock: I do not like to be naked. Also, I'm told that strippers are often single mothers or drug addicts or putting themselves through school, and unfortunately, I do not have any kind of baby or coke habit or community college leanings.

Basically, this means that due to my lack of experience within the seedy underbelly of society, I'll have to get my money the stupid, legal way. So, if you'll excuse me, I have to go make another extensive list of stupid, legal ways to make $10,000.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Excuse me, but do you have a senior citizen discount?

For my birthday this year, EM asked if I wanted her to call my friends and have everyone meet up at a bar to celebrate my first quarter of a century. At the time, I had reached what could be called a 'quarter-life crisis' that was compounded with my crippling TOL heartbreak and I reluctantly agreed, but when the time came for said celebration, I felt utterly ill. I wanted this birthday to pass without note, without celebration, but definitely with cake.

Since my weird "oh shit... I'm halfway through my 20s and I haven't accomplished everything I wanted to accomplish" freak-out, I've made a conscious effort to actually live like a 25-year old, and furiously reject the 40-year old woman lurking within my soul. She likes to stay in and go to sleep early, drink in moderation, has her doubts about meeting men in bars, and eat things that won't contribute any more to aforementioned beer gut. I really don't like her.

Of course, I've voiced my insecurities about feeling old to absolutely everyone who will listen to me, but since many of my coworkers and friends and family are older than I am, they usually roll their eyes at me and say things like, "Just wait till you get to 30." I imagine it's tantamount to me raising a skeptical eyebrow at J.R. when she told me that she was totally freaked about turning 23. "It's like that Blink 182 song. 'Nobody likes you when you're 23,'" she had said. I balked.

So, it's normal for people to dismiss my panic, also in part because sometimes I panic about things that really turn out okay. Picking a college, driving to Las Vegas in the middle of the night, global warming, no more coffee in the apartment, the possibility of a guy cheating on me... it's actually surprising that I haven't given myself a heart attack. But it definitely does not help the fact that I still feel... old.

I regularly joke with my friends about the fact that only a few years ago, we would have to pre-party before leaving, and we hardly ever left before 10:30. These days, I'm in bed at 10:30. If I do go out for drinks, I'll hit up happy hour and be done drinking and exhausted by 10. I've caught myself saying things like, "Yeah, the band doesn't go on till 9. I hope they don't play past 11... I've got work the next day," and "He's cute, but he just doesn't have his life together enough for me to want to pursue anything with him," and "No, thanks, if I have more than a couple glasses of wine, I'll wake up with a headache." Every time I say something along those lines, I get this shocked expression on my face and stare blankly while I mull over my soon-to-be geriatric tendencies. Sometimes, people think I'm having an aneurysm.

All of these revelations lead me to wonder... just how did I get so old?

Monday, April 19, 2010

Thanks, Cosmo! Now I'll be able to get me a MAN!

Today I found a brilliant article from the femmes at that's sure to explain a few of the innumerable problems that I seem to have with the opposite sex. The article, "What He's Judging You On," lists 4 things that men judge when they first meet women. Below are Cosmo's judgment factors, followed by my personal commentary.

Cosmo says:
1. Men judge women based on their friends. Cosmo tries to dress it up and lists an example of gossipy friends = annoying gossipy girlfriend, but let's face facts. Men are more apt to judge a girl in relation to the hotness of her friends than whether or not they are gossipy. Most of the men I know have long since accepted the fact that *all* girls gossip because it is a genetic quality that goes hand in hand with the estrogen thing. Don't try to get all feminist on me like "::shocked gasp:: TAB! I'm not that kind of girl! I don't gossip!" because yes you are, and yes you do. Somewhere, it's scientifically proven. When it comes to introducing a date to my friends, I am absolutely paranoid because most of my friends are gorgeous and are often much cuter than me, many of my other friends are powerful drinkers and/or have been arrested, so have much more interesting stories than my date, and more often than not, my date will fall short of the level of awesome that friends will require/expect for me. Introducing fellas to my friends only happens very, very rarely because it's too much pressure for everyone involved.

2. Men judge you based on your laugh. Some dbag named Adam is quoted here as saying that he got really annoyed when he went out on a date with a girl who laughed at everything he said, so Cosmo tells you not to laugh too much. Well, you know what, Adam? That girl was probably laughing AT you, not with you. Chances are, you said something really dumb and she was only laughing to avoid saying something caustic like, "Wow, dumbass, you really don't know who Joe Biden is?" or "Uh, no, Hendrix was *not* in The Doors, crap-for-brains." (Yes, I actually have met these people.) If this is really the case, however, I am screwed because my inner monologue is often waaay more entertaining to me.
Date: "Did you watch the latest Michael Moore film?"
TAB: (Inner monologue: I wonder if this guy watches South Park.) "No. While I think his investigative journalistic skills are commendable, I think he presents his arguments in a very one-sided and biased manner, and I find it distasteful and 'sensational.' Did you watch last week's South Park?" (Inner monologue: Haha. Cartman.)
Date: "No, I'm not really a South Park fan. I think it's juvenile."
TAB: "Ha ha ha ha ha. Well, here's what happened... no wait, I can't even tell you. You have to watch it. Ha ha ha." (Inner monologue: Hahaha. Cartman. Somalian Pirate episode. Haaahaha.)
Date: "Um. So Michael Moore..."
TAB: (Inner monologue: I bet Michael Moore looked like Cartman when he was a kid. Man. I want another beer and some fries. Oh dude... the Ungroundable episode! BURN DOWN, BURN DOWN HOT TOOOPIC!) "I bet Michael Moore looked like Cartman when he was a kid. And um, do you want another beer and some fries? I'm gonna get some. Ha ha... Burn down! Burn down Hot Tooopic!!"
Date: "Uh."

3. Men judge you based on your drink. This I actually agree with, but only so far as to say that women do it, too. Cosmo says you're supposed to have a "compelling reason for choosing the type of drink" and that it's not about what you choose, it's just that you have to defend your choice. You're wrong about that, Cosmo, because there's not really a whole lot a man can say that will redeem him for ordering certain drinks (do you know anyone who has ever ordered a white wine spritzer? I don't). You can judge me for ordering Guinness and whiskey all you want, because truthfully, I will be the girl who will list all the reasons why I think you're an idiot for meeting me at a brewery with 500 types of beer and then ordering a Bud Light. Your whiny rationale will not spare you. (I imagine any man who would order a Bud Light in a brewery would be whiny. Correct me if I'm wrong.)

4. Men judge you based on your cell phone usage. I think it's safe to say that if your date would rather text her friends or check her email obsessively (because who talks on their phone that much anymore, really?) she's probably "just not that into you." Here I would have to tell you gents to get some tougher standards, because if you get thrilled like Cosmo's requisite dbag example who felt it was some Herculean task when his date let her ringing phone go to voicemail... dude. What kind of broads are you dating?

That's it, apparently. According to, that's how men judge women, which I guess is good if you're ugly or have the personality of dry white toast. As long as you don't answer your phone on a date or laugh gratuitously, you'll be fine. Men will judge you as fit to breed.

It's a good thing, too, because I'm really tired of sucking in this beer gut.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Maybe I'm Just Loud.

The Recap:

As it stands, I have no idea how my date went last night. "How is this possible?" you may ask. "Weren't you there? Aren't you the only person who would know how your date went? Well, other than the Journalist Guy?"

Of course. Journalist Guy, though completely sweet and gentlemanly and nice, appears to be quite shy. "I just don't talk much," he admitted at one point. Generally, I'm uneasy around shy, reserved types because I've a very outgoing person. (Re: other words tossed around have been "loud" and "obnoxious" and even "aggressive") It's not that I have any kind of problem with quieter types, it's just that I tend to attract people with the same level of energy, so sitting across from a perfectly lovely person who merely smiles at my bad puns and ridiculous stories and probing questions (ha ha, I said "probe") makes me nervous, and I say dumb things when I'm nervous.

In short, if he calls, will I go out with him again? Of course. Will I totally understand if he doesn't ever call again and thinks of me as the girl who spent 5 minutes talking to the waiter about fried cheese and tequila? Yep. Like so many things, it's a coin toss.

In other news:
- oh my god. Did I wake up in some parallel universe where time moves ultra slow today? WHY IS TODAY GOING BY SO SLOWLY?!
- The Bestie will be joining me next Wednesday evening and I couldn't be more excited. I haven't seen her since Christmas.
- Today is free coffee day at Starbucks, so I have had way more caffeine than normal, or safe. I think my legs are vibrating.
- MEH and I have been discussing, at length, the impending geologically-induced apocalypse. Earthquakes, volcanoes... WTF, Earth?! Take some pepto and chill.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Thoughts Before A Date

I have a date tonight with another L.A. music journalist-type. Noting the rather alarming ratio of my bad dates to good dates, I feel that this could really go either way to the extreme. My time with eharmony guy is usually fun, but I've never felt anything to the extreme such as, "You're the choicest of fellows. Let's gallop down the aisle and squirt out some babies," or "You repulse me in ways I cannot even begin to describe." Things are lovely, and mellow.

Here are the reasons why I feel tonight will be Dating X-TREME:

1. I met this journalist fellow at an editorial networking event when I was two Jack and Cokes in and trying to strike up conversations with anyone within a 10-foot radius. Probably quite loudly, and probably giggling rather insanely at my jokes falling flat with everyone else. Having whiskey for dinner usually impairs my judgment of people, but to be fair, I am a horribly naive judge of character as it is. My hazy opinions from a slightly-intoxicated state are thus null and void.

2. My initial impressions of Journalist Guy were: "why is he sitting alone at a networking event?" "why does he frown so much?" and then upon talking to him: "he does not laugh at my jokes or humor, but he does not run from me either" "is he being bitter or is his humor extra dry?" and finally: "I just spent an hour trying to make this odd man laugh" "is now a good time for a dead baby joke? Did he just judge me for loving the Gaga? Did he really just ask for my number?"

3. Sweet but *super* awkward voicemail. Funny but judgmental text messages about my love of The Distillers. However, proposed the date without hesitation and confidently said he would pick me up at 8. I like that he took the initiative and didn't do the whole "What time do you wanna go? 7? Is 6 too early? 9? Where do you wanna eat? What kind of food do you like? How are you at making decisions?" but am also concerned about *possible* pretentious and/or Type A leanings.

Other things on my mind about this event:
- Should I drink beforehand?
- Can I wait that long to eat dinner?
- Maybe I should eat beforehand.
- Now that I know he doesn't like the Gaga and The Distillers, that's all I feel like listening to right now. This may mean there is something bratty deep within my soul.
- I can't remember what shoes he was wearing at the networking thing. For those of you confused by this, trust me when I tell you I can tell more about a man by the style of his shoes than after an hour of conversation with him.

I've spoken to EM and MEH about this and they both have a wait-and-see 'tude about it. And so we shall.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Hey Seattle, you're okay in my book!

It's important when you travel away from your city of residence to reflect. Most people leave for a time, and then find themselves glad to return home. They'll rediscover their favorite restaurants or bars, visit with the friends and/or family that they missed, and utter obnoxious platitudes like, "It's good to get away, but it's always good to come home."

Despite being The Average Broad, I am not most people.

Visiting Seattle was like being able to breathe again. Not even in the literal sense (although, did you know they don't have smog up there? Dude. They have blue sky.) In spite of the mutant death plague that had settled in my respiratory system, Day 1 brought EM, EM's boyfriend, Tee and I to a random bar nestled just beneath the Space Needle for shelter away from the frigid 50-something temperatures (Hi, yeah, Californians) and for something boozey to kick off VACATION TIME. Enter Hot Seattle Bartender.

In addition to Hot Seattle Bartender being really-really-ridiculously-good-looking, he met my challenge for "some kind of tasty drink" with what is known as a Perfect Manhattan. For those of you who don't know, a Perfect Manhattan is made entirely of whiskey and some other stuff that isn't whiskey, but makes the whiskey taste better in that 'one-drink-and-I-can't-feel-my-face' kind of way. Hot Seattle Bartender joked around with my travel companions and also gave us a list of recommendations right up my alley: the library (totally sweet, super modern building) and the art museum (one place we didn't have time to check out, sadly) and various bars for cool people (and, you know, we are cool people). Hot Seattle Bartender then brought me a Jack and ginger, which, I will admit to you now, I had never tried. It was love at first sip. Clearly, our positive experience on the first afternoon of our trip was a good omen for the rest of our time in the Washington city and our vacation ended up being spec-tac-u-lar. Dear Seattle, please export some hot bartenders (who are not dbags) to Los Angeles. Thanks.

Anyway, that's sort of a tangent. Seattle was awesome and beautiful and clean like a comedian nun or a virgin who's *actually* waiting for true love, and then we had to come back to the dirty ho-bag of a city that is L.A. It doesn't even have that dirty charm like New York and punk rock and bad boys. It's just dirty in that sad kind of way, like those dirty skinny kids in the commercials for third world charity.

City of Angels, my ass. Go to the Seattle City Center bar/restaurant under the Space Needle, ask for Danny, a.k.a. Hot Seattle Bartender, have him pour you a Perfect Manhattan and tell you about "fixies" and the coffee in Capitol Hill. It's like a good luck charm, and the rest of your time there will be the opposite of suck. Unless you're weird and don't like whiskey or hot bartenders or traveling or puppies or something, and if that's the case... I have my doubts about you.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Oh heeey, Immune System!

Dear Immune System,

Hey there! I won't start off by asking how you're doing, because I know you've got your hands full with that mutant death flu that the rest of my body is harboring. I just wanted to reach out to you to make sure that you're really doing your job, because at our pace, we can't afford to be M.I.A. - especially since there are dates on the line with cute boys.

We've shared some difficult times, you and I. Last week may have been a stretch for us what with all the drinking and staying out late, but come on, Immune System, we're still young! I know we feel hangovers a *little* more acutely than we did in college, but that's no reason to strike me down in my prime. I tried to make up for it this weekend by getting lots of sleep, eating things mostly not made of crap and taking plenty of Emergen-C and Theraflu, but you've been a little slow on the recovery, if you ask me. We can't have you dropping the ball.

Here's the bottom line: we leave tomorrow morning for the Seattle vacation we've been planning for months, and then when we get back we're gonna hang out with eharmony guy and some of those other journalist boys we've met. It would really help me out if I didn't have to be concerned about a stuffy nose, bloodshot eyes, sore throat that makes me sound like a pre-op tranny and body aches that make me really cranky. If there's anything else I can do for you in the few hours before our flight, let me know, because once we get on that plane it is VACATION TIME. Alcohol will be imbibed, fried and cheesy food will be eaten, and we will be operating on little or no sleep. Please take note of these conditions and do your part to ensure that I don't send myself into some pneumonia-induced coma.

Your cooperation is greatly appreciated. Please let me know if there are any further questions regarding these matters.


The Average Broad

Friday, April 2, 2010

Welcome to LA: Please Don't Feed The Celebrities.

Last night I met up with eharmony guy at a fabulous bar over the hill. Being The Average (booze-loving) Broad, I sat down and ordered a beer before eharmony guy could finish his first sentence, which happened to be:

"Did you see Jason Segel sitting on the patio out there?"

I turned around and scanned the patio area, and then turned back around to find Jason Segel standing next to my bar stool. He ordered a Jameson (::swoon::) and walked back to the patio to sit with his friends. Eharmony guy apparently noticed that I froze, as if Jason Segel had not been Jason Segel, in fact, but a tyrannosaurus rex and my rigid posture (remember Jurassic Park?) was the only thing keeping us from being eaten.

"I loved him in SLC Punk. He had glasses and beat people up in mosh pits and looked nerdy but was really more punk rock than all of them," I said wistfully. "I developed a huge crush on him then. The last great article I read in Rolling Stone was the interview with him."

(Note: I have excellent taste. Jason Segel is still very, very sexy with his tallness and his sweet cheeks and messy hair.)

Eharmony guy felt it was appropriate to tease me, which was fine, until Jason Segel (yes, I will continue to use his FULL name) walked back to the bar and ordered another round.

"Jason," eharmony guy spoke up. "My date TAB here is a big fan of yours."

Jason Segel laughed, reached out to shake my hand and said, "Oh! Awesome! Hi!"

"Hi," I whispered, feeling the color drain from my face and then rush back in a furious blush.

"Ever since...what was that movie in the 90s?" Eharmony guy continued.

"SLC Punk," I breathed.

"Oh! Yeah, way back in 97," Jason Segel smiled. "You look like an SLC Punk girl."

I giggled stupidly and stared very intently at my beer. Jason Segel collected his next round of drinks and walked back to his patio table.

"I am going to punch you in the face," I said to eharmony guy.

He chuckled because he doesn't know me well enough to fear me (yet) and continued talking about something else. Meanwhile, I tried to recover because it is not every day that you meet your celebrity crushes, and even though I have met beautiful celebrities in LA (Dave Navarro IS that hot in person), there are still some that will wipe away any witty comments and charm you have in your brain and make you feel like a teenybopper or a tourist.

"There are rules," I said, exasperated. "If you live in LA, you don't approach the celebrities. Especially if you like them and think they are beautiful or talented. You pretend like you don't see them and let them have as normal a life as possible and only look at them out of the corners of your eyes or in the reflection of your iPhone. You never look at them directly!"

Eharmony guy thought I was ridiculous and maybe I am... that is, if "ridiculous" is another word for "right."

Whatever. There are Rules.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Decisions, decisions.

Reasons Why I Am Not Ready For My Date With EHarmony Guy:

1. I had whiskey for dinner last night.

2. "You look... uneven," a coworker said to me this morning. "Did you sleep in your makeup? You only have eyeliner on one eye."

"Ugh. Which one?"

"That one."

::wipes eyeliner off eyeball::


She walked away shaking her head.

3. I need to be writing, editing and posting.

4. Too tired to get cute, too tired to be witty, too tired to write in complete sentences.

Reasons Why I Am Ready For My Date With EHarmony Guy:

1. He sends me text messages that make me laugh really loud alone in my office, thus giving my coworkers the impression that I am insane.

2. Potential for Guinness for dinner.

3. It's Thursday and I have no plans tomorrow night, which gives me the opportunity to lounge around the apartment in a wifebeater and boxers, drink wine from the bottle and do as much writing as possible.

4. I think I forgot how much I like boys. I'm starting to remember that it's a LOT.