To My Stalker:

I do not get hit on that often. Granted, some part of that is (I hope) because I don't go out as often as I used to, but there it is. Actually, even when I *had* a social life, I still didn't get hit on that much.

Huh.

Anyway, it's not that I'm hideous or have questionable hygiene or that I twitch a lot or spit when I talk, but I think it's more closely related to my loud, obnoxious laugh (and I laugh all the time), my... :ahem: "colorful" sense of humor, acerbic sarcasm problem and tomboyish tendencies. Additionally, I have no shame and can be socially awkward. Once, a guy approached me in a grocery store and called me "foxy" and I somehow ended up singing Hendrix and wailing on my air guitar, which I thought was perfectly appropriate. He gave me kind of a weird look, though, and walked away. I was later informed that this was not the correct response to a guy calling you foxy, but dude. Foxy lay-daay. Dun dun dunn, dun dun dunnnnnn. If that's not the first thing you think of when someone says, "Well aren't *you* a foxy thang?" then obviously your brain is not working right. Maybe you should see someone about that.

I'm giving you this back story, friends, because I would like to express my shock at the fact that I have a stalker.

*I know.*

Remember a few months ago when I was at that horrible paparazzi event and I ended up hitting on the Hot Old Spice Guy? As I was leaving the event to go home and write my article, I was approached by a young man. When I say approached, I of course mean "chased down the street". I heard him running up behind me and thought he was going to try and mug me, because who *else* literally chases after women? Naturally, I clutched my purse and my notes close to me and mentally catalogued any available weapons on my person just in case.

*SLASH* You've been foiled by my ability to give you a paper cut with my notes!

As it turns out, he did not, in fact, want my purse. He wanted my number. The exchange went something like this:

"Hey! Did you just come out of that restaurant over there?" says my potential mugger.

"No." I bent into a kind of crouch - ready to leap at him and paper cut him near the jugular.

"Oh. Well, what are you up to?"

"Going home. I'm on deadline. Bye." I was squinting at him suspiciously, still crouched with my dangerous paper weapon.

"Wait, can I have your number?"

"Uh, what? ::extreme confusion on my part:: Why? No. I'm in a hurry." I started walking away, but he followed me a bit, peppering me with questions that I was getting more and more frustrated answering ("Are you from here?" "No." "What deadline?" "Work." "Can I have your number?" "No." "Why?" "I don't know you." "Can I get to know you?" "No. I'm anti-social and weird." "Really?" "Yes."). When he asked again for my number, I realized that I had to give him some kind of information to get him to leave, because I definitely didn't want him following me all the way to my car because, while a car would be a much more formidable weapon for my defense, it's somewhat illegal to try to run over a guy who just wants your number. I tried to remember the fake number that I used to give out all the time gave out that one time, and recited it to the best of my ability, which turned out to not be a great kind of ability at all because the only thing I thought of was my actual number, which is what I ended up reciting.

*facepalm*

Is it true that alcohol abuse can have adverse effects on your memory? Yes. Yes, it is absolutely true.

The next day, Stalker Man texted me. I didn't respond. A few days after that, he called me and left a voicemail. I didn't answer, or return his call. The week after that, he texted again. I didn't respond again. He called. I didn't answer.

You get the idea, right? Good.

He did not get the idea.

After a solid month and a half of attempting to get a hold of me, failing, and attempting again on a weekly basis, I finally grew some huevos. I responded to him one evening when I was just getting into bed and he had called, left a voicemail, and texted all in the span of 5 minutes.

"Listen," I texted back. "I'm really flattered by your attention, but I'm dating someone else. Sorry. Best of luck with everything."

"Cool," he responded. "If your life ever clears up a bit, give me a call and I'll take you on a tropical adventure."

Yep. I couldn't make that shit up. A tropical adventure? Uh, wherein you would kidnap me, ship me to Singapore and sell me as a white sex slave? Excellent. Tropical adventure, indeed.

I figured, however, that was the end of my stalker. I didn't hear from him for a couple weeks, but then, one afternoon he called again and left a voicemail saying that he wanted to "hang out" and "catch up" and "tie me up in his basement". Okay, he didn't really say that last part, but it was there between the lines, you know? Great idea, let's catch up! Here's what we can catch up on: I don't like you and have tried to ignore you, be polite, be honest and wish you the best. You however, only hear what you want to hear, which apparently sounds like, "OHMYGOD! I'M SO GLAD YOU CALLED! PLEASE KEEP BOTHERING ME BECAUSE SURELY, YOUR PERSISTENCE WILL PAY OFF! P.S. I WANT YOU TO TAKE ME ON A TROPICAL ADVENTURE!"

So here we are, very clearly not on the same page. That will probably change soon, though, because I have every intention of hunting down your email address and sending you this blog entry to further clarify any misgivings you may have about me.

"Surely," you are probably thinking, "surely, TAB, you will miss me?"

No. I will not miss you; I am an excellent shot.

It's National French Fry Day!

An Almost Free Giveaway!

When it comes to this blog, I have only recently discovered how much of a thrill I get when I see comments or other people another person subscribing to me.

At first, I was as cool as a cucumber, believing that this was more of an online diary for *me* to post what I wanted, regardless of having other people read it. I didn't care. It was for me. I was like the Kristen Stewart of blogging.

And then, I started seeing people comment! I watched with anxious eyes and bated breath as my hits slowly climbed, forced, in part, by my constant facebook cry-for-attention pandering.

I have realized, as a writer, that I mostly do not write things for me. Call me crazy, but I like to write things that will be read. By other people. Actually, I would like a job doing something of that very nature.

This has brought me to two conclusions:

1. maybe if people read like follow me, eventually, someone will want to pay me to write something, and

2. I need more followers and/or comments to be relevant enough for this to happen.

My God! you're thinking, doesn't she have any pride? Shame, perhaps?

My answer to you is: no. No, I do not.

My conclusions have also brought me to an even more disgraceful plan of action. Put simply, bribery.

For every person that follows or comments on this blog post, I will write a personalized haiku. Here is an example of my poetic skillz:

I do not want fame,

I just want a writing job

Because my job sucks.

Or perhaps something like this little gem:

I think that zombies

Should take human brain jerky

On all camping trips.

That's right, kids. One of these precious 17 syllable treasures could be your very own! All you have to do is show me some internet love. Ready, set, go!

Okay, so Google: 2, TAB: 0

The Average Broad: *dude*

MEH: *yes?*

TAB: now the ads for my blog that say "make potassium nitrate"

TAB: isn't that how you make a bomb?!

MEH: lmao

TAB: GOOGLE THINKS I AM A TERRORIST

MEH: time to photoshop an image of you with a hand grenade, a sword and a green bandana obscuring your face...and sunglasses

TAB: is that seriously how you make a bomb?

TAB: i have no idea

MEH: i have no idea. im not a terrorist like you

MEH: lol dont google it either or you'll end up on a govt no fly list

TAB: I KNOW OMFG THEY ALREADY THINK I'M A TERRORIST BECAUSE OF GOOGLE

TAB: now i can't look it up or they'll *know*

In other news, I probably shouldn't have had beers at lunch.

Google:1, TAB: 0

The Average Broad: you are not going to believe this. on my google ads box on my blog, there is an ad for "how to make booby traps"

MEH: nice!

The Average Broad: how the hell did google generate that?

MEH: booby traps will come handy in the zombie apocalypse

The Average Broad: where do i say anything about booby traps?

The Average Broad: they post ads based on your post content

The Average Broad: like, there are a lot of ads about bartending

The Average Broad: and alcohol and stuff

MEH: haha you lush

The Average Broad: why yes, pot, i AM black

The Average Broad: i mean, i feel like google jumped the gun here and now i *have* to post something about booby traps

The Average Broad: otherwise it's FALSE ADVERTISING

The Average Broad: do you see how they did that there? google has effectively made me their bitch. first china made google *their* bitch, and now google's taking it out on the little people

The Average Broad: WELL PLAYED, GOOGLE.

MEH: dude, i never understood the meaning of that kettle saying

The Average Broad: the pot calling the kettle black. because they are both black, and probably racist

MEH: yeah, i knew the racist undertone

MEH: like shit telling vomit it stinks

The Average Broad: oh wow, that is a decidedly more visceral version

The Average Broad: but yeah, same thing

MEH: hah

The Average Broad: maybe i will just post a blog with this conversation, since i've already talked about booby traps and therefore met my quota according to google

MEH: perfect

MEH: boobs

The Average Broad: NOW it's perfect, right?

MEH: i wanted you to get more diverse advertising

The Average Broad: do you think it'll be bras or porn now?

MEH: porn. it'll go well with the booze ads

The Average Broad: i'm glad you and google *finally* understand me.

A Non-Poetic Ode to Food

I have been known, on occasion, to put food above certain things in life.

When I was in college, I dated a guy for a short time who turned out to be vegan. This wasn't the only reason that our relationship didn't work, but it certainly played a factor. Shallow? Probably. But if your extended family is true-to-life Kansas cattle rancher folk and you're raised like me, eating steak on special occasions, mixing with an herbivore works sort of like a velociraptor dating a stegosaurus.

Dates proved difficult.

"Where do you want to go for dinner?" Stegosaurus would ask.

"Mexican?"

"Well, I can only eat rice and beans. And salsa," he would say, disappointed.

"Chinese?"

"Don't they cook with lard?"

"Mmm... yes, they do."

"Ugh, no. That's animal fat! Plus they put eggs in their fried rice, gross," Stegosaurus would pull a face, now disgusted.

This would go on for an hour or so, while my velociraptor gut would grumble, until I'd crankily threaten to drive us to a steakhouse, tie him outside and let him eat grass while I sat at the window and slowly devoured a medium rare steak with a side of bacon.

Needless to say, we didn't last long.

On the flip side of that food and romance equation, the thing that truly cemented my crush on TOL in the early days was learning that he had gone to culinary school in New York and had worked as a cook. Be still, my cholesterol-choked heart.

I grew up in a house with family meal time, holidays spent with everyone crowded in the kitchen jostling each other out of the way to get to their pot of boiling water or the walnut torte that was about to burn in the oven. I love to cook as much as I love to eat, and as my father often jokes about our family, "If there's one thing we know how to do, it's eat."

It's no surprise, really, that food is so important to me. Cooking is how I express love the best. A good diet requires balance, just as a good life does. Keep it all in moderation, you know? And for the love of God, use some common sense. If it's a little bizarre to you that your crash-cleanse-shit-the-fat-out diet requires you to drink 8oz of salt water first thing in the morning, do you *really* think it's a good idea? Does it *really* make sense to go on an exhaustive 7 day green tea only "detox", but still smoke a pack a day? IT'S NOT HARD, PEOPLE.

Whatever, though, it's a personal choice. So you can keep your miracle pill, grapefruit and celery fast, and I'll be over here, enjoying the fuck out of my pork fried rice. Cooked with lard.

I keep fireworks in my underwear drawer.

Oddly enough, Independence Day is one of the most memorable holidays for me. EM and I were born in Sacramento, where it is legal to buy and use fireworks because 1. NorCal is not made of specifically flammable plants, and 2. if things get out of hand, people have the good common sense to put the fire out with water, as opposed to attacking it with axes like they do here in SoCal.

"Stupid 'no-hose' budget cuts."

This is probably why I held on to my ex-boyfriend's gifted bottle rockets for as long as I did.

My ex gave them to me as part of either a Christmas or Birthday present a couple years ago because he shared in my moderately destructive leanings, and I figured that I would hold on to them for us to light together... you know, saved for something special. I stuck them in the safest place that I knew: my underwear drawer.

Fast forward a year to July of '09, when I was hopelessly smitten with TOL. For our 4th of July celebration last year, a group of us headed over to the coast to see the *big* explosions over the beach, and then on our way back to inland Los Angeles I remembered...

I have firepower in my skivvies drawer!

TOL and EM's boyfriend made with the matches and we lit said bottle rockets off in the street outside. It was a glorious and unsafe combination of alcohol, explosives and asshole-neighbor's-car-directionality. We made it out alive and unscathed. The rest of my bottle rockets were abandoned in favor of hour-long makeouts with TOL, who attracted my attention much more effectively than the smell of gunpowder.

This year, again, they were discovered nestled in the back of my underwear drawer, mysteriously wrapped in a pair of stockings.

"EM's boyfriend!" I called across the apartment. "Do you have any interest in possessing some slightly illegal fireworks that I've been stashing in my underwear drawer?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"Good. I don't know how old they are, really, and I'm afraid they'll suddenly and inexplicably go off and light my lingerie on fire. Also, I think one of them leaked. How do I get gunpowder out of stockings? Can I just wash them? Am I in danger of having them explode?"

"No," EM's boyfriend said, eyeing me with that look.

I handed them off and nursed my nostalgia for previous Independence Days, when, this very 4th of July weekend, I uncovered yet another bottle rocket while cleaning out my drawers of drawers. I thought about lighting it off, I thought about giving it to EM's boyfriend, I even thought about tossing it, but then my girly-emotion-centers stopped me. I suddenly remembered my childhood 4th of July block parties with root beer floats and Roman Candles and sparklers, I remembered a 4th of July at Mount Rushmore on an epic month-long camping trip with my parents, I remembered my adorable ex giving me the stash of flammable projectiles and I remembered TOL laughing at me when I lit them off in the street.

No. I decided. I'm going to save this for something special.