I'm practicing the Twitter.

One of my friends is trying to convince me to start a Twitter because she keeps taking my conversational gold nuggets and passing them off as her tweets and she's getting a lot of attention for being clever and witty and I'm only okay with this because she hasn't made any money off of me yet.  So, I've been thinking about starting a Twitter where I will obviously become famous and get lots of monies, and in preparation, I spent my evening practice-tweeting in my head.  Here's what I came up with:

I was in the elevator on my way home today and there were exactly three people and two dogs when I stepped in.  I spent the whole ride playing with the dogs and talking to them about what good dogs they were.  Did not actually say anything to the people.  #thatsnormalright

Watched the entire Sarah Mclaughlin (not Googling how to spell her name) ASPCA commercial and my heart broke with a squish and all this cholesterol leaked out everywhere.  #maybehavesomeoatmeal

I'm considering being a sexy web chat girl because they get paid to sit around in their underwear and just *do* stuff in front of their webcams. That's like a Wednesday night around here, but with a lot more nachos and only a few stains on my wifebeater.

I can't go to my high school reunion until I learn something worthwhile.  You know, other than "booze is great" and "having boobs is awesome."

Everywhere I live, it's like I'm being haunted by landscaping noise at 7 a.m. every Tuesday and Thursday.

Did anyone else freak the fuck out the first time they figured out how to chat online?  Oh, AOL.

I want lickable wall paper in my house and I want it to taste like lasagna.

Dead people I would have loved to party with:  Lux Interior, Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Oscar Wilde, Vonnegut, maybe Jesus. (If there's room in the car.)

Sometimes I drink by myself because I feel like with everything I'm doing wrong as a writer, I can at least do one thing right.  And then I feel accomplished drunk! #drinkyourwaytosuccess

One time, I heard this girl say that the sweetest words a man could say were "I'll buy it for you." I'm pretty sure the sweetest words are actually "Let's watch Army of Darkness and make out."

True story:  I silenced an entire room for making a poorly-timed joke about stapling bread to my shirt and going to a costume party as a yeast infection.  #ladylikedefined

Pets I still want that I'm not allowed to have:  a velociraptor, a great white shark, an octopus, a killer whale, a baby pygmy hippo (but just as a baby), a wolf, Predator, and a ghost.

Everyone contributes something to the world.  I think my gift to the world is to give advice that no one asks for.  You're welcome.

(I feel like I would be rejected from Twitter.)

I never got into drugs because this is how my mind operates sober.

I was watching the History Channel the other day because when Discovery started doing all those gold rush, hillbilly-exploiting reality shows, I turned up my nose at their programming (with the exception of Shark Week, which is a TAB-family high holiday and is celebrated every year with appropriate sharkgod religious fanfare) and there was this show on about the Pacific Northwest and how it used to be a capitol of shanghai-ing people (kidnapping them and selling them to boats bound for Shanghai) and I thought that was really, really tragic. 

"Can you imagine how horrible it would be to wake up and not know where you are and then have to go be a slave on top of it?"  I asked Merrick, because no one else was in my apartment at the time and I talk to my pets like a crazy person.  Merrick didn't say anything (so obvs I'm not THAT crazy) but he did swim around at the front of his tank because he likes it when the TV is on and I gave him some fish-kibbles.

Now, I have actually woken up and not known where I was on a few occasions, but that was mostly in college and the worst place I remember waking up in was a gutter (true story) and even waking up in unsavory places or with various sprained or broken bones (also true, and on separate occasions), it's usually a hilarious, Ke$ha-like experience covered in glitter and somehow a mysterious Santa hat in July and what you hope is your own vomit.  You march home in last night's clothes (psh, Runway Walk of Shame, mofos), order something hangover-curing and fried, and pass out on the couch, no worse for the wear.

But the thought of waking up hungover and then having someone tell you that:  "Oh hey, you're a slave now, push around this wheelbarrow full of rocks," (because in my imagination that's what slaves do?  I don't know.) and just having to deal with it would not sit well with me.  So overall, I'm really glad I don't live in old-timey times when people in the Pacific Northwest had to worry about that every time they left their huts for pizza, or whatever people in history did when they left their huts.

Although, if I did wake up and forgot whether I was in LA or in Seattle, I figure I could just find someone on the street and be like, "Do you like Boba?" and if they were like, "Fett?  Oh yeah, Star Wars for the win!" I would know I was in Seattle.  If they were like, "Boba?  Ugh, bubble tea was so three years ago!"  I would know I was in LA, and then I'd have to find some old-timey kidnapper and tell him to drop me off in Seattle on his way to Shanghai.

The moral of this story is "don't take my effing idea because I'm actually gonna write that into a bad sci-fi episode."

Avoiding grief is stupid because it comes back and bitch slaps you right in the face later on.

I've been sitting on this post for a while.  Not literally, because that would for sure break my laptop.  It's not 'winter weight,' it's insulation, dammit!  I've started it a hundred times, but only last night while I was half-drunk and laying in bed wide awake did things finally materialize for me, leading to an all out emotional breakdown at the behest of hormones and feelings that I usually bottle up and drink away.

Shortly before Thanksgiving this past year, my grandpa passed away.

To be clear, this post will probably be less than humorous and entertaining, but my way of dealing with emotions is to write them because otherwise I can't figure out what the shit is going on inside my head.  That's why I call myself a writer, y'all.  So read it or don't--this one really isn't for you.

When we received news that my grandpa had died, I didn't cry.  Actually, typically when I receive really bad news, I don't cry.  I "sort it out" in my head, break it down into smaller pieces and file them away.  It's only later when something ridiculously trivial happens that my emotional dam breaks and brings forth the flood waters of every little thing that I've been sober and strong about.  That spiral usually leads to drinking in solitude, which you may think is unhealthy, but it's therapeutic for me.  As someone who doesn't handle emotions well, the alcohol in my system gives me remarkable clarity and insight into what I've tamped down inside me.  It allows me to "feel" my "feelings," as it were.  It is always a narcissistic mixture of self-pity, stubborn sadness and despair and it is utterly indulgent for me.  And sometimes?  I think people need that.  I know that I do.

So last night, the proverbial dam cracked and I drowned myself in memories of my darling Grandpa, a man I will always adore and never see again.  He wasn't a saint, in fact, he could be a hard man--a product of the tough-as-nails generation that survived the Great Depression and World War II.  He was smart and ambitious and he traveled the world but always remembered to send postcards to his grandchildren...postcards that I've kept and treasured and that helped light the fire of adventure within myself.  I think the biggest, truest thing that anyone could say about my grandpa is that he was generous.  Truly, when that word has been polluted and lost meaning, he really was generous.  He helped put all of his grandchildren through college.  Not that he was rich financially, but the little that he had, he spread around.  How many people do you know would do that these days?  That's why he is so remarkable to me, I think, because he sacrificed what would have been a very cushy retirement in order to live plainly and provide for his children, and his children's children.

I would not be who I am, I would not have what I have and I would not know what I know without him.  And while the world is a bit more selfish and scary without him, I'll always feel his guidance and inspiration within me.  I love you, Grandpa.  Thank you for everything.

Paranoia is also what I do.

Me:  "I need you to mail me that book I let you borrow a few months ago."

Friendish:  "What the hell, TAB?  I'm like 3/4 of the way through it!  I'll send it when I'm done."

Me:  "No, I need it now.  I'm quitting TV again.  I need all the books I can get.  Lots of reading to do."

Friendish:  "Quitting TV?  Care to explain that one?"

Me:  "It's plotting against me."

Friendish:  "The TV is plotting against you."

Me:  "Yes."

Friendish:  "I'm gonna need more information."

Me:  "It's Saturday night.  I'm in my apartment alone.  You know what's on TV?  "He's Just Not That Into You" and "The Notebook" and a horror movie I saw on a date with an ex.  Do you see the plotting?"

Friendish:  "Right, yes.  You could, you know, leave the apartment and go be social with other human beings."

Me:  "We're discussing my television formulating plots to unhinge me emotionally and you think I'm in some condition to interact with others?  Without supervision?!"

Friendish:  "Good point.  So, drinking alone in your apartment again?"

Me:  "You know what?  Do what you know.  And damn, man, stop judging me."

Friendish:  "It's what I know."

I missed you, but not enough to write about it. But I am now!

I have definitely started this post like, three times already.  It's been close to eternity since I posted anything because I've been getting settled in Seattle (stop it, I'll make all the excuses I want) and frankly, nothing that earth-shattering has happened.  Except that I'm in Seattle now.  Oh, and that I started a new job and just quit it last week.  And that I'm dating again.

Damn.  I suck at that whole, "What's new, TAB?" thing.  Usually I just say, "Nothing," but clearly the correct answer is, "Oh--everything."

Let's just go over this work thing so that you guys don't think I'm some kind of serial quitter because technically, it was more like... half-fired, half-quit.

I took a job with an internet marketing company pretty quickly after I moved because they were looking for journalist-types and as luck would have it, I am sort of a journalist-type.  Fast forward a few weeks when they decided to restructure the department and "go in another direction" with their editorial content.  My boss pulled me aside and said my writing style was too creative for the job.  "But I can be boring," I thought about saying in protest.  "Haven't you seen my blog?!"  (Hahaha.  Burn.  Wait...)

But my boss said he wanted to keep me in the company due to my inherent awesomeness and tried to find a place for me in marketing, which he understood to be a more creative outlet.  I tried sitting through the training in marketing for a couple hours and decided that it was not for me...exacerbated (in part) by the fellow tasked with my training who gave me the creeps and reeked of halitosis and cheap leather.  A fellow, I gathered, who was overly excited about his position of power and probably got his jollies from anime pornography.  (Not that I'm judging, if that's your thing.  It's just not mine.)

Anyway, I realized I would be happier reshelving books at a Barnes and Noble or being a coffee bitch at some nearby Starbucks whilst I take on this editorial internship in October, so here I am.

And you know what?  I missed you guys.  And I missed my blog.  And it's been a minute since I've written anything and honestly, my pride is a little wounded from being told that I'm "too creative" for a job, so be patient with me while I figure this shit out again.

Also, final though:  fall is approaching in Seattle and it feels so different from fall in L.A.  I love it.  It's time for pumpkin spice lattes and Halloween decorations.  And some decorative fall gourds.

I love you guys.

This post already makes me judge myself, so you don't need to.

Apparently William and Kate adopted a penguin at the Chelsea Zoo.  Reason #2,000,000 why I want to be a princess:  everyone lets you have ridiculous pets and no one bats an eye.  "Oh, Princess TAB has a bathtub full of sharks?  No worries, she's trying to impact depleted populations from shark finning.  It's so environmental!"

It's mornings like this that I'm reminded of something my Friend With Great Hair said about MEH and I.  "It's not that you're bad seeds, but you'll never grow into a fruitful tree."  I want that on my business cards.

Day two of my detox is going okay, though I realize now that I'm addicted to dairy.  I've been fantasizing about big, drippy ice cream cones for two solid days (yep, both days of this detox) and alternately recognizing and respecting that I could never be vegan because I would probably kill someone for even the lowliest slice of Kraft American cheese.

Freaking judgmental ice cream mofo. 

Also, hey, why did everyone hate "Sucker Punch"?  I liked it a lot.  I ask because I'm currently listening to the soundtrack and I have a hard time splitting my focus today.  Maybe it's the lack of ice cream in my diet.

I'm trying to love you, Football, but you're boring so it's hard for me.

There are some things in life that I believe I will never learn. Things that I can't comprehend, mistakes that I continue to make over and over, and subjects that I have some kind of mental block against - that no matter how many times I study, evade my understanding. The finer points of string theory, most things related to chemistry, psychological reasons why some people are as useless as a butthole on your forehead, and football.

And, like all good Americans, I hate that which I do not understand. Except for string theory - I think that has some serious potential to be fantastic. Plus I feel like I have a better chance of understanding that than football, which is saying something.

Don't get me wrong, I really enjoy the "experience" of football, especially if there is booze attached to it. Tailgate parties, sports bars, pubs, BBQs... generally, any time I am challenged to make something heart-attack inducing bite-sized, I'm going to be on board. ("These wings would be better if they were wrapped in bacon!") I can also get behind having a home team, but I moved around a bit and my college didn't have a football team, so I missed out there. I also don't mind large sweaty men in jerseys who yell at the television and at the refs and paint their faces like William Wallace in their wife's Suburban. Actually, I commend you for your spirit. That's how I get when Shark Week rolls around every year. (Seriously.)

I've had football "explained" to me at least once a year, from several different people. As a kid, I was too wrapped up in soccer to properly give a shit about anything that wasn't soccer (or ballet, come to think of it) but I knew that the Super Bowl meant snacks and funny commercials. My Dad tried to explain it to me, but I never remembered how those conversations ended because I'm sure EM and I would just take off to go do something more interesting, like watch grass grow. Later in high school, I was in marching band and so was forced to sit through games, unmoved and unthrilled by anything happening. Even when my guy friends tried to inform me about the horrible call that just happened, I would inevitably ask something stupid like, "A safety is what now? He struck out? Oh, it's like a touchdown? Is that like a 3-pointer? Penalty kick? No? Can I have some of your nachos?"

I've dated football players and die-hard football fans who tried, in vain, to make me understand The Greatest Sport In The Universe. It never ended well. I'm determined to learn, if only to prove to myself that if I can understand verb conjugation in most Latin based languages, surely I can understand something understood by millions of men and 5 or 6 women. Probably.

I watched the Super Bowl yesterday and tried to absorb commentary on fumbles and incomplete passes, the point system and the lineup, but ended up bored and making cookies in the kitchen. Some day, I'll learn... it's just that I *really* want to get this string theory thing down first.

Wanna cookie?

Pre-New Year's Resolutions

You know how every January people make up all these useless, shitty lists about how they're going to improve their lives in the coming year? These people call them "New Year's Resolutions" and I have always hated that tradition. Well, come to think of it, I hate a lot of other New Year's traditions, like that "kiss at midnight!" bullshit. Honestly, I've kissed more girls at midnight than guys and let me tell you, the subsequent year is usually no better or worse because of it. Also, it's a scientific fact that girls are better kissers than guys. Einstein said that. Probably.




Anyway, EM is really good about making these neat little lists of things that she wants to accomplish throughout the year, and even though I'm biased, her lists are really the best because it's never like, "I'm going to lose fifteen pounds!" or "I'm going to stop eating so many cheesy, fried things" and "I'm not going to get drunk by myself on weekdays!" which is probably what all of mine would be, but you don't have to worry about that last one because I'm a writer and as a breed, we're only successful when we're alcoholics. I'm drinking my way to success!


So as I was saying, EM's lists are really good because they're all things that are realistic goals, but are also things that would probably improve anyone's outlook on life. One time she put skydiving on her list, and she totally did it. She braved it. She also has things on there like reconnecting with old friends, traveling to places she's never been and setting new career goals for herself. Come to think of it, TOL did the same thing. He, too, was an accomplisher.


As someone with a painfully short attention span, I have a hard time making resolutions because I often change my mind throughout the year. If I were to say something like, "I'm going to stop swearing so god damn often," but then ended up writing a short story with a white trash narrator or transcribing an interview with some metalhead punctuating his sentences with "fuck," it's fair to say those words would creep back into my vocabulary. Ultimately, I would feel like a failure, and I don't like feeling that way. I can barely handle it when I lose at Scrabble. As a result, I've come up with a modified list of resolutions that I am going to accomplish by next October, because they are awesome and/or easy and I will probably not lose interest in them.


1. Get amazing at FPS (first person shooter, for you non-nerds out there) games.


2. Learn to cook/bake ONE thing better than everyone you know. (I was interested in sugar cookies last month, but now I'm interested in cinnamon rolls. Let's not get too specific with the resolution, though, shall we?)


3. Stop making excuses about financial responsibility and buy the goddamn Loubs that you've wanted for two years.


4. Probably learn to not be so afraid of ants. Spiders are still fucking terrifying, though, so it's cool to be afraid of them.


5. Stop making excuses about watching documentaries and bad SyFy movies. You're a nerd, and everyone already knows.


6. Now that you've mastered the art of haiku, learn the art of limericks. Especially dirty and/or zombie ones.


7. Finally decide which is better: Coke or Pepsi.


8. Travel somewhere outside your comfort zone.


9. Make more mixes on your iPod.


10. Also take a lot more pictures. We have fun doing that and we want to get better at it.


11. Find and watch all Bruce Campbell movies that you haven't seen yet.


Done and done. Ef you, January, not only do I make lists with uneven numbers, but I make my resolutions WHENEVER I FEEL LIKE IT.

The Average Recap!

Okay, as it turns out, I'm not dead. I sort of thought I was on Monday when my epic death plague hangover triggered an equally epic death migraine, but long story short, my absence from my little blogiverse has been a result of various important other things, like EM's birthday a week or so ago. Also, it's summer, and as we all know, summer is the time when the surrounding heat creeps into your body and leeches into your brain like, "Hey! It's hot! We don't want to do anything! Screw laundry! Screw grocery shopping! Screw responsibility! This is beer drinkin' weather and we're going to make you too lethargic to get off your lazy, sweaty butt and accomplish anything. Even blogging, the laziest of all writing exercises. Not. Gonna. Do. It."

Additionally, the sad facts are that I haven't really had much entertainment to share. Eharmony guy, music journalist guy and hot musician have pretty much gone the way of the buffalo, TOL and I are still on pleasant but ever-more-distant terms (good... I guess?), work is still as soul-sucking as it was last month and most of my extra writing has been funneled into one larger project approved by the Writer's Workshop of Death (inclusive of MEH and Friend With Great Hair). EM and EM's boyfriend are still doing well and planning on visiting EM's boyfriend's family in the nether regions of the States in July which will most likely leave me bored and alone in the apartment for a month, but also able to sit around in my underwear without fear of impropriety or social repercussion.

Ahh, stability - a blessing and a curse.

To Recap:

1. The Average Broad: not dead.

2. Everything is pretty much the same.

3. Oh, I think I'm gonna get a bbq this weekend. Omg. BBQ. ::swoon::

4. Have you ever seen banana flavored ice cream? I don't think I have, but I wonder what it would be like to have a banana flavored banana split.

5. Also, I'm going to learn to surf this summer. Hell yes.

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.

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?

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

Today I found a brilliant article from the femmes at Cosmopolitan.com 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.
Example:
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 Cosmopolitan.com, 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.

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.

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.