But other than these things, men are still a mysterious conundrum of enigmas to me.

Okay, so the other day I was talking about this particular blog with all of my super-excellent dating suggestions and my friend threw it back in my face like, "What the heck do you know about dating, perpetually single girl?"

And I was all, "Hey man, I know at least 3 things for sure about dating," and that led me to generate this spectacular list that I'm pretty much giving you guys for FREE because I want you all to learn from my mistakes, which I make on a routinely regular basis (so obviously I'm not learning from them myself, which is why you guys have to, you feel me?)!

Things I Know About Dating (Alternatively: Lessons I've *Almost* Learned)

1. It sucks. Maybe it doesn't for everyone, but dude? I am so tired of having the same conversations over and over. "Grew up in California. Love cheeseburgers, burritos and beer. Have seen almost every zombie movie ever made and yes, they are an art form. Hate Kristen Stewart and romcoms. Love Vonnegut, Moore, and comic books. UGH I AM ALREADY BORED. But! I have also learned that if you try to mix things up like, "If James Bond had Jedi powers and existed as a foil to Indiana Jones, would Indiana Jones still save the world?" people look at you weird because they think you're on drugs or don't really appreciate the intricacies of the places that ADD will take your imagination. So, you have to stick with the boring stuff, which always feels like a job interview, and you know what? I don't want to go to job interviews when I could be eating boxes of Girl Scout cookies in pajamas with EM or sitting pantsless in my apartment playing video games.

2. The job of dating is to judge the other person, which means you should tell half-truths, or keep your weirdness to yourself.  Okay, hear me out on this one:  recently, I went out with a nice-ish fella who was somewhat interested in the fact that I was a writer, so I enthusiastically told him that I'm having a short story published in a horror anthology. "Oh," he says, interest waning. "Horror? What's it about?" and I said, "It's about a girl who kills and eats her boyfriend." I do see how that could be a red flag, but I explained that it wasn't to be taken literally and that it was more of a metaphor for some of the types of people that I met when I lived in LA and how our culture seems to condone disposable relationships with flippant consequences... but the damage was done. In his eyes, I was already a cannibal. So! Perhaps I should have stopped while I was ahead and changed the subject, but I only really have the miraculous gift of hindsight. The point here is that every single person is weird in some way, but you're not supposed to talk about it until after you get in the other person's pants. Or until the other person understands your sense of humor. Whichever comes first, right? It's just that personally, my goal here is to find someone whose oddities are on par with my own because I'm really bad at half-truths, but I'm sure if I was more coy or mysterious, I would just be covered up with dreamboats.

3. Just try to take care of yourself. I still have no idea how women are supposed to behave. I just cannot keep up with the news, you guys. Am I supposed to let a guy pay for me? Am I supposed to offer? Does that offend his sense of masculinity? Should I be offended if he asks to go dutch? If he doesn't offer to pay and I'm left with the check, should I hate him immediately for not being a gentleman? Am I supposed to demand the check because I am a strong, independent woman and I don't need no man to pay mah bills? If he pays, does that mean I have to laugh at his jokes that aren't really funny and entitle him to sexy Business Time? DOES ANYONE EVEN KNOW THE ANSWERS TO THESE QUESTIONS?! Because I don't. Seriously. When the bill comes, I usually get really sweaty and twitchy and just try to pay for myself. My rationale lies in my upbringing, because my parents always taught EM and me to take care of ourselves and not expect anyone else to, because it isn't anyone else's job. This is why I've never been able to understand the "gold digger" philosophy. What happens if your ugly rich husband dies and changes his will on his deathbed and leaves all of his money to Save the Sea Otters or something? You can't rely on someone else to pay your bills, ladies. Those sea otters are fucking cute.

OMG OF COURSE I WOULD LEAVE EVERYTHING TO YOU!

That's what it boils down to for me, you guys. Always hang out with your friends and family over dates (unless your date is Bruce Campbell). Try to find someone who matches your level of weirdness, or be good at keeping your quirks secret. Don't rely on anyone else to take care of you. Also, I guess if you're gonna be a gold digger, make sure your husband hates sea otters.

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."

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.

I drunk text about dinosaurs, apparently.

Hey guys, I've missed you.  Sorry I've been so distant, but we both know I just do that from time to time.  It's not you, it's me.  I still love you though, and I've been (mostly) faithful to you.

So as if you didn't know, the last month or two have been pretty awful.  My family has been dealing with some difficult shiznit that I'm not really gonna go into, suffice it to say that things are on the mend (we hope).  As a result of this depressive state, EM and I have been struggling to keep our spirits afloat and may have indulged in some less than healthy habits, like eating an entire batch of cupcakes in just under two days. 

...and getting hammered while watching the replay of the royal wedding this weekend.  (Because how fucking amazing did Kate look?  I love a classy broad.)  And then discussing "wedding fever" and the upcoming nuptials of a lovely, well-to-do friend and needing to get obliterated again last night.  Monday night.  (When I say 'night' I actually mean 'afternoon')  What?!  Don't judge me like you've never gotten drunk on a weekday afternoon.  Anyway, so maybe I was the only one drinking, but EM was in the room so it's not like I was drinking alone which is for college kids and alcoholics, of which I am neither (anymore) so whatever. 

Now that you're here, uterus-deep in crazy with me, be advised that after much research (re:  googling a couple things) EM and I have decided to do this 28-day "wellness" detox thing to get the leftover cupcake cholesterol and lingering alcohol and weighty depression out of our veins and give ourselves a much-needed fresh start.  Before you start judging me again (jeez you guys need to be more accepting) know that I am not a fan of things like the so-called "master cleanse" and other stupid shit that involves eating only grapefruits and drinking horse piss or whateverthefuck.  I've opted into this shiznit because it appears to be a healthy balance of exercise and fresh fruits and veggies and limiting your intake of processed foods on a gradual basis.  As you all know, I am a fat kid trapped in a skinny kid and I love my red meat, bacon, whiskey and Guinness and holy crap, coffee, what am I going to do without you?!  Die, probably. 

Last night while I was on my way to Drunksville, I had briefly considered slowly eliminating caffeine and red meat and processed deliciousness from my diet to make the overall 'detox' thing less of a shock to my body, but then by the time I was sending vowel-less text messages about "banking on dinosaur eggs???;alsk" (yeah I don't remember wtf that was about) I decided that since I'm going to go for an entire freaking month without my delicious things, I'm going on an all-out debauchery bender this week, obviously kicked off by getting sauced yesterday and carried on by getting big fuck-off burgers for dinner.  Probably finishing that margarita mix in the fridge, too.  You know, to remove temptation.  (Detox starts this weekend, kids.)

I'll try to keep my progress update bitching minimal. 

I obviously need to intern with Sheen to learn how to succeed. Also, OMG I used a lot of commas in this one.

I feel like I've been posting a lot about Facebook lately and even though I've only posted like twice about it, two can definitely be "a lot" if you're like me and you think things like, "When I say I want a lot of whiskey, I mean I want two bottles."  Two bottles is a lot of whiskey, you guys, unless you're an alcoholic and I'm not because I don't drink alone, except when I have good reasons, like not having an odd number of bottles in the house.  Symmetry is better for feng shui.  Probably.

Anyway, so my graduating class from high school has this Facebook group so that we can all keep in touch and have a splendid turnout for our 2013 reunion.  The problem is that much of what I remember about high school, I have tried to drink away in subsequent irresponsible college years and the following useless years of my twenties.  It's not that I hated high school or was bullied or picked on (that I can remember, anyway), but let's say for the sake of simplicity that I was a late blooming tomboy geek who hasn't really learned much since high school except that alcohol is delicious and having boobs is awesome.

So apparently, I'm supposed to show up to this shindig with a bunch of people who already knew me as a late blooming tomboy geek and stand there awkwardly when they ask me what it is that I do and I tell them that I'm a writer in my soul just because I don't think I'm really qualified to do anything other than that and then brace myself for the inevitable "Oh?  What have you written?  Have you published anything?" where I will stare at them blankly and drain my whiskey neat while they talk about their husbands/wives/careers/babies.  At this point, I'm already starting to envision an evening like in Zack and Miri Make A Porno and I'll probably end up hitting on one of the men I crushed on in high school and striking out again because he's secretly a gay porn star.  One can only hope.

I'd be much more apt to let all of this go and journey down that road of not giving a fuck what others may think of my "brand" of success if I wasn't already mid-crisis about everything right now.  We'll see where I end up in a year and a half, and if all else fails, I'll just show up topless and drunk because that is at least capitalizing on what I've learned in the years since high school, and life, my friends, is all about personal growth.

Anniversary! Wherein I celebrate immaturity with whiskey.

Well, well, well.  Thursday will be my 1 year blogiversary.  Honestly, I had no idea that I would keep up with this for more than a few months.  I went back and read some of my older entries, where I was just learning how to use this tool (ha ha, 'tool') and trying to figure out what I wanted out of it.  Maybe there's been some personal growth on my part.  (Probably not.)  I can only hope that since I've been committed to this blog for a year, perhaps it means I'm maturing past the anxiety I have every time I have to commit to something for longer than five minutes and bribing my short attention span with the promise of greater rewards.  (Like money, and cake!  And booze.)

Then again, maybe I've kept up with this because I needed a platform for whiny, self-indulgent and narcissistic bitching whilst going through the typical 1/3 life crisis that us MeGen kids are finding ourselves in the midst of these days. 

I have a sneaking suspicion that I haven't matured, and that my miserable, "failed writer" ego just needed to be stroked. (Ha ha... 'stroked'.)

Yeah, definitely haven't matured.

Why is it always about butt sex?

It's not that I'm slacking off with the posting, but I'm going to be a brat and throw out the "it was my birthday on Monday and also I've been in Seattle and Portland and haven't been near a computer" card, so you guys can just mellow out for a sec.

I'm sorry. Thanks for forgiving me. Let's never fight again, okay?

So you heard me right - I journeyed from helLA to the Pacific Northwest to run amok in two beautiful, rainy cities that were both full of amazing food, gorgeous scenery and Holy Balls, some of the most beautiful bearded lumberjack-hipster men I have ever seen. Seriously, a lot of the men I've scoped here in SoCal have this whole, super pretty actor thing going on, and sometimes it's really refreshing to get out of your milieu and turn your winks towards someone who looks manly enough to throw you over his shoulder fireman-style and chop down a forest with the other hand, all while growing a majestic beard and distilling his own moonshine.

I've sung the praises of Seattle before, but this trip we spent some time in Portland, which apparently is known for like, wilderness and beer and a certain cultural literacy and also so many hipsters. The city was charming and the bars were stellar and there was even a Beauty Bar, which, if you are unfamiliar, is both a salon AND a bar/club. It was in this establishment that I met two unfortunate gentlemen who, sadly, were the victims of my warped sense of borderline drunk humor. (And really? I could probably write a book about all the reasons why I am single but frankly, sometimes you've got to forsake getting some sugar for the good of entertainment and I like to think of myself as a martyr for entertainment. I'm really doing this for you. You're welcome.)

EM took this picture! I didn't, because I suck at that kind of thing.

EM, her lady-friend "Rob-A-Bank" and I sat down and EM went to go order us a round of drinks at Beauty Bar, PDX (that means Portland, FYI). While she was at the bar, a drunk man swerved up to me and said that he would like to buy me a drink so that I would dance with him. Kindly refusing, I told him that I was here with my girls and wasn't interested. He persisted. EM rejoined Rob-A-Bank and I, flanked by Drunk Fool's friend, who then engaged the group of us in conversation. Not wanting to appear entirely bitch, I politely addressed Drunk Fool's friend for the express purpose of exiting conversation with Drunk Fool. Here's how it went:

Drunk Fool's Friend: Where are you ladies from? My friend and I are here visiting Portland, but we're from Seattle.

The Average Broad: Oh, we're from L.A. I love Seattle - what brings you guys here?

Drunk Fool (rudely interjecting): THIS! (shoves a chunk of weed under my nose. Let me just clarify something here: I hate the smell of weed. I'm sorry. It nauseates me. I know a lot of you all like it, enjoy it, whatever, but to me it smells like a skunk just took a shit on some plant that you're about to light up and smoke. You can call me crazy, lots of people do. Irritated, I continued:)

TAB: Wow. Thankfully, I'm off duty, otherwise I would have a lot of questions for you kids.

Drunk Fool: Ha ha... wait, what?

TAB: You guessed it, son. I'm an undercover DEA agent. I'd suggest you two mosey on along before I have to confiscate your wares there and take you in for questioning.

Drunk Fool: (confused face) You're a... cop?

TAB: That is a 10-4, good buddy.

Drunk Fool: No you're not! Where's your badge?

TAB: I told you, I'm off duty. Plus it doesn't go with this outfit, so I left it back in the hotel. You would be in such trouble, though, OMG. Stay out of my jurisdiction, because now I know your face. I know your face and I know you're dealing and I just might call up one of my PDX brothers-in-arms and have them do a full body cavity search just to make sure that's all the product you have.

Drunk Fool: Are...are you serious?

TAB: Yep. That's cop talk for when someone straps on a latex glove and checks your butt for hidden drugs, like a human pinata or something. Without lube. Not too pleasant, unless you're into that kind of thing. Are you into that kind of thing, son?

Drunk Fool: No... (frightened rabbit eyes at his friend) We should... we're going to go now.

At this point Drunk Fool wanders off. His friend, who had been talking to EM, had missed out on this gem of a conversation and turned to me before running off to find his friend.

Drunk Fool's Friend: Ha ha, so earlier my friend and I got hit on by a couple of gay guys! Isn't that crazy?

TAB: Why is that crazy?

Drunk Fool's Friend: Well, because we're straight. Uh, do we look gay?

Rob-A-Bank: ::shrugs:: Maybe...

TAB: Yeah, we're from L.A. We naturally assume everyone is gay.

Drunk Fool's Friend: Oh, well, I'm not. And um, we have a hotel room...

TAB: That's good for you, being able to make reservations on your own. I hope the hotel is gay-friendly, you know, for your lifestyle.

Drunk Fool's Friend: What? No, no, we're not gay.

TAB: You probably are, a little bit. Your friend over there? The drug mule? He got so nervous when I mentioned hiding drugs in your butt. I mean, I'm not gonna judge you, your preference in sexuality and drug hiding places is all up to you, you know? Just be careful, because when they cavity search you, I hear they don't use lube.

Drunk Fool's Friend: Uh... so... you're from LA? What do you do there?

TAB: I'm in the porn industry. I'm the screenwriter for several films, mainly ones that focus on what I like to call Anal Romance. Ha, but that's probably something you know a lot about! Do you have anything you want me to autograph for you? I can make it out to your boyfriend/drug mule... free of charge.

Drunk Fool's Friend: Um. I have to go over here now.

TAB: (shouting across the bar and dance floor) Ha ha, okay there friend! You crazy kids be safe, always wear condoms! And find better places to stash your drugs! No one wants to smoke butt-weed, okay?

So that's how that went. The rest of the evening I danced with a hipster guy who looked like a lumberjack and wore suspenders on too-tight jeans. When he asked what I did for a living, I told him I made a living correcting improper uses of "irony" and thought I could make a killing here in Portland. He immediately stopped talking to me and danced off.

I love being on vacation.

Don't talk to me when I'm trying to make out with you. It ruins everything.

I've decided that in this perilous age of depressingly flexible morality, dating has become one of the most dangerous sports ever. Like, worse than rugby. Worse than gladiators battling lions and Russell Crowe (I hear he throws things when he's mad!) and worse than my own version of golf, which EM and I made up when we were kids because we thought that regular golf was boring, so all of our sand traps had cobras and our water hazards had sharks, and you had to hit the golf ball at the same time as your opponent and then race to the next hole, and golf carts were actually chariots that you could use but they were super dangerous like in Ben Hur (because remember how that one guy actually *died* when they were filming?!) and the whole thing was played over an ancient Native American burial ground that was full of zombies on all prime numbered holes. Extreme Death Golf!

Anyway, dating is worse than all of those put together. At least if zombies attack me when I'm golfing, I have the luxury of decapitating them with my golf club (which would have a razor sharp edge sort of like a machete) but I am not allowed to discipline men in that way because frankly, that sort of thing would get your ass thrown in prison and I've never really done well in small, confined spaces.

To better explain my recent frustration, let me tell you a bit about my New Year's Eve.

I didn't want to go out. I really wasn't going to, but EM and EM's boyfriend convinced me at the last minute to properly usher in 2011, so the decision was made. EM's boyfriend's friend joined us, he brought a couple of his friends, and everyone seemed perfectly nice, so after a few Jack and Cokes I was feeling better about this whole stupid holiday. I suppose at this point we can fast forward to the bar, and later through our hours and copious amounts of alcohol at said bar, and way until the end of the evening, when it's safe to say that my sobriety was nowhere to be found and it had taken my short term memory with it.

One of these gentlemen who had accompanied us to this bar was particularly cute in my opinion and I'm assuming entertaining, because by the end of the night I hadn't lost interest. I'm aware that there was flirting, but really don't remember what we talked about, or anything that would've been remotely important at the time. I was drunk, he was cute, I love flirting, and the group of us was on our way to Taco Bell. Life was good.

Somehow, as I'm sure you may have guessed already, this fellow and I ended up making out. How? When? Why? I wish I could tell you. I wish I actually remembered that part. Whatever, life was still good. Until he started talking. Ugh.

(Let me just stop right here and say I am seriously not a fan of romantic confessions. I don't know why it always happens in the most inconvenient times possible for me, but I am sick to death of getting all flirty and kissy over some gent just to have him stop me and say something like, "I'm actually married," or "My girlfriend just moved away, but we're going to try to make it work," or even "This doesn't mean I want to date you." Yeah. All of those have *really* happened. Just save us both the trouble and don't say anything, and then I won't have to ruin the mood by envisioning your demise, okay? Haha, okay.)

"I'm a bad person," I vaguely remember him saying.

"What? No, no, you're a good kisser. All is well."

"No, I shouldn't be here," he said.

Uh oh. Here it comes...

"Crap. So... are you married?" I like to start with the worst, to lessen the blow of some not-as-bad revelation.

"No..."

"Ugh. How many girlfriends do you have?"

"Just the one," he said, still trying to be up in my grill.

"Sonofabitch. WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SOMETHING?!"

"I thought about it throughout the night, I had these opportunities... but I'm really attracted to you and you're so charming and quite a conversationalist... I was just doomed," he said, trying to convey his helplessness.

"Dude. It's not my fault I'm awesome and you have no self-control. I'm suddenly very tired and going to bed. You can pass out on the floor in the living room with the other guys. Dick."

"Don't be mad, it's not your fault," he repeated to me.

Obviously, I was mad. Infuriated. Not that I had anticipated having anything meaningful or long-lasting with this guy, but had I known that he was taken I wouldn't have talked to him, let alone flirted with him. Nothing would have happened. I'm aware of my behavior when I drink and I'm not the type to put myself within the path of temptation. Still, I hope he's honest with his girlfriend and I hope she dumps his ass. I'd like to think that there's justice somewhere in this hideous turn of events.

To prevent this sort of thing from happening in the future, I've decided to compose a quick dating questionnaire for men to fill out before I can formulate any sort of interest. The top three questions will be: 1. Are you gay? 2. Are you currently married? 3. Are you currently dating, in a relationship, or otherwise romantically spoken for? IF YOU ANSWERED 'YES' TO ANY OF THESE QUESTIONS, PLEASE TURN YOUR QUESTIONNAIRE IN AND BE ON YOUR WAY. FAILURE TO ANSWER THESE QUESTIONS TRUTHFULLY WILL RESULT IN POTENTIAL HARM TO YOU, EITHER PSYCHOLOGICALLY OR PHYSICALLY. THANKS FOR PLAYING.

I have a crush on you already, 2011.

Holy Sparkly Balls, you guys, Christmas is nearly here. Are you ready? I'm not. Are you ready for me and everyone else to shut up about it and get on with some normalcy that is not "holiday season" related? Wow, too bad for you, Scrooge, I am not done talking about it and you need to go out and get drunk and find yourself some goddamn festive spirit.


Just kidding. I love you guys.


No, I'm not drunk yet. Why do you keep asking me that?

So. With the new year approaching (holla at me, 2011!) and my birthday being in January and all, this time of year is when I typically have to do "end of the year" write ups and articles about like "the best of" and "do you know what should not have happened this last year that didn't?" It's a great time for me to reflect on the year behind me and get my size 9 in gear for the next year.


What do I have to say to you, 2010?


Good riddance to bad rubbish. That's right. You buh-leeeew. Maybe you were some kind of "transition to awesome" year or like, a year to fill in some plot holes (like they do with television shows and comics and stuff) but there was honestly not a whole lot about you that I liked. You were supposed to be too legit to quit and you ended up being a small, annoying town ravaged by Suckzilla.


I mean, really, I'm glad to have survived you. You're like a boyfriend who cheats and makes snide comments about how I should lose weight and how I drink too much and don't talk about my feelings enough but when I dump you and set fire to your things and stand there reflecting, I am imbued with this feeling of relief like, "OMG I am so glad you done bit the dust, you asshat."


Basically what I'm saying is that I am stronger because of you, and do you know what that means? 2011 is going to fucking rock.


2011 will essentially be new hot guy who swoops in and kisses my cheek to say hello and laughs at my jokes and reads my writings and will surprise me with Guinness when I've been really good and will play Xbox with me and not get all bent out of shape if I just want to sit and read and don't feel like talking. Also? He will fucking know how to BBQ because that is an important man skill that I need in a man and he won't be irritated when I ask him to parallel park my car for me because I already told you I suck at that. That is what 2011 is going to be for me. The perfect guy. Whereas you, 2010, got fat and mad at me every time I wanted to watch the SyFy channel and drank all my Stella. So, you can totally go sleaze it up with 2009, who wasn't as bad as you but was kind of a whore and is pretty high-maintenance. I'm movin' forward, dollface.


Hi, 2011, you handsome thing. I baked you some cookies. <3

Eggnog totally weirds me out.

I've had a couple random ideas about what I wanted to post since it's December and the holidays and all, but I haven't had time to sit down and write anything.

Sorry, Santa, yes, that was a lie. I have the time but I just haven't felt like any of my ideas have been good enough. Someone once told me I needed to work on my self-esteem. I've also been told that I'm a narcissistic, intellectual snob who's smart but definitely not smart enough to be an intellectual snob about it. Thanks a lot, college, that's all I was using you for anyway. The point is that maybe I need to work on my self-esteem and maybe I'm a narcissist and a snob. I just don't know how to please you people.

Anyway, I don't really have any point to this, so I'll give you a ten minute sample of things on my mind this time of year.

Me: I feel like I should decorate my office a little for Xmas but I don't want to have to take it down if they move me.

MEH: Hmm, I believe you should decorate your cup with alcoholic eggnog while all that gets sorted out.

Me: I will take the cup of alcoholic eggnog without the eggnog.

MEH: Right, whiskey it is.

Me: I feel like eggnog is what chickens would lactate if they had nipples and alcoholism. It sort of creeps me out.

MEH: Wow.

Me: Sorry. Hope I didn't just ruin the 'nog for you.

MEH: Nah, I hate eggnog. I never thought about alcoholic nipples, although now I am, and I'm revising my perfect woman.

I have excellent priorities.

Me (in a discussion about the 'Black and Bleu Burger' at Henry's Hat): I could write poetry about how much I love this burger.

Billie: I'm excited to try it!

Me: Like, if I had to choose between making out with a gorgeous man and eating this burger, I would have a really hard time deciding.

Billie: Dang.

Me: I know. I mean, if the burger came with a Guinness, obviously I would have to choose the burger.

Billie: That should be on the menu as part of the description.

Me: Unless the gorgeous man was offering me a Guinness, then I'd have to go with the makeout. But, that's not really fair because that's using Guinness to sway my opinion, and I love Guinness more than a lot of things on this earth. Okay, so if the guy was maybe talking to me about horror movies or comic books and was holding a Guinness and then was all, "Let's make out!", he'd win over the burger/Guinness combination.

Bille: Hahaha, is the Guinness necessary to wash down the burger?

Me: Noooo, on its own, the burger is definitely enough. Conversely, if there was a hot guy holding this burger and offering me a makeout sesh and then on the other hand there was a pint of Guinness, I'd probably pick the burger/cute boy combo and then after the makeout I'd be all, "Hey do you wanna go get a Guinness now?" and then I would have outwitted myself and won.

Alcohol Disguises Social Ineptitude. (But not really.)

This weekend was Halloween, which is proven to be one of the best holidays because you get to dress up like a maniac, get jacked on too-much-candy sugar and try to come down from said sugar high by countering with too-much-booze. My plan was to chase cupcakes with beer and then pee out all the sugar so that I'd be at some kind of idly inebriated equilibrium, because life is all about balance, kids.

I wound up at a party Saturday night with Billie, her younger brother and her roommate and began the drinking part of my plan. Half a bottle of wine and two cheap beers later, the three of us ladies surveyed the cute boy situation. Partly swaying with my wine bottle in one hand and my beer in the other, I made the command decision to indulge my inner nerd and scope out the Cute Boys in Superhero Costumes, of which there were a few. I figured we could at least bond over comic books, and then maybe bond some more by making out. Bow chica bow bow.

Sorry. I won't do that again.

Anyway, I dragged Billie around the sort-of-huge house on the hunt for Spiderman, who I thought was very cute but Billie said was too short. I said it didn't matter - he had lovely brown eyes and was wearing a Spiderman costume. We already had so much in common!

Milling about and keeping my eyes open for the adorable Spiderman, we ran into a Superman/Clark Kent who I also deemed attractive. We had a really romantic exchange that went something like:

Me: "Oh! You're from New York! What is it that you do?"

Superman: "I'm a comedian."

Me: "That's cool! More in the sitcom arena or stand-up type stuff?"

Superman: "I actually hate both sitcoms and stand-up."

Me: "Oh. :: awkward silence :: So, I really like your costume! Are you a big comic book fan?"

Superman: "Not really."

:: Crickets chirp. A tumbleweed blows by. Someone in the audience coughs. ::

Me: "So, how do you like L.A.?"

Superman: "I don't." :: Superman looks over his shoulder with a random, irritated look ::

Me: "Okay. I'm going to go stand over here now."

Obviously, I am smooth and charming, so if you'd like to know how to spend your next party like The Average Broad, commence as follows:

Chug some wine. Drink a beer. Coerce the girl dressed like Snooki to fist-pump for a photo even if she looks mad and you look drunk. Slow dance with Billie, her brother and her roommate all at the same time, a la "Romy and Michelle." Finish bottle of wine. Refill bottle with keg beer. Deem it to be undrinkable. Drink it anyway. Have slurring discussion with man in toga about the finer points of Arthur Miller's collected works. Hunt for Spiderman again. Realize Spiderman has left the building. Refill empty wine bottle with keg beer again. Apologize for bumping into the booty of a guy wearing white pants. Ask guy if he's John Travolta from "Saturday Night Fever." Call him John Travolta even when he says that's not what his costume is. Intentionally bump into his booty again. Decide that next year, you will dress up as Bill Lumbergh from "Office Space." Have another romantic exchange with someone dressed up as Antoine Dodson about who has the better costume. His comes with a catch phrase, so he wins. Finish second wine bottle full of beer. Decide you are ready to go home. Pass out on your couch watching infomercials.

It's hard out here for a pimp.

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.

Let's Talk About Something Good, Like Addiction!

It's my belief that everyone has at least one addiction. Some are better than others, I think. Like, I'm pretty sure it's okay if you're addicted to something like laughter, but if you're addicted to something like kicking nuns in the shin, you might need some help. Sometimes it's really a fine line between what is okay, and what should be managed more closely.

Thanks, Cyanide and Happiness! You guys TOTALLY GET IT.

I made you guys a list of acceptable and unacceptable addictions, just so you can have a tangible reference source.


ACCEPTABLE:

- caffeine.


UNACCEPTABLE:

- when you start walking to Starbucks every fifteen minutes because you're afraid if your heart rate drops below that of a hummingbird, your circulatory system will explode from shock.


ACCEPTABLE:

- helping others because charity makes you feel all warm and fuzzy.


UNACCEPTABLE:

- when you start adopting children en masse from third world countries in the hopes that TLC will give you your own reality television series. (Dibs on the working title "The Average Broad and Her Unaverage Brood!")


ACCEPTABLE:

- acquiring a few tech gadgets to keep up with the changing times.


UNACCEPTABLE:

- kidnapping numerous tech nerds and forcing them to update your social networks constantly so you can feel like you've kept up with the changing times.


ACCEPTABLE:

- the occasional splurge on something fun, like shoes or lingerie (or whatever guys buy when they splurge. Maybe porn or like... a signed football or something?)


UNACCEPTABLE:

- splurging regularly on drugs and strippers. And hookers.


SOMEWHAT ACCEPTABLE:

- alcohol. In moderation. Also, only if it's good alcohol. Whiskey and Guinness are acceptable, because they are delicious.

TOTALLY UNACCEPTABLE:

- excessive use of bad alcohol, like Popov, Milwaukee's Best, moonshine and anti-freeze.


ACCEPTABLE:

- collecting things as a hobby, such as postcards, shot glasses or Guinness memorabilia.


UNACCEPTABLE:

- collecting dead bodies and/or other people's wallets. Oh, and other people's cars, and other people's children. I hear that last one is a big no-no.


ACCEPTABLE:

- buying albums on CD and vinyl.


UNACCEPTABLE:

- buying albums on vinyl when you don't have a record player. (I fail this one because I started collecting vinyl years ago and have yet to buy a good record player. Also, I'm a hipster about it because I have records hanging on my wall, so... I suck.)


NOT AT ALL ACCEPTABLE:

- any kind of addiction that has you bent over snorting coke off of a stripper's ass, any kind of addiction that involves Ed Hardy, Jaguh Bahmbs and fake tanner, anything that involves punching babies or nuns, or probably shark fining. I don't know if that's an addiction, but maybe to some person. Whatever. It's *wrong*.

I hope that helped clear things up a bit for you guys. You're welcome. I'm here to help, after all.

This is why I deserve more sick days.

I have considered (on several occasions) using some of my sick days to bracket a weekend and go on a lovely, long vacation. Most people get the chance to go during a summer break, but personally, I enjoy travelling in the off-seasons. Specifically, fall. One of the reasons that I am unable to take said lovely, long vacation this year is that I had to actually *use* most of my sick days for sickness. (Manly type readers, stop here. I am fairly certain you will be too squeamish to carry on.) SICKNESS OF THE OVARIES. (See? What did I tell you? YOU DIDN'T LISTEN!)

It's true, mostly-lady-audience now. I suffer from inexplicably horrible cramps on occasion and wind up curled into a fetal position in the corner of my room, cursing everything that is good and holy because SWEET TINY JESUS please just take my uterus out with a coat hanger the Aleve doesn't always work, the Vicodin doesn't always work and one time I blacked out and EM had to take me to the hospital.

Probably the worst was when I was at a rockabilly festival in Las Vegas with a girlfriend of mine, and after dragging our wastey-asses into bed at 4am one night (day? Does that count as day?), I woke up with gut-wrenching cramps and no painkillers on me. I managed to make my way down to the hotel lobby, which was a testament to how ill I felt. I literally crawled out of bed in my boxers and wifebeater white-trash-pajamas, smeared mascara and ratty hair, walked halfway across the casino of our hotel with no shoes and bought 6 packages of single-dose Aleve at the gift shop, then proceeded to walk back to the elevators, hunched over and clutching at my agonizing abdomen like I was about to go into labor. People stared. I didn't care. I was going to die and I think I saw Jesus. He was dealing blackjack.

When I got back to the elevators, I bent over to avoid hurling and of course another older woman decided to share my elevator. The cramps were getting worse and things were getting blurry, and all of a sudden, I was waking up on the elevator floor, face on the tile and staring horizontally at the woman who had exited 3 floors before my stop. She looked panicked.

"Are you okay?! Should I call a hospital?"

Apparently, I had fainted.

"No," I said, also panicking. "No, I'm fine! I just uh... fell asleep." I really said this. Why, you ask? I have no idea. Obviously, there was already some kind of problem with oxygen getting to my brain and all I knew was that I didn't want to go to the hospital. I had drinking to do later. I pushed the DOOR CLOSE NOW button, choked down my 6 Aleve and passed out on the bathroom floor of my hotel room. Three hours later, my lovely lady friend woke me up and asked why I was on the bathroom floor. I explained everything, we laughed about it a lot, poured some very strong Jack and Cokes and got ready to head back to the hotel bar.

Basically, I need more sick days because cramps are clearly a more serious ailment than my HR department is giving them credit for.

Accordions and That Time I Stalked Matt Hensley

Earlier today, I was joking with a friend of mine about how more bands should use accordions. They're such a versatile instrument, but really? Always awesome.

"Seriously. If I had one, I would learn to play it and I would serenade you. It would be so romantic," I told him.

He apparently did not find this romantic at all, and remarked that this was yet another reason why I am single.

"Obviously," I said, rolling my eyes. "Obviously, I am still single because I don't have an accordion for romantic serenades."

This discussion reminded me of the time I stalked and was socially awkward with Matt Hensley, the accordion player from Flogging Molly. Well, maybe "stalked" is a bit strong. ...maybe.

This started back when I had just graduated college, and was spending my summer at home looking for a job and going through severe boozing withdrawals. In my small town, there are only three bars, the newest of which was an old restaurant that had been converted into the most blessed of all establishments: the pub. Additionally, the new owner of this pub supposedly hailed from Carlsbad and was besties with Matt Hensley, who had *just* left Flogging Molly to move back to Carlsbad (his hometown, I gather) and spend time with his family, and also open his very own bar down there. On occasion, Hensley would visit his friend's pub in my neck of the woods and play with the live band that had a residency there. I found all of this out in the local newspaper one Friday, and promptly strapped on my boots and braces to go meet this incredible musician.

I'm told it's wrong to drink alone, so I spent a good 20 minutes trying to get friends, relatives and neighbors to go with me, but everyone was still preoccupied with stupid things like "work" and I wasn't about to miss out, so I went by myself anyway.

The pub was somewhat crowded, but I found a stool and sat down to wait while sure enough, Hensley showed up and started warming up with the band. Can I just tell you how thrilled I was to see him sitting up on the teeny tiny stage, absent-mindedly playing along to the Flogging Molly coming in over the loudspeaker? Oh. I was thrilled... and also nervous, because I had no idea what I was going to say to this man, other than something brilliantly blond like, "I LOVE FLOGGING MOLLY!" but even then I was an experienced journalist, so I figured instinct would kick in and something amazing would come to me. I decided to calm my nerves with another pint and a shot of whiskey, and sat back to listen.

Hours passed. Seriously, I sat in a pub on my own and was rapidly nearing 3 sheets to the wind while I worked up the courage to go say something - anything - to one of my musical inspirations. Never mind the fact that I had already started drunken conversations with just about everyone else at the bar, most of whom had given me the proverbial pat on the back and thumbs up, convincing me that I couldn't go wrong.

Finally, I saw Hensley sitting alone and I got up - rather unsteadily - and swayed over to his table, pint sloshing (but not spilling because I don't waste good booze), cardboard coaster clutched in my hand and stood in front of him.

He looked up, expecting me to say something and stop staring at him like an idiot while the words that were *supposed* to miraculously appear in my brain did not, in fact, appear.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and said, "You, sir, were the glue that held Flogging Molly's sound together. They may get another accordion, but they are missing a Matt Hensley. I feel completely ridiculous asking you this, but will you sign my coaster?"

He raised his eyebrows at me and said, "Why do you feel ridiculous?"

"Oh, because... isn't that weird? An accordion player signing a coaster?"

"I don't think so," he said, and reached up to sign my awkwardly outstretched arm.

Well, crap. Had I just said something offensive? Did that happen all the time? Did he think I was making fun of him for playing the accordion?! I started to panic, and stood there staring at him, which in retrospect was probably pretty creepy, nearly fell over and then blurted out, "You're really awesome!"

Smooth.

He smiled in that go-now-before-I-press-charges kind of way, and I stumbled back to close my bar tab. One of the barflies sitting next to me had paid particular attention to my story about wanting to talk to the accordion player, and he laughed at me as I got myself together enough to head home.

"Did you get his number?" the barfly asked at seeing my coaster and obviously misunderstanding my interest in the musician.

"No!" I said, somewhat triumphantly. "I got his autograph!"

The barfly looked at me like I was crazy, which I guess was fitting because I stomped out of the bar singing "Rebels of the Sacred Heart" at the top of my lungs. I passed out in the front seat of my car in the parking lot, still clutching my coaster prize, because drinking and driving when one has such a precious commodity is just *not* smart.

And that was the time I hunted down and had socially awkward times with Matt Hensley.

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.