Consolation Prizes: Wherein I Compare Ladies to Dogs (in a good way)

So the other day, I was standing in line to get a cup of overpriced coffee (is there any other kind these days?) and I overheard a guy complaining to his friend about how these days, girls just don’t know how to take compliments. He cited his experience on a date, during which he had remarked to his lady friend that he liked her dress, and she had responded by snapping at him.  “I don’t get it,” I heard him say to his friend.  “It’s not like she was a bitch, she just got mad when I complimented her.”  His friend seemed to shrug it off.  “Girls just do that,” he said.  “No one knows why.  Because they all expect to be complimented, it’s just a lot of them are snarky about it.”

At this point, I could no longer resist feigning deafness and I turned around.  I sighed.  I nodded sagely.

“Consolation prize,” I said.

There was understandable confusion between the two gentlemen.

“That’s why no one takes compliments anymore.  More often than not, they’re offered up as consolation prizes to bad news.  For example:  ‘You’re very talented at what you do, but it’s not right for our company,’ or ‘You’re amazing, but I don’t want to date you.’  Things along those lines.  Much as they say that you shouldn’t trust flattery, compliments can be suspicious.  It’s like the silver medal, the second place ribbon, the certificate for participation—the consolation prize.”

“I didn’t follow it up with bad news, though.  I just wanted to tell her that she looked nice,” the man said, somewhat endearingly.

“Well done to you, sir!  And I mean that sincerely, not sarcastically.  May I offer some words of wisdom to you?  Getting a new girlfriend is sort of like adopting a dog from a shelter.  You don’t always know where they’ve been or if they’ve been mistreated, but proceed slowly and be consistent and they’ll eventually stop growling at you when you try to pet them.  I don’t really mean that literally, but you could totally take it that way.  Not that I mean women should be compared to abused dogs.  I’ve just been watching a lot of ‘Animal Cops: Houston’ lately and it seems appropriate.”

The man scrunched his eyebrows in a way that probably meant, “Why are you still talking to me, weird girl?” but that I chose to take as a look of, “Thank you for your wise advice, mysterious stranger.”

Because if there’s one that this animal has learned, it’s that you should take compliments where you can get them, whether they’re intended as consolation prizes or not.

(Did I just compare myself to a shelter dog?!  What-the-ef-ever.)

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. 

Some things I found out.

This weekend I was talking to my mom and found out that she birthed both EM and myself without an epidural. I did not know this until now, but it doesn't surprise me. I learn things about my mother all the time that shock and impress me. She's probably climbed Everest and just hasn't brought it up in conversation. Reason #943 why she is the toughest woman alive.

This week I was talking to a coworker who told me when he was roughly my age, he had a sugar daddy who bought him a Ferrari. I told him the most expensive gift a man has ever given me was a sweatshirt. I don't know if he still has the Ferrari, but I still have my sweatshirt. It's still my favorite.

Irish Breakfast tea is better with milk in it. Just go with me on this one.

My short story that was supposed to be done forever ago has officially reached novella length. This means I have to write another short story for my writing group, because this one is too long to discuss. Being a writer is hard when you have too many stories to tell.

I actually like sending mail more than receiving it.

I really, really like Willie Nelson.

I also really like hidden pockets, chapstick, and cloudy days.

I have no patience for reality television and tabloids. I probably shouldn't care, but they frustrate me really easily... definitely more than they should.

I don't travel enough.

I talk too much, and don't write enough.

*Sigh*

Autumn in California

I hate summer. It's hot, I don't get a vacation like I used to in school, everyone wants to do things outside which means my deathly pale skin will inevitably suffer from one or multiple sunburns and so I have to keep a stock of calamine lotion and aloe vera goo in my fridge which limits the shelf space of things that are more important to me, such as mayonnaise and ranch dressing. Also, you all may be thinking something like, "Shut up, you spoiled brat, you live in California - the land of perpetual sunshine and fish tacos and you've never had to shovel snow in your life or buy any kind of 'winter coat' beyond that huge puffy down thing that your dad keeps in storage for when you go camping Yosemite and Sequoia."

This is true, but let me just say that for a California girl, it is not at all like the Katy Perry song.

I don't wear bikini tops with cut off shorts, and why would you want to hang around someone who would melt your popsicle? That would just bother me. Get away from me, leave me and my popsicle in peace. Rather, when it gets up to 113 degrees here (I live in the hot part of L.A., just above the Gateway to Hell) you will find me lying supine on my floor in front of my mediocre wall-unit air conditioner in my Batman underwear, trying to imbibe my Slurpee as fast as humanly possible before it melts into that weird, flat soda-like liquid.

So, I complain a lot. But then something happens - it becomes less hot. It's technically called "fall" or "autumn" here, but it pretty much just means that mixed in with the 80 and 90 degree days, there will be some lovely 70 (60 if you're lucky) degree days with maybe some clouds and the occasional heavy mist (we'll call it "rain" here, but the rest of you will probably call it "fog") and I can go to Starbucks and get abnormal amounts of pumpkin spice lattes and I'll spend my afternoons texting my fellow Halloween-obsessed friends about costume ideas and trips to pumpkin patches. It's Fall-O-Ween on steroids out here, because with no beautiful leaves turning and no crisp, cool, autumn breezes that would allow us to wear those cute pea coats we bought specifically for that trip to New York and have started collecting dust in our closets, we Californians have to grasp at the wisps of fall and force it to descend upon us. Many of us will draw our curtains against the still-too-warm 85 and sunny weather, put "Nightmare Before Christmas" on loop and continuously stare at our desktop backgrounds of beautiful red and orange leaves - a photo that was taken somewhere else in the world that has more than "hot" and "less hot" seasons.

When I lived in Northern California, we had fall. We also had trick-or-treating in our neighborhood. I usually wanted to be some variation of a ballerinafairyprincess, because as long as there was a lot of pink tulle and sparkly fairy wings and a tiara, I could be really, truly happy. This year, EM and I have to keep our Halloween Candy Bowl in the fridge because it's still hot enough to melt our Kit Kats and Twix. It doesn't matter, though. I have declared it Fall-O-Ween in The Average Broad Household, and I will celebrate it in some way absolutely every day, until Christmastime.

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.

Attention: Paid.

Oh Blog, I have been neglecting you. I won't bother with excuses, we're both too grown up for that.

New York is tantalizingly and terrifyingly close. J.R. is in New York, doing something fabulous at her company's NY office and chasing the Jets around. Maybe she'll meet and fall in love with a football player, or at least worthy fan. She's so incredible, though, I have a hard time imagining anyone worthy.

Last year at this time, I felt a huge pull in that direction. This year, I feel like Los Angeles knows my resolve and is reaching to keep me here. Tentative career opportunities in the works, writing potential, and (sigh of reluctance) possibly a new crush. The Bestie nicknamed him SHG for me. You don't need to know what that means yet. I'm actually kind of afraid to jinx it and end up with the body pillow, which you also don't need to understand yet. I will tell you that I'm overwhelmingly intimidated by how great SHG is, and Lord help me, he has a heart-stopping pair of beautiful brown eyes. It's agonizing - really.

In between lusting after SHG and trying to keep my writing in order and my head on straight, fall is creeping in. I wish the leaves changed here. Los Angeles summers tend to hold on too long for me.

I suppose that's it for now. I haven't had any coffee yet, and I'm fairly certain I need to be all-the-way awake to be remotely entertaining.