It's not the food. Healthy food can be (and in the case of my meal plan, IS) good.
It's not feeling hungry all the time. I got over that in about two days, and honestly I'm perfectly satisfied with the amount of food I'm eating now.
It's not that I'm craving cookies. Ok, I WAS craving cookies, and I may or may not have eaten a couple (TWO but it was TWO DIFFERENT DAYS. ONE COOKIE EACH), but that craving has finally subsided as well.
It's not that I can't have fun at parties. I had a lovely time at a party on Friday, and I didn't stuff myself with food as I usually do when I drink booze (with diet Coke). People who know me know I don't even like booze that much so it's a great excuse NOT to drink.
It's because I. FUCKING. HATE. COOKING.
Before I started this diet/exercise plan, I didn't care for cooking. I found it a mere annoyance, but also realized sometimes it could be fun. I don't put baking in the same category as cooking - I used to love to bake and not particularly care to cook. Now I have an active (and growing) hatred of cooking. Why?
1. I have to cook EVERY DAY. The way the meal plan is structured, I always seem to be preparing something, whether it be multiple servings of lunch that I'll take to work or a dinner I'm going to eat right away. Even though I get 2-4 portions out of each cooking batch, IT SEEMS LIKE I AM NEVER NOT COOKING. JUST ONCE I'd like to heat something up in the goddamned microwave and sit on my couch and be eating within 2 minutes.
2. If I have to chop another fucking onion I'm going to throw myself in front of a bus. Every goddamned meal takes onions, AND I LIKE THEM but SWEET JESUS half my day is spent chopping them. Or bell peppers. Or bok choy. OR EVEN FRUIT. I'm developing carpal tunnel in my cutting hand. There's a reason I pay more for the pre-chopped broccoli and cauliflower - I just wish there was a pre-cut option for every goddamned fruit, vegetable, animal, meat substitute, or whatever else I have to eat. I will pay top dollar for you to come over and fucking cut all my produce for me.
3. IT'S TOO HOT. Maybe it's just me, but having the stove and the rice cooker and the crock pot and a curling iron and a mechanical cow and a flame thrower all on at once makes me sweat like a dirty old man. I have my AC on and it's 70 outside because my apartment has taken on the ambient temperature of whatever the fuck is on my stove.
When my meal plan says something like "Snack: apple and cashews" I get so fucking excited because there's no prep involved. I've never been excited about a goddamned apple before. Bake chicken? Fuck no, that shit's going in the crock pot, where I can leave it and go do something. That and I've never baked a piece of meat that didn't turn out too dry, undercooked or shitty in some other way.
Here's a list of things I like better than cooking:
studying civil procedure
cleaning the litter box
driving on the 405
going to the dentist
cleaning my apartment
waking up to go to work
not being able to eat cookies
looking for parking in West Hollywood
sitting next to a hobo on the train
having a hangnail
doing laundry
However, cooking still tops:
anything to do with needles
being around children
the existence of Justin Bieber
Country music
90% of the drivers in LA county
people with ironic handlebar moustaches
Arkansas
Monday, July 13, 2015
Monday, July 6, 2015
GETTING OFF MY LAZY ASS, WEEK 1
During my recent bout with the black plague, I finally decided I needed to go to a doctor when I got winded and lightheaded walking back to my car from work and had a full-on coughing fit. Before he forced me to take electronic bong hits of Albuterol and some steroid to fix my ailing lungs, he did what all doctors do - he weighed me. For the last, oh, year, I've been avoiding weighing myself or seeing my weight at the doctor, and doing a pretty damn good job of it. I figure if my clothes still fit and I'm happy with how I look, I don't need a number on a scale to make me feel bad.
Well, my clothes are fitting too tightly and I don't like how I look right now, so I suppose it was time for me to actually (accidentally) look at the scale. And boy, was I large and in charge. I was 10lbs heavier than normal and had reached a number I swore I never would, and at that moment I decided I needed some serious motivation to actually eat better and work out. Such motivation for me comes in the form of either a) lost income or b) shame. I chose both.
My lovely friend Manda (who has a blog, This Fit Blonde) moved to Singapore like a jerkface, but luckily she's still accessible via FitOrbit, an online training and diet site. When it comes to accountability, I'm vaguely scared of her, EVEN FROM 20 HOURS AWAY, so this was perfect. I plunked down $60 for a month of her telling me exactly what to eat and how to work out, and creepily monitoring me from another continent in the process.
I started on July 1, nice and easy to remember. It's been almost a full week. Here's my current outlook:
Day 1 - I get a grocery list emailed to me so I can get the foods I'm supposed to be eating in the next week. I spent like 20 minutes in the produce department. Seriously. I started to worry that the employees thought I was stealing things, because I just kept picking up more and more produce like some sort of zookeeper. Some of the things were normal, like strawberries and cucumbers and broccoli, and then there were the not-so-normal. Ginger root? No thanks, I've got powdered ginger in my spice rack at home. That's going to do whether you like it or not.
When I get home I realize that I have to take this food to work, since Starbucks and the fast food Indian place aren't on my meal plan. So I have to start cooking.
If you know me at all, you know I hate cooking. I'm not bad at it; in fact, I'm pretty good at it, but I despise taking the time to do all the little nuances of making a meal. To me, "cooking" is putting things in the crock pot and turning it on. Having to make different things in different pots is just more than I can fucking handle.
At one point I had a rice cooker, a sautee pan and something else all going at the same time. I kept telling myself "you're cooking for 3 days, you get to heat and microwave this for the rest of the week!" but it wasn't necessarily making it better. You know what's the easiest thing to make? FRUIT SALAD. You know what's the most annoying thing to do? CHOPPING A FUCKTON OF FRUIT. Ugh.
The meal plan even tried to make me cook every day. Oh hell no, meal plan, I'm eating the same thing for 3 days and then I'll make the new thing, like hell I'm cooking every night. And my laziness got the better of me a few times - steamed broccoli? That takes too long. I'm just eating it raw.
Exercise - I may have mentioned I just recovered from the black plague, which took quite a toll on my already weak-ass lungs. I have an inhaler now, which would normally be for exercise but instead is for any slight exertion that causes me to cough uncontrollably. Not great for someone who is looking to get in shape.
The first workout was spin class, which I thought was a little heavy for someone who had just nearly died and also hadn't worked out in a hot second, but I went for it. I made it through 30 minutes before my coughing began to cause people to look concerned, so I left in shame and hit the inhaler.
I'm still (5 days later) coughing when I walk up too many stairs or walk too quickly, so I'm not sure how the cardio portion of this is going to go - but I can do weights just fine. Hope that works.
THE COOKIE - Despite being very good and sticking to the diet nearly verbatim (with exceptions for the 4th of July), I have been hit with an unshakeable craving for a chocolate chip cookie. At all times. I would shank a man to get a cookie. I think about them in my sleep. I think about them at work. I think about them when I eat my fruit - my deliciously inadequate fruit that no matter how hard it tries, cannot become chocolate.
The food they have me slaving over is actually quite good, and after the first day of nearly dying of hunger I do now feel satisfied after most meals, so I can't complain that I'm eating only raw oats and a single stalk of celery, but DEAR GOD, THE COOKIE. It's like heroin. It follows me wherever I go. Pictures of cupcakes are becoming like pornography, and Pinterest is nearly out of the question right now. Before the diet I would crave an Indian buffet or pad thai, but never desserts. But sweet merciful mother of god, cookies are all I can think of.
Thankfully, no cookies have been in my grab area (criminal law joke) since I started, but all it takes is me asking a Starbucks employee very nicely to remove one from behind the protective glass from whence it sits.
Do I have the willpower??
Well, my clothes are fitting too tightly and I don't like how I look right now, so I suppose it was time for me to actually (accidentally) look at the scale. And boy, was I large and in charge. I was 10lbs heavier than normal and had reached a number I swore I never would, and at that moment I decided I needed some serious motivation to actually eat better and work out. Such motivation for me comes in the form of either a) lost income or b) shame. I chose both.
My lovely friend Manda (who has a blog, This Fit Blonde) moved to Singapore like a jerkface, but luckily she's still accessible via FitOrbit, an online training and diet site. When it comes to accountability, I'm vaguely scared of her, EVEN FROM 20 HOURS AWAY, so this was perfect. I plunked down $60 for a month of her telling me exactly what to eat and how to work out, and creepily monitoring me from another continent in the process.
I started on July 1, nice and easy to remember. It's been almost a full week. Here's my current outlook:
Day 1 - I get a grocery list emailed to me so I can get the foods I'm supposed to be eating in the next week. I spent like 20 minutes in the produce department. Seriously. I started to worry that the employees thought I was stealing things, because I just kept picking up more and more produce like some sort of zookeeper. Some of the things were normal, like strawberries and cucumbers and broccoli, and then there were the not-so-normal. Ginger root? No thanks, I've got powdered ginger in my spice rack at home. That's going to do whether you like it or not.
When I get home I realize that I have to take this food to work, since Starbucks and the fast food Indian place aren't on my meal plan. So I have to start cooking.
If you know me at all, you know I hate cooking. I'm not bad at it; in fact, I'm pretty good at it, but I despise taking the time to do all the little nuances of making a meal. To me, "cooking" is putting things in the crock pot and turning it on. Having to make different things in different pots is just more than I can fucking handle.
At one point I had a rice cooker, a sautee pan and something else all going at the same time. I kept telling myself "you're cooking for 3 days, you get to heat and microwave this for the rest of the week!" but it wasn't necessarily making it better. You know what's the easiest thing to make? FRUIT SALAD. You know what's the most annoying thing to do? CHOPPING A FUCKTON OF FRUIT. Ugh.
The meal plan even tried to make me cook every day. Oh hell no, meal plan, I'm eating the same thing for 3 days and then I'll make the new thing, like hell I'm cooking every night. And my laziness got the better of me a few times - steamed broccoli? That takes too long. I'm just eating it raw.
Exercise - I may have mentioned I just recovered from the black plague, which took quite a toll on my already weak-ass lungs. I have an inhaler now, which would normally be for exercise but instead is for any slight exertion that causes me to cough uncontrollably. Not great for someone who is looking to get in shape.
The first workout was spin class, which I thought was a little heavy for someone who had just nearly died and also hadn't worked out in a hot second, but I went for it. I made it through 30 minutes before my coughing began to cause people to look concerned, so I left in shame and hit the inhaler.
I'm still (5 days later) coughing when I walk up too many stairs or walk too quickly, so I'm not sure how the cardio portion of this is going to go - but I can do weights just fine. Hope that works.
THE COOKIE - Despite being very good and sticking to the diet nearly verbatim (with exceptions for the 4th of July), I have been hit with an unshakeable craving for a chocolate chip cookie. At all times. I would shank a man to get a cookie. I think about them in my sleep. I think about them at work. I think about them when I eat my fruit - my deliciously inadequate fruit that no matter how hard it tries, cannot become chocolate.
The food they have me slaving over is actually quite good, and after the first day of nearly dying of hunger I do now feel satisfied after most meals, so I can't complain that I'm eating only raw oats and a single stalk of celery, but DEAR GOD, THE COOKIE. It's like heroin. It follows me wherever I go. Pictures of cupcakes are becoming like pornography, and Pinterest is nearly out of the question right now. Before the diet I would crave an Indian buffet or pad thai, but never desserts. But sweet merciful mother of god, cookies are all I can think of.
Thankfully, no cookies have been in my grab area (criminal law joke) since I started, but all it takes is me asking a Starbucks employee very nicely to remove one from behind the protective glass from whence it sits.
Do I have the willpower??
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
THE WHEELS ON THE BUS
I have lived many places, with many different kinds of drivers - all of them bad, but in different ways. Specifically Dallas and LA, likely because they're both ginormous cities that revolve around highways and poor public transit. People in Dallas are aggressive and stupid - the kind of driving that leaves a 40 car pile-up in its wake and the driver has no idea because they're so oblivious. People in LA fall into two different categories: assholes and pussies.
First let me comment on why I'm qualified to dissect and judge other people's driving habits: I'm a fucking fantastic driver. In the 17 years (holy god, I've officially been driving longer than I HAVEN'T been driving, I'm so old) I've had a license, I've pretty much driven everything except an 18-wheeler.
Most people learn to drive on their mom's Camry that's semi-old and kinda cushy, with easy steering, brakes and not a lot of extra thinking required. I, however, learned to drive in a really large and horrifically unsafe steel box, otherwise known as this beautiful creature:
Yes, this was my first car. A beautiful seafoam green 1966 Ford Mustang. The amenities it came with were 1) being awesome, 2) factory AC (rare and wonderful for that time) and 3) doors. It had no power steering or brakes, no airbags (which nearly sent my mom to the nuthouse) and at first, a very slow, weak engine with 170,000 miles on it.
As a 100lb 16-year-old, I got quite a workout driving this thing. To turn, I had to make approximately 60 complete rotations of the steering wheel, and to brake I had to anticipate things that might happen five minutes in advance while using all of my weight and both feet to bring the car to a screeching halt. Needless to say, I had to be on my game.
Fast forward two years and I leave my beloved behind to go to school in LA with a new Beetle. Being one of the only freshmen with a car, I quickly became the dorm taxi. Basically when you land in LA and you've been driving for a year and a half, you're thrown into some crazy shit. Six-lane freeways? Yep. Crazy assholes driving 80mph? Yep. So my survival instincts kicked in and within weeks I was a pro at driving like a west coast asshole, which became pretty funny when I moved back to Austin and scared people by changing lanes into a spot barely a car length long.
So at this point I've driven a car that I practically had to pedal and also driven in the craziest traffic city in the US. Let's up our game a bit here by getting a stick shift. Yep, that's right, my next car was a manual (upon request, no less) Mercury Cougar that I had for seven years until random parts started falling off and I had to get something more "practical."
In recent months, I've also had some interesting driving experiences, which include driving a 12-passenger van on a one-lane road through the hills of Napa Valley, and doing it so well that I became the REQUESTED DRIVER. Yes, that's right, people trusted my driving skills. They even suggested I be a bus driver, which actually flattered me.
So you pretty much can't outdo me in knowing how to drive unless you're one of the boys I hung out with in college who had fast cars and taught me how to do such things as "apex a turn."
Alright, so here are my driving tips:
1) MOVE BITCH, GET OUT THE WAY
Seriously, going under the speed limit? Not acceptable. I have shit to do and places to be, so get the fuck out of my way. If you don't know where you're going, TOO BAD, find a place to pull over but most definitely do not slow down to a crawl as you try to read the addresses on buildings while I desperately attempt to change lanes while people speed by. Get out of the fast lane on the highway. Just go ahead and don't even get on the highway if you can't fucking use it right. And here's another tip - the speed limit is the flow of traffic, and if the flow of traffic is going 70, SPEED THE FUCK UP. Can't handle it? Take a bus.
2) TURN SIGNALS
USE. THEM. I'm not kidding. You will NEVER get over in front of me without signaling, I will make SURE. One person at a time I'm slowly teaching the world to signal by NOT REWARDING BAD BEHAVIOR. Going to turn right? Well you're gonna get honked at like a mofo unless you have your signal on because it looks like you're about to just slow down and stop in the middle of the road.
3) SKIPPING THE LINE
Pretending you don't see that arrow that tells you the lane merges into one? Nope, not gonna happen. If I have to tie my bumper to the car in front of me by god you will not get in. Getting over at the last second? Nope. My friends that I've never met and I are making a beautiful unbreakable chain of cars that you will not penetrate because you DIDN'T WAIT YOUR TURN. I love the camaraderie of joining together with strangers to screw over an asshole. It just warms my little heart.
4) RAIN
I'm going to say this once and only once: IF YOU HAVE NEVER LIVED IN A PLACE WHERE IT RAINED/SNOWED/HAD WEATHER AT LEAST ONCE A MONTH, JUST DON'T EVEN TRY TO DRIVE. I had to learn how to drive in the snow on my first day of work when I moved to Kansas City. Guess what? I made it. You assholes keep sliding off the road or going 2 mph or running into shit because water falls from the sky. You don't deserve the privilege of driving. Go home and let the big kids drive on rainy days. You're a danger to yourself and others.
5) WRONG TURNS
Guess what? Sometimes we miss our exits on the highway. It happens. There's an easy solution that doesn't involve killing 7 people and stopping traffic for hours - TAKE THE NEXT EXIT AND TURN AROUND. Wait, WHAT? Yes, I said it's ok to take the NEXT EXIT. If you're in the far left lane and have five lanes to cross to get to your exit in ten feet, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. 1) you should have been paying attention, so it's your own damn fault and 2) it's not like that 20-mile stretch in Louisiana on the 10 where you literally cannot exit because you're 20 feet above a swamp and are likely to get eaten by a gator - there's another exit in ONE MILE. Jesus people, COMMON SENSE. And I know half of you use GPS - SIRI WILL REROUTE YOU. I PROMISE.
So pretty much everyone on the road falls into one of these categories, which means that everyone needs to go practice in a parking lot until you can fucking handle yourself and your giant torpedo of death. Now let me drive JUST ONCE without having to curse you out.
First let me comment on why I'm qualified to dissect and judge other people's driving habits: I'm a fucking fantastic driver. In the 17 years (holy god, I've officially been driving longer than I HAVEN'T been driving, I'm so old) I've had a license, I've pretty much driven everything except an 18-wheeler.
Most people learn to drive on their mom's Camry that's semi-old and kinda cushy, with easy steering, brakes and not a lot of extra thinking required. I, however, learned to drive in a really large and horrifically unsafe steel box, otherwise known as this beautiful creature:
Yes, this was my first car. A beautiful seafoam green 1966 Ford Mustang. The amenities it came with were 1) being awesome, 2) factory AC (rare and wonderful for that time) and 3) doors. It had no power steering or brakes, no airbags (which nearly sent my mom to the nuthouse) and at first, a very slow, weak engine with 170,000 miles on it.
As a 100lb 16-year-old, I got quite a workout driving this thing. To turn, I had to make approximately 60 complete rotations of the steering wheel, and to brake I had to anticipate things that might happen five minutes in advance while using all of my weight and both feet to bring the car to a screeching halt. Needless to say, I had to be on my game.
Fast forward two years and I leave my beloved behind to go to school in LA with a new Beetle. Being one of the only freshmen with a car, I quickly became the dorm taxi. Basically when you land in LA and you've been driving for a year and a half, you're thrown into some crazy shit. Six-lane freeways? Yep. Crazy assholes driving 80mph? Yep. So my survival instincts kicked in and within weeks I was a pro at driving like a west coast asshole, which became pretty funny when I moved back to Austin and scared people by changing lanes into a spot barely a car length long.
So at this point I've driven a car that I practically had to pedal and also driven in the craziest traffic city in the US. Let's up our game a bit here by getting a stick shift. Yep, that's right, my next car was a manual (upon request, no less) Mercury Cougar that I had for seven years until random parts started falling off and I had to get something more "practical."
In recent months, I've also had some interesting driving experiences, which include driving a 12-passenger van on a one-lane road through the hills of Napa Valley, and doing it so well that I became the REQUESTED DRIVER. Yes, that's right, people trusted my driving skills. They even suggested I be a bus driver, which actually flattered me.
So you pretty much can't outdo me in knowing how to drive unless you're one of the boys I hung out with in college who had fast cars and taught me how to do such things as "apex a turn."
Alright, so here are my driving tips:
1) MOVE BITCH, GET OUT THE WAY
Seriously, going under the speed limit? Not acceptable. I have shit to do and places to be, so get the fuck out of my way. If you don't know where you're going, TOO BAD, find a place to pull over but most definitely do not slow down to a crawl as you try to read the addresses on buildings while I desperately attempt to change lanes while people speed by. Get out of the fast lane on the highway. Just go ahead and don't even get on the highway if you can't fucking use it right. And here's another tip - the speed limit is the flow of traffic, and if the flow of traffic is going 70, SPEED THE FUCK UP. Can't handle it? Take a bus.
2) TURN SIGNALS
USE. THEM. I'm not kidding. You will NEVER get over in front of me without signaling, I will make SURE. One person at a time I'm slowly teaching the world to signal by NOT REWARDING BAD BEHAVIOR. Going to turn right? Well you're gonna get honked at like a mofo unless you have your signal on because it looks like you're about to just slow down and stop in the middle of the road.
3) SKIPPING THE LINE
Pretending you don't see that arrow that tells you the lane merges into one? Nope, not gonna happen. If I have to tie my bumper to the car in front of me by god you will not get in. Getting over at the last second? Nope. My friends that I've never met and I are making a beautiful unbreakable chain of cars that you will not penetrate because you DIDN'T WAIT YOUR TURN. I love the camaraderie of joining together with strangers to screw over an asshole. It just warms my little heart.
4) RAIN
I'm going to say this once and only once: IF YOU HAVE NEVER LIVED IN A PLACE WHERE IT RAINED/SNOWED/HAD WEATHER AT LEAST ONCE A MONTH, JUST DON'T EVEN TRY TO DRIVE. I had to learn how to drive in the snow on my first day of work when I moved to Kansas City. Guess what? I made it. You assholes keep sliding off the road or going 2 mph or running into shit because water falls from the sky. You don't deserve the privilege of driving. Go home and let the big kids drive on rainy days. You're a danger to yourself and others.
5) WRONG TURNS
Guess what? Sometimes we miss our exits on the highway. It happens. There's an easy solution that doesn't involve killing 7 people and stopping traffic for hours - TAKE THE NEXT EXIT AND TURN AROUND. Wait, WHAT? Yes, I said it's ok to take the NEXT EXIT. If you're in the far left lane and have five lanes to cross to get to your exit in ten feet, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. 1) you should have been paying attention, so it's your own damn fault and 2) it's not like that 20-mile stretch in Louisiana on the 10 where you literally cannot exit because you're 20 feet above a swamp and are likely to get eaten by a gator - there's another exit in ONE MILE. Jesus people, COMMON SENSE. And I know half of you use GPS - SIRI WILL REROUTE YOU. I PROMISE.
So pretty much everyone on the road falls into one of these categories, which means that everyone needs to go practice in a parking lot until you can fucking handle yourself and your giant torpedo of death. Now let me drive JUST ONCE without having to curse you out.
Monday, June 8, 2015
LEARN SOME GODDAMNED GRAMMAR - RIGHT HERE IN THIS POST
I seriously cannot fucking take it anymore. I'm friends with some very educated people on Facebook and in real life, and even though they can speak three languages and build robots, THEY DON'T UNDERSTAND ENGLISH GRAMMAR. You know, that language you were RAISED SPEAKING?? I see the same damn mistakes all the time, and I honestly want to know why I was the ONLY ONE listening in class that day, because some of you fuckers were IN CLASS WITH ME.
Here are the most common offenses - once you're done reading this your life will be changed forever because you'll magically know how to speak.
1. POSTING PHOTOS. "Mom and I at the beach"
NO NO NO NO. I know that whatever grade we were in when we learned to say "and I" made it seem like it's ALWAYS "and I," but NEWSFLASH: IT'S NOT. In fact, the MAJORITY of the time it's not. Sometimes "and me" is correct. I know, it hurts to say that, BUT IT'S TRUE.
CORRECT ANSWER: "Mom and ME at the beach." How did I come to that conclusion? Easy. What would it be if you were at the beach alone? "Me at the beach." What about your mom alone? "Mom at the beach." It would never be "I at the beach," so why is it suddenly "Mom and I at the beach?" You're making this too hard.
Always ask yourself: What if I was a lonely loser (which you will be if you keep up that goddamned grammar)? What if it was JUST ME in this picture? Keyword: ME
Other wrong photo titles: "John and I with a celebrity" "My sister and I at Christmas" Or perhaps you're posting something that you share ownership of - I see this one a lot too: "Brad and I's new dog!"
NO. Stop. Think. SEPARATE. "Brad's new dog." "My new dog." "BRAD'S AND MY NEW DOG." IT IS NOT THAT FUCKING HARD, ASSHATS.
2. APOSTROPHE ABUSE. "Skirt's for $10!"
When I say "dog's," what do you think of? If you think of MANY DOGS, please go hit yourself in the face with a metal pan. You should think, "the dog's WHAT? What belongs to the dog?" because that, my friends, is what apostrophes are for. Not "that's what apostrophe's are for," you stupid fucks.
Pretend we're in a war and our ammunition is made out of apostrophes. Now RATION THAT SHIT and think "WHOA, hold up now, do I REALLY need to use a valuable apostrophe in this situation?" The answer is almost always NO.
But Grammar Goddess, WHEN DO I get to use apostrophes??
I'm glad you asked. Does something in the sentence BELONG TO ANYONE mentioned in the sentence? Does your mom have tomatoes? Then they are "your mom's tomatoes." Does anything belong TO THE TOMATOES? NO, because tomatoes are inanimate objects, you jackass. Therefore, your mom gets an apostrophe and the tomatoes do NOT.
RIGHT: "My aunt's house" WRONG: "All of my aunt's will be there"
RIGHT: ****I'm looking at YOU, Chipotle on Figueroa and Jefferson**** "Choose your greens!" WRONG: "Choose your green's!"
Also, on a side note, when engraving gifts for a wedding, REMEMBER THE APOSTROPHE RULE. Jim and Jane are "The Smiths," not "The Smith's." Jim and Jane live in "The Smiths' House," NOT "The Smith's House." The latter implies that they're already living separately, do you really want to do that to a marriage before it's begun?!?!
3. LESS AND FEWER "15 items or less!"
There is one beautiful store that has a "15 items or FEWER" sign and I can't remember off the top of my head, but I wanted to write the management a beautiful thank you card for FINALLY getting it right. This one is trickier, so here is a correct usage of BOTH:
"There is LESS coffee in my cup than there was an hour ago."
"There are FEWER cookies than there were an hour ago."
Here's the trick: CAN YOU COUNT IT? In the first one, can you count coffee? Not CUPS of coffee, but just COFFEE? Would you say "there are three coffees in my cup?" Nope. You cannot count coffee itself. If you CANNOT COUNT IT, the proper word is LESS. Less sugar. Less pink. Less painful.
Can you count cookies? YES YOU CAN. Would you say "I have three cookies?" YES YOU WOULD. If you CAN COUNT IT, it's FEWER. Fewer cats. Fewer clowns. Fewer items.
DO YOU GET IT NOW? There cannot be "two less" - it's "two fewer." There cannot be "a little bit fewer" - it's "a little bit less."
Now go, use this new education to brighten the world, teach your kids the right way to speak and write, and for god's sake always use it around me at least.
Here are the most common offenses - once you're done reading this your life will be changed forever because you'll magically know how to speak.
1. POSTING PHOTOS. "Mom and I at the beach"
NO NO NO NO. I know that whatever grade we were in when we learned to say "and I" made it seem like it's ALWAYS "and I," but NEWSFLASH: IT'S NOT. In fact, the MAJORITY of the time it's not. Sometimes "and me" is correct. I know, it hurts to say that, BUT IT'S TRUE.
CORRECT ANSWER: "Mom and ME at the beach." How did I come to that conclusion? Easy. What would it be if you were at the beach alone? "Me at the beach." What about your mom alone? "Mom at the beach." It would never be "I at the beach," so why is it suddenly "Mom and I at the beach?" You're making this too hard.
Always ask yourself: What if I was a lonely loser (which you will be if you keep up that goddamned grammar)? What if it was JUST ME in this picture? Keyword: ME
Other wrong photo titles: "John and I with a celebrity" "My sister and I at Christmas" Or perhaps you're posting something that you share ownership of - I see this one a lot too: "Brad and I's new dog!"
NO. Stop. Think. SEPARATE. "Brad's new dog." "My new dog." "BRAD'S AND MY NEW DOG." IT IS NOT THAT FUCKING HARD, ASSHATS.
2. APOSTROPHE ABUSE. "Skirt's for $10!"
When I say "dog's," what do you think of? If you think of MANY DOGS, please go hit yourself in the face with a metal pan. You should think, "the dog's WHAT? What belongs to the dog?" because that, my friends, is what apostrophes are for. Not "that's what apostrophe's are for," you stupid fucks.
Pretend we're in a war and our ammunition is made out of apostrophes. Now RATION THAT SHIT and think "WHOA, hold up now, do I REALLY need to use a valuable apostrophe in this situation?" The answer is almost always NO.
But Grammar Goddess, WHEN DO I get to use apostrophes??
I'm glad you asked. Does something in the sentence BELONG TO ANYONE mentioned in the sentence? Does your mom have tomatoes? Then they are "your mom's tomatoes." Does anything belong TO THE TOMATOES? NO, because tomatoes are inanimate objects, you jackass. Therefore, your mom gets an apostrophe and the tomatoes do NOT.
RIGHT: "My aunt's house" WRONG: "All of my aunt's will be there"
RIGHT: ****I'm looking at YOU, Chipotle on Figueroa and Jefferson**** "Choose your greens!" WRONG: "Choose your green's!"
Also, on a side note, when engraving gifts for a wedding, REMEMBER THE APOSTROPHE RULE. Jim and Jane are "The Smiths," not "The Smith's." Jim and Jane live in "The Smiths' House," NOT "The Smith's House." The latter implies that they're already living separately, do you really want to do that to a marriage before it's begun?!?!
3. LESS AND FEWER "15 items or less!"
There is one beautiful store that has a "15 items or FEWER" sign and I can't remember off the top of my head, but I wanted to write the management a beautiful thank you card for FINALLY getting it right. This one is trickier, so here is a correct usage of BOTH:
"There is LESS coffee in my cup than there was an hour ago."
"There are FEWER cookies than there were an hour ago."
Here's the trick: CAN YOU COUNT IT? In the first one, can you count coffee? Not CUPS of coffee, but just COFFEE? Would you say "there are three coffees in my cup?" Nope. You cannot count coffee itself. If you CANNOT COUNT IT, the proper word is LESS. Less sugar. Less pink. Less painful.
Can you count cookies? YES YOU CAN. Would you say "I have three cookies?" YES YOU WOULD. If you CAN COUNT IT, it's FEWER. Fewer cats. Fewer clowns. Fewer items.
DO YOU GET IT NOW? There cannot be "two less" - it's "two fewer." There cannot be "a little bit fewer" - it's "a little bit less."
Now go, use this new education to brighten the world, teach your kids the right way to speak and write, and for god's sake always use it around me at least.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
CABIN FEVER
I'm stuck in my apartment. Seriously, stuck. I, at the moment, am unfortunately job-challenged (my new PC term for unemployed) and I have NOTHING to do. It's awful and I just want it to be Tuesday everyday so I can leave and go to improv for 3 hours.
I can't complain about my apartment, really. I live alone in about 550 sq feet, which for a studio is pretty big. I have a memory foam bed, a good-sized TV, a DISHWASHER - yeah, it's the life, man. But I find myself dreaming of my apartment in Hong Kong.
When I had the glorious joy of living in Hong Kong for two months a couple of years ago, I wasn't exactly sure what my living situation would be like. I knew I would have my own apartment, i.e. not sharing with anyone, but also knew space was at a premium and there likely wouldn't be many amenities.
Let me take you on a tour of my place. I'd take you on a visual tour, but it was so small it was literally impossible to get photographs of the apartment from any angle. How small? Oh, approximately 85 sq feet. No, that's not missing a zero. Have you ever been to Alcatraz? Any prison? (Am I the only damn person who tours prisons?? Is that weird??) Picture the cells. Take the bars away and that, my friend, is approximately how big my "apartment" was.
It came with such luxurious amenities as an IKEA wardrobe with seven hangers, assuming that I would need no more than that. Right next to the wardrobe was a tiny "desk" that fit a desk light, my 15lb laptop, and two charging phones - my iPhone, for use with the ever-present wifi around HK, and my local phone, which cost about 30 American dollars and was an exact replica of a Nokia I had in 2002.
About an inch to the right was my bed, which had drawers underneath and a mattress made of what I can only assume was granite. If I plopped down on the bed too quickly, it actually hurt. There was a small window whose only purpose was to provide a place for an AC unit, and in the few inches above the AC I could see that I was not only looking directly at a wall two feet in front of the window, but also one immediately to the right and another a few feet to the left. With all the lights from the windows and the city, I honestly was not able to tell if it was night or day, like ever.
At the foot of my bed, there was a small flat screen tv attached to the wall that played only three channels - one was news in Chinese, one was incredibly random nature programs in English and the last was 24 hour Cantonese opera. I left it on that station a little too long when I was on muscle relaxers for my back a few weeks after I arrived, and it is like no sound you have ever heard. Well maybe you have, but you don't want to.
The tv wall separated my bed from the bathroom, which was completely tiled, floor and walls, like a shower. Likely because it WAS a shower, with a sink and toilet inside. All three of those things were normal, except for the fact that there was a drain in the middle of the floor and you straight up showered over your fucking toilet. You know your life is awesome if you store your shampoo and face wash on the top of the toilet tank and have to put your TP outside the bathroom as not to ruin it when you shower.
Complicating this further was the fact that no towels were provided. The bed came fully made, so I didn't think to look before I showered and ended up having to towel off with the clothes I had just worn on a plane for 15 hours. I promptly remedied that after dressing by going down the street to IKEA and picking up some $5 towels, which upon my return I realized were larger than hand towels, but not large enough to actually wrap around oneself as you tend to do post-shower. Whatever, everything else was small.
Despite the size of the bathroom, they only put in a pedestal sink and had a small face mirror that was, get this, TOO TALL FOR ME TO SEE INTO. Yes, this Hong Kong apartment had a mirror that a 5'5 westerner couldn't see into when I towered over most of the population by at least 4-5 inches. That was, of course, the only mirror in the entire place. So doing my makeup consisted of dumping all my products in the sink and standing on my tip toes to see, and doing my hair was pretty much by feel.
Oh, I forgot to mention! I had my own (mini) fridge. It held approximately 3 large bottles of water and two microwave meals (for use in the COMMUNITY MICROWAVE). Above it was a small shelf with a hot-plate-like thing and a water boiler kettle, because you DEFINITELY wanted hot stuff before/after/during going outside or even thinking about going outside. That, and the instructions were in Chinese and I don't really trust myself with hot things that I DO know how to operate.
The best part was that if I got bored or hungry or needed anything at all, I could just walk outside and there it was. Hungry? The egg waffle man had a stand next to the apartment entrance. Next to him you could get some sketchy noodles in a bag for 1 American dollar, which I did multiple times. Turn the other way and BOOM you have heaven, which in Asia is known as 7/11.
7/11 in America is where you go for slurpees, lottery tickets and gunshot wounds. 7/11 in Asia is where you go to get SO MANY GLORIOUS THINGS. Pineapple beer! Haagen Daas in weird flavors like taro and green tea but no fucking chocolate! Hello Panda! Pocky! Microwavable fried rice, noodles and dim sum! Gallons upon gallons of bottled, unsweetened oolong and jasmine tea! Hello Kitty bandaids! Pocari Sweat (Japanese Gatorade the color of soapy water, but tastes like regular Gatorade - not, fortunately, sweat)!
Across the street there was a park, there were hundreds of shops within a mile of me, fantastic Engrish hunting, Sasa - the cosmetics store of the gods... Here there's a gigantic park filled with children's soccer games and bouncy castles, a Burger King and, if I'm feeling super crazy, a Yogurtland three blocks away. If I moved to another part of the city, I might live close to a bar or maybe a mall, but never EVERYTHING and never things that DON'T CLOSE.
The only thing I missed was having small furry animals to sleep with, and they'd likely be rather unhappy about the long flight.
So yeah, get me the hell out of my house, PLEASE. There's only so many times I can go to Starbucks to read or the mall to browse with no money.
I can't complain about my apartment, really. I live alone in about 550 sq feet, which for a studio is pretty big. I have a memory foam bed, a good-sized TV, a DISHWASHER - yeah, it's the life, man. But I find myself dreaming of my apartment in Hong Kong.
When I had the glorious joy of living in Hong Kong for two months a couple of years ago, I wasn't exactly sure what my living situation would be like. I knew I would have my own apartment, i.e. not sharing with anyone, but also knew space was at a premium and there likely wouldn't be many amenities.
Let me take you on a tour of my place. I'd take you on a visual tour, but it was so small it was literally impossible to get photographs of the apartment from any angle. How small? Oh, approximately 85 sq feet. No, that's not missing a zero. Have you ever been to Alcatraz? Any prison? (Am I the only damn person who tours prisons?? Is that weird??) Picture the cells. Take the bars away and that, my friend, is approximately how big my "apartment" was.
It came with such luxurious amenities as an IKEA wardrobe with seven hangers, assuming that I would need no more than that. Right next to the wardrobe was a tiny "desk" that fit a desk light, my 15lb laptop, and two charging phones - my iPhone, for use with the ever-present wifi around HK, and my local phone, which cost about 30 American dollars and was an exact replica of a Nokia I had in 2002.
About an inch to the right was my bed, which had drawers underneath and a mattress made of what I can only assume was granite. If I plopped down on the bed too quickly, it actually hurt. There was a small window whose only purpose was to provide a place for an AC unit, and in the few inches above the AC I could see that I was not only looking directly at a wall two feet in front of the window, but also one immediately to the right and another a few feet to the left. With all the lights from the windows and the city, I honestly was not able to tell if it was night or day, like ever.
At the foot of my bed, there was a small flat screen tv attached to the wall that played only three channels - one was news in Chinese, one was incredibly random nature programs in English and the last was 24 hour Cantonese opera. I left it on that station a little too long when I was on muscle relaxers for my back a few weeks after I arrived, and it is like no sound you have ever heard. Well maybe you have, but you don't want to.
The tv wall separated my bed from the bathroom, which was completely tiled, floor and walls, like a shower. Likely because it WAS a shower, with a sink and toilet inside. All three of those things were normal, except for the fact that there was a drain in the middle of the floor and you straight up showered over your fucking toilet. You know your life is awesome if you store your shampoo and face wash on the top of the toilet tank and have to put your TP outside the bathroom as not to ruin it when you shower.
Complicating this further was the fact that no towels were provided. The bed came fully made, so I didn't think to look before I showered and ended up having to towel off with the clothes I had just worn on a plane for 15 hours. I promptly remedied that after dressing by going down the street to IKEA and picking up some $5 towels, which upon my return I realized were larger than hand towels, but not large enough to actually wrap around oneself as you tend to do post-shower. Whatever, everything else was small.
Despite the size of the bathroom, they only put in a pedestal sink and had a small face mirror that was, get this, TOO TALL FOR ME TO SEE INTO. Yes, this Hong Kong apartment had a mirror that a 5'5 westerner couldn't see into when I towered over most of the population by at least 4-5 inches. That was, of course, the only mirror in the entire place. So doing my makeup consisted of dumping all my products in the sink and standing on my tip toes to see, and doing my hair was pretty much by feel.
Oh, I forgot to mention! I had my own (mini) fridge. It held approximately 3 large bottles of water and two microwave meals (for use in the COMMUNITY MICROWAVE). Above it was a small shelf with a hot-plate-like thing and a water boiler kettle, because you DEFINITELY wanted hot stuff before/after/during going outside or even thinking about going outside. That, and the instructions were in Chinese and I don't really trust myself with hot things that I DO know how to operate.
The best part was that if I got bored or hungry or needed anything at all, I could just walk outside and there it was. Hungry? The egg waffle man had a stand next to the apartment entrance. Next to him you could get some sketchy noodles in a bag for 1 American dollar, which I did multiple times. Turn the other way and BOOM you have heaven, which in Asia is known as 7/11.
7/11 in America is where you go for slurpees, lottery tickets and gunshot wounds. 7/11 in Asia is where you go to get SO MANY GLORIOUS THINGS. Pineapple beer! Haagen Daas in weird flavors like taro and green tea but no fucking chocolate! Hello Panda! Pocky! Microwavable fried rice, noodles and dim sum! Gallons upon gallons of bottled, unsweetened oolong and jasmine tea! Hello Kitty bandaids! Pocari Sweat (Japanese Gatorade the color of soapy water, but tastes like regular Gatorade - not, fortunately, sweat)!
Across the street there was a park, there were hundreds of shops within a mile of me, fantastic Engrish hunting, Sasa - the cosmetics store of the gods... Here there's a gigantic park filled with children's soccer games and bouncy castles, a Burger King and, if I'm feeling super crazy, a Yogurtland three blocks away. If I moved to another part of the city, I might live close to a bar or maybe a mall, but never EVERYTHING and never things that DON'T CLOSE.
The only thing I missed was having small furry animals to sleep with, and they'd likely be rather unhappy about the long flight.
So yeah, get me the hell out of my house, PLEASE. There's only so many times I can go to Starbucks to read or the mall to browse with no money.
Saturday, May 30, 2015
A TALE OF TWO DATES
I figured I needed to get back in the swing of things, blogging at least, even though I haven't been "dating" for a while. I did have a somewhat interesting experience that, for me, lasted 2 dates, but for him lasted 2 months.
Way back in a land before time (March), I had been perusing my "Coffee Meets Bagel" dating app - the only one I have allowed myself to look at for probably a year now because it doesn't make me want to rip out my own eyes and swallow burning oil. It's based on your Facebook profile and your interests and friends, so often it'll find you a person with whom you have friends in common. I approve of this.
I had spent the early part of the year binge-watching Korean dramas, so I decided "Hey, I should date a hot Asian dude!" My thought processes when dating are generally even less logical than this, so it could be worse. I get on my app, browse the matches, and find a couple of decent looking Asian dudes who seem to be witty and able to interact socially. One of them likes me back, so we begin chatting.
Eventually we exchange numbers and start texting, and then he makes a terrible mistake - he CALLS ME ON THE PHONE. TO TALK. The only thing I hate more than talking on the phone is probably being nude in public, and luckily the latter has never happened. I try to explain my phobia to him and he brushes it off. Not cool, but our conversation wasn't terrible - no awkward silences, so I figured I'd give him another chance. We decided to meet for drinks the next week not too far from my house.
On date day, I had just paid my credit card, and I kept checking to make sure it went through and I had money. Luckily that afternoon my balance showed $0 and I had a full credit limit, so I thought I was good to go. I didn't really expect to pay for anything, since it was a first date and that's pretty much never happened before, so I wasn't super worried.
The date was relatively uneventful, except that we had a couple of beers each and he kept ordering appetizers. Like six appetizers. I was both grateful and wary, since I was starving but also not too keen on him running up the bill that much if he planned on splitting the check - we'd talked and he knew I was, at the time, not currently employed and living off my tax refund until a job came through, so it's not like he was ignorant of my situation. He, on the other hand, was a fully employed attorney at a decent-sized firm. Either way, I thought I was prepared since I'd so responsibly paid my credit card.
Sure enough, when the bill came, he wanted to split the check, which irritated me. Then the worst thing ever to happen in public on a date happened - the waitress said my card was declined. I flipped out and re-checked my balance on my phone - yep, it was COMPLETELY PAID OFF. But the company decided to update their website but NOT TELL MY CARD IT HAD MONEY. I was so angry I could barely hold it in.
Not only did I look like a financially irresponsible ass, I now felt I owed it to him to go on a second date to "pay him back" by buying his meal. No "don't worry about it, I got it" or "it's fine, I should buy the food that I ordered on a hungry whim on a first date anyway."
The date wasn't bad so I wasn't super upset about seeing him again, but when he texted me about going to brunch and actually MENTIONED (in a joking manner, but still mentioned) that I was supposed to "take him out" I was bummed. He suggested a place in Brentwood that I'd been before and I knew it was reasonably priced, so I was mollified for a hot second and we agreed to meet on a Saturday.
I arrived at his apartment and he needed a few more minutes to get ready (WHAT? I'm the girl, weirdo), so he invited me in and I sat at the kitchen table and played on my phone. Oh, and I had to fight off the advances of a gigantic bulldog puppy that hadn't been trained in any way, shape or form. Did I mention I was wearing white pants? I mean, it was spring, and brunch. I had no idea I'd be wrestling a large dog before we got there. The damn thing weighed nearly as much as I did, and the second I stopped petting him he'd jump up on me, soiling my beautiful pants and simultaneously shoving me against a wall.
Despite the commotion, my date didn't come out to rescue me from Overzealous Dog, and looked surprised when he walked out and my pants were covered in weird streaks from his paws and slobber. "Are you okay?" he said, and when I responded that I was fine, but I wasn't too sure my pants had survived, he dragged the giant animal into his roommate's room and shut the door. WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST DO THAT WHEN I CAME IN?? WAS ME TRYING TO SHOVE HIM DOWN OFF MY BEAUTIFUL, NOW-DEAD PANTS NOT A SIGN FOR YOU??
Then he drops another bomb - "Oh, I changed where were going, I made reservations at *insert snooty restaurant here*" So we went from casual brunch to a place that served bone marrow at noon. One of those places that asks you if you'd like sparkling water or (with a judgmental frown) water from the tap. I don't often appreciate those places anyway, but especially not with someone I've only met once before. If you're my boyfriend and you want to take me somewhere fancy, I'm not opposed, but this just looks like you're trying too hard on a second date. Or you're making ME try too hard, since I'm paying.
He tried to order like two "small plates" (i.e. overpriced appetizers with 3 pieces of food on each) in addition to our meal, but I talked him down to one by telling him I wasn't that hungry. Still, with an appetizer, two meals, my tap water and his solid gold bloody mary, the bill ended up being $70-something before tip. I nearly shat my pants. It was fucking BRUNCH for gods sake, I could've had $8 pancakes across the damn street and to tell you the truth, I was craving pancakes. I fake-smiled and handed the waitress my (working) credit card and thought about that tank of gas I wouldn't be able to afford at the end of the month.
To be honest, I wasn't that into him regardless of the dates - we seemed well-matched at first, but our conversations got forced and it seemed clear to me by the end of the second date that there wasn't a love connection. Hoping he felt that way too, I left and continued my life. He, however, was not done with me yet.
Mid-week I got a text from him wanting to hang out again. Luckily I had legit plans that weekend, so I told him I wasn't available. He tried again the next weekend. I made something up. He tried again THE NEXT WEEKEND. That time I just didn't respond. Yeah I know, I should have told him I didn't want to go out again, but I fear confrontation, even in text format, and I knew I'd never have to see him again (unlike a friend of a friend or something). This character continued to text me every weekend FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH after I ceased all contact. And not "Where are you? Why don't you text me back?" - it was literally like "Hey stranger! What's up?"
Now I have to be careful of when I go to the gym because his office is in the same building. And shut up, yes I go to the gym. I went Thursday. So ha.
Way back in a land before time (March), I had been perusing my "Coffee Meets Bagel" dating app - the only one I have allowed myself to look at for probably a year now because it doesn't make me want to rip out my own eyes and swallow burning oil. It's based on your Facebook profile and your interests and friends, so often it'll find you a person with whom you have friends in common. I approve of this.
I had spent the early part of the year binge-watching Korean dramas, so I decided "Hey, I should date a hot Asian dude!" My thought processes when dating are generally even less logical than this, so it could be worse. I get on my app, browse the matches, and find a couple of decent looking Asian dudes who seem to be witty and able to interact socially. One of them likes me back, so we begin chatting.
Eventually we exchange numbers and start texting, and then he makes a terrible mistake - he CALLS ME ON THE PHONE. TO TALK. The only thing I hate more than talking on the phone is probably being nude in public, and luckily the latter has never happened. I try to explain my phobia to him and he brushes it off. Not cool, but our conversation wasn't terrible - no awkward silences, so I figured I'd give him another chance. We decided to meet for drinks the next week not too far from my house.
On date day, I had just paid my credit card, and I kept checking to make sure it went through and I had money. Luckily that afternoon my balance showed $0 and I had a full credit limit, so I thought I was good to go. I didn't really expect to pay for anything, since it was a first date and that's pretty much never happened before, so I wasn't super worried.
The date was relatively uneventful, except that we had a couple of beers each and he kept ordering appetizers. Like six appetizers. I was both grateful and wary, since I was starving but also not too keen on him running up the bill that much if he planned on splitting the check - we'd talked and he knew I was, at the time, not currently employed and living off my tax refund until a job came through, so it's not like he was ignorant of my situation. He, on the other hand, was a fully employed attorney at a decent-sized firm. Either way, I thought I was prepared since I'd so responsibly paid my credit card.
Sure enough, when the bill came, he wanted to split the check, which irritated me. Then the worst thing ever to happen in public on a date happened - the waitress said my card was declined. I flipped out and re-checked my balance on my phone - yep, it was COMPLETELY PAID OFF. But the company decided to update their website but NOT TELL MY CARD IT HAD MONEY. I was so angry I could barely hold it in.
Not only did I look like a financially irresponsible ass, I now felt I owed it to him to go on a second date to "pay him back" by buying his meal. No "don't worry about it, I got it" or "it's fine, I should buy the food that I ordered on a hungry whim on a first date anyway."
The date wasn't bad so I wasn't super upset about seeing him again, but when he texted me about going to brunch and actually MENTIONED (in a joking manner, but still mentioned) that I was supposed to "take him out" I was bummed. He suggested a place in Brentwood that I'd been before and I knew it was reasonably priced, so I was mollified for a hot second and we agreed to meet on a Saturday.
I arrived at his apartment and he needed a few more minutes to get ready (WHAT? I'm the girl, weirdo), so he invited me in and I sat at the kitchen table and played on my phone. Oh, and I had to fight off the advances of a gigantic bulldog puppy that hadn't been trained in any way, shape or form. Did I mention I was wearing white pants? I mean, it was spring, and brunch. I had no idea I'd be wrestling a large dog before we got there. The damn thing weighed nearly as much as I did, and the second I stopped petting him he'd jump up on me, soiling my beautiful pants and simultaneously shoving me against a wall.
Despite the commotion, my date didn't come out to rescue me from Overzealous Dog, and looked surprised when he walked out and my pants were covered in weird streaks from his paws and slobber. "Are you okay?" he said, and when I responded that I was fine, but I wasn't too sure my pants had survived, he dragged the giant animal into his roommate's room and shut the door. WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST DO THAT WHEN I CAME IN?? WAS ME TRYING TO SHOVE HIM DOWN OFF MY BEAUTIFUL, NOW-DEAD PANTS NOT A SIGN FOR YOU??
Then he drops another bomb - "Oh, I changed where were going, I made reservations at *insert snooty restaurant here*" So we went from casual brunch to a place that served bone marrow at noon. One of those places that asks you if you'd like sparkling water or (with a judgmental frown) water from the tap. I don't often appreciate those places anyway, but especially not with someone I've only met once before. If you're my boyfriend and you want to take me somewhere fancy, I'm not opposed, but this just looks like you're trying too hard on a second date. Or you're making ME try too hard, since I'm paying.
He tried to order like two "small plates" (i.e. overpriced appetizers with 3 pieces of food on each) in addition to our meal, but I talked him down to one by telling him I wasn't that hungry. Still, with an appetizer, two meals, my tap water and his solid gold bloody mary, the bill ended up being $70-something before tip. I nearly shat my pants. It was fucking BRUNCH for gods sake, I could've had $8 pancakes across the damn street and to tell you the truth, I was craving pancakes. I fake-smiled and handed the waitress my (working) credit card and thought about that tank of gas I wouldn't be able to afford at the end of the month.
To be honest, I wasn't that into him regardless of the dates - we seemed well-matched at first, but our conversations got forced and it seemed clear to me by the end of the second date that there wasn't a love connection. Hoping he felt that way too, I left and continued my life. He, however, was not done with me yet.
Mid-week I got a text from him wanting to hang out again. Luckily I had legit plans that weekend, so I told him I wasn't available. He tried again the next weekend. I made something up. He tried again THE NEXT WEEKEND. That time I just didn't respond. Yeah I know, I should have told him I didn't want to go out again, but I fear confrontation, even in text format, and I knew I'd never have to see him again (unlike a friend of a friend or something). This character continued to text me every weekend FOR AN ENTIRE MONTH after I ceased all contact. And not "Where are you? Why don't you text me back?" - it was literally like "Hey stranger! What's up?"
Now I have to be careful of when I go to the gym because his office is in the same building. And shut up, yes I go to the gym. I went Thursday. So ha.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
A HOBO IN A PINK SWEATSHIRT RATES FASHIONS FROM THE MET GALA
Welcome back, all. It's that time of year again - the time when I find out that there has been some unnecessary gala and lots of ugly, expensive shit has been worn and photographed. This time it was the Met Ball, which I found out today while getting my hair salon is for the Met Museum in New York, and each "ball" has a theme based on an exhibit coming out - this year's theme was "something something China something."
So as I sit here on my couch in a neon pink hoodie, tshirt and clashing pink gym shorts, I'm going to give my opinions on how these rich people chose to present themselves in public this weekend. Ready? Good.
Anna Wintour. She's like the queen of fashion or something and rules a kingdom where she decides whether or not you're well-dressed. Well, Anna, I'm going to strip you of your title because of the giant Mexican paper flowers you are wearing as floaties.
Beyoncé. Yes, she's practically nude, no I don't understand it, but yes, it's awesome. Beyoncé could cover herself in strategically placed patches of horse shit and she'd still look amazing, because Beyoncé.
Presenting three of the dolls from the last room of Disney's "It's a Small World." Don't worry, they were returned to the ride shortly after the gala.
Chloe Sevigny. You're already odd looking, but it's even worse now that it looks like your clothes are slowly slipping off your body and you don't seem to notice or care.
Whoever you are, FLATS, PANTS and a BLACK TUBE TOP? You're at the Met Ball, not McDonald's, get your shit together.
Dear Dakota Johnson - I wore a very similar dress to Las Vegas in 2011. It didn't look great then nor does it look great now. Also, where's the China?
The look on the left was brought to you from the David's Bridal sales rack.
This looks like a project for a fashion student whose only instructions were "You're getting married in 1984 and have only your grandmother's curtains and 37 minutes. GO!"
JLo. Generally you can pull off semi-nudity, but side-ass really isn't as becoming as side-boob. That's just too big of a hole for me to consider this a "dress."
I wore this in 2007, except it was for Halloween and called "Sexy Ninja."
Ok, we have Katy Perry. The dress is just weird enough for the Met Ball, and the matching purse spray can is clutch (PUN INTENDED), but to go so crazy and NOT be on theme? Not sure about this one. Maybe your invitation was for the wrong year.
I know you're having a difficult time and all, Kris Jenner, but that doesn't mean it's ok to break out your formalwear from 1986 in its entirety.
I hope, for Rhianna's sake, two things: a) that she has something on under this giant robe because she seems to be clutching it as though she doesn't, and b) she has reserved five seats for herself and her large yellow guest.
Who are you? Why did you make your dress out of kindergarten cutouts of bodies? Why do you have a pink penis? Also please expect a letter of reprimand from the People's Republic of China for the great offense you have caused their people and history.
Um, matadors are Spanish. Your Uber driver got your destination wrong, go join the Cinco De Mayo crowds down the street at a bar.
Oh, Solange. So many things wrong here. The theme was not "Mars Attacks." Someone forgot to cut a head-hole in your dress. It actually may be on backward. Also why are you standing like that? Can you move your arms? If so, please use them to take that dress off and set it on fire.
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