50s DATING ADVICE FOR ME

Brought to you in part by this lovely article.

1. "Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours."

Oh, whoopsie. I suppose you're right, I should really shut up about the fact that I'm pretty sure I broke my ankle on the way into the living room while my important man tells me about the NFL draft. No honey, keep talking, I always get pale and lightheaded when I'm interested. Let me know when you're done, so that maybe after I serve you this delicious home-cooked meal you might have enough energy after your big, manly day at work to take me to the ER while I slowly lose consciousness from pain. If not, no worries, I'm pretty sure all 50s housewives spent many a night sobbing on the living room floor.

2. "Only floozies ask guys out."

If I had a dollar for every time a guy called me a floozie... Happens all the time, really.
"Hey, do you want to get a drink?"
"No, you ridiculous floozie!"

"I was wondering if maybe you'd go to prom with me?"
"I was wondering when you'd stop being a FUCKING FLOOZY JESUS CHRIST."

And all this time I was thinking it was social anxiety and fear of rejection. What a silly floozie I was!!

3. "Don't sit in awkward positions - and never look bored. Be alert, and if you must chew gum (not advised) do so silently and with your mouth closed."

You mean like this?               Or this?                             

 


So this isn't okay?            Or this? I don't look bored, do I?











Soooo...no on this too?




4. "The man always does the ordering. Never ask the waiter yourself for anything."

"I will have the T-bone, medium rare, and my date will have the small house salad."
"Um, excuse me, could I get a chicken sandwich instead?"
"WHO THE FUCK SAID YOU COULD TALK TO THE WAITER? ARE YOU HITTING ON HIM? EAT YOUR DRY LEAVES, BITCH."
*me, picking at croutons and slowly losing blood sugar as I pass out and fall out of my chair, a single tear drips down my cheek*

4. "Compliment him on his physical prowess, his mental acumen, his good looks, his virility. The worst mistake a girl can make is to make a man feel intellectually inferior or inadequate as a male."

Is there a sidenote on how to deal with men who don't understand what "acumen" is? Do I REALLY have to tolerate improper uses of "your" and "you're" for the entirety of my marriage? That's kind of a dealbreaker.  What if he tells me Poland is a city in France?  Or a koala is a bear (THEY'RE NOT GODDAMN IT)?  Or "it's okay, murder is legal here"?  I JUST LOOK THE OTHER WAY TO AVOID INSULTING HIS INTELLIGENCE?  How about "you're perfectly adequate as a male specimen, but you're just stupid as fuck"?

5. "it is up to you to earn the proposal, by raising a dignified campaign designated to show him that matrimony is the keystone of a happy life."

A marriage campaign? How does one do this? Yard signs? Bumper stickers? Internet memes? I personally would be prone to scholarly research and a well-written paper on the pros of marriage, but is this an acceptable format?  Would he prefer it in a simple grade school poster flow-chart?

Can I appoint delegates? Do I get a committee? I NEED INSTRUCTIONS DAMMIT! Otherwise I'll just be posting "ME FOR WIFE 2016" flyers around the house, which I'm not sure would be entirely effective.

IF YOU'RE SINGLE AND YOU KNOW IT, PUKE ON A PLANE

So I had a super fun weekend, you guys. To be fair, it was fun until about 10pm Sunday night, so that's like 99% fun.

I had traveled the great distance LA to Houston to meet a bazillion friends for an annual tradition known as "Masseypaloooza." Though usually held in Malibu or Hermosa Beach, this year was a tiny town called Round Top, Texas because my friend is basically the mayor and can do whatever the fuck he wants.  It was a lovely weekend spent with people I don't see more than once or twice a year, sitting in a ridiculously ironic "redneck hottub" (pickup truck bed filled with water) and a slip n slide made from 50 feet of black plastic that someone was able to find on Amazon.

Oh, and also we ate. A LOT. I can't really express this in terms most people understand, but for those of you who know me, I basically ate like I do at an Indian buffet - FOR EVERY MEAL FOR THREE DAYS. It was Texas, so I was filled with beef, cheese and pie to the point where my stomach was taut like it was carrying a baby and not just future poop.

But as you might've guessed, the real story lies in the return home. A friend and I were on the same Southwest flight home late Sunday night, the last of the friends to leave. Our flight was delayed half an hour so we went and had some nachos, finishing in time to board with our beautiful A59 and A60 boarding passes.

I started the flight off reading my new book about a murder, because duh, and eventually I got tired. As I turned off the light and put the book in the seat pocket, I started to feel not so great. Not terrible, but uncomfortable.

This ramped up slowly.

Ugh, I wish I hadn't eaten those nachos.

Ok, I really wish I hadn't eaten 50% of the food I ate this weekend. Except the pie, I do not regret that.

Hmm, maybe I should wake up this weird middle seat guy who smells like hot garbage, which isn't helping my situation, and get out to go to the bathroom. Just in case.

I get to the bathroom, luckily unoccupied, and try to think. Was this going to be a Hawaii situation? Did I need more than one receptacle for what was about to escape my angry stomach?

At this point we were about 2 hours into an almost four-hour flight. I decided this would be a good time to begin vomiting. There were a couple of fake outs, where you finish and you think you feel all better and can continue to live your life as you once did, but then return to your seat and smell Mr. Hot Garbage and realize NOPE NOT DONE YET.

The friendly flight attendants quickly figured out that I wasn't in the bathroom doing lines, and kept me supplied with water as I simply gave up on going back to my seat and started hanging out in the back of the plane with them. It didn't get better. It got worse. I started getting dehydrated and being unable to stand up. They kindly found me a seat in the back row, but I was past that point now.

"I know this isn't really acceptable safety protocol and stuff, but can I just lay on the floor? Like right here? Literally next to your feet and the bathroom and the place you make drinks?"

"Sure, honey." Goddamn they were the best flight attendants.

So I sprawled out on the floor of the back of the airplane, as I'm sure many of you have done before, smelling of my own puke and shame, and all I could think of was "please please please don't shit your pants this time."

I would like to take this short moment to tell you about a gift my friend got me.  My best friend lives in Singapore, and she recently went to Vietnam for vacation where things are cheap and amazing. She saw a shirt that was perfect for me, bought it for like $2 or something, and brought it to Houston for me. It hilariously said "If you're single and you know it hug your cat."

I was wearing that shirt. I was wearing a puke-splattered "if you're single and you know it hug your cat" shirt while laying on the floor of an airplane galley in front of two flight attendants and an entire plane full of passengers (just wait).

When it was clear that I was not going to be exiting the plane without some assistance, the flight attendants had the pilot call for medics to meet me at the gate, and then made my favorite announcement:
"Ladies and gentlemen, when we reach the gate if you could please remain in your seats, we have a sick passenger that needs to exit first."

I got to do other things you're not supposed to do, like be in the bathroom while the plane lands. Didn't fully appreciate my freedom at the time. I laid back down on the floor of the plane as we taxied, because I had no more fucks to give.

Then we arrived at our gate, where the announcement was repeated, and my flight attendant saviors walked a pale, sick 30-something with dirty hair and a "hug your cat" t-shirt past every single passenger on the plane. The best part was that the guys who were maneuvering the jetway kept fucking up, and in the time we were waiting to open the door, with all eyes on me, I had one glorious final puke in the front bathroom because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING PLANE.

My new best friends, the LAFD medics, were waiting for me and wheeled me out to the terminal that was now empty as it was past midnight. I'm pretty sure I was given an IV in the airport, shortly after begging the attractive EMTs to let me lay on the airport floor because I mean, I'd already been on the floor of the airplane galley, and it doesn't get much worse. I remember them being vaguely concerned about me laying on the floor. NOTHING ON THIS FLOOR CAN MAKE ME WORSE THAN I AM RIGHT NOW OKAY?

Their fear materialized into a stretcher that I was buckled into like a mental patient and wheeled into a service elevator to the waiting ambulance that, as expected, was the temperature of a morgue. I started shivering like I was having a seizure. Have you ever shivered with your butt? MY BUTT SHIVERED. And it was freakin sore the next day too. It was like the only muscle in  my body still working and capable of shivering. I'm sure it looked quite odd coming from a girl buckled into a stretcher and covered with sheets

The ambulance drove me somewhere - I didn't even know what hospital I was at until about 7am the next day when they let me out. Apparently there's a hospital in Marina Del Rey, FYI.

They gave me fluids, anti-nausea meds, something else I wasn't paying attention to, and I tried to sleep. They took gallons of my blood and disappeared for hours. Finally, after 6 hours in the ER, they had figured out that I wasn't dying and they couldn't really do anything more for me, so I got an Uber back to my apartment where I could slowly die alone in my own very comfortable bed.

The only thing of note that happened the rest of Monday was a random fever that night that induced the craziest night terrors ever, including a superfun bout of sleep paralysis where I was half dreaming I was about to be stabbed in bed but I could do nothing but lay there and watch. I might have welcomed that scenario 10 hours earlier.

When the fever broke, the dreams stopped, I woke up, and suddenly knew that it was over. Well, unless you count the insane bloating from being dehydrated.

But the good news...I didn't shit my pants this time.

THAT TIME I GAVE A CELEBRITY MY NUMBER

I make exceptional life decisions. I'm sure you could go back many blog entries ago and read numerous descriptions of said life decisions, or you could simply scroll down to the photo at the beginning of my last blog on Oscar fashion. That, folks, is who you're dealing with.

I look fantastic - on paper. I have three degrees, am a licensed attorney in two (hopefully three soon) states, speak 2.15 languages (that's the number I came up with when I added my basic conversational French with minimal Spanish and Korean), have won 9 out of 11 jury trials, am reasonably funny, can hold an intelligent conversation and also enjoy a good fart joke. I'm even above-average in looks, at least I think so. Let me just believe I'm hot, okay?

Me in person, that's a whole other story. I'm an introvert that has finally reached the "I don't give a fuck" part of my life, which is confusing for me because I always gave so many fucks. I cared what people thought of my hair, my face, my clothes, my personality, my intelligence, everything. Now I really don't, but it comes across differently than an extrovert with social skills. I still get uncomfortable around new people and generally my go-to is try to be funny and fail, jokingly insult someone and have them think I meant it, or laughing at everyone else while I think of how to join the conversation. I'm really good at socializing, you guys.

One thing I'm particularly not good at - interacting with attractive males. If you've ever witnessed it, it's sad. It's probably amusing. It might make you cringe but giggle a little at the same time and walk away feeling confusingly uncomfortable. That's how it makes me feel, anyway.

I have NEVER in my entire life gone up to a guy in person and given him my number. Never. Not even when I was in law school and drank four days a week. It has simply never happened.

So when you've gone 34 years of your life never approaching a guy to give him your number, what do you do about that? Well you make your first victim a celebrity, duh.

I'd made plans to visit my parents in Missouri for my grandma's 96th birthday at the beginning of March a couple of weeks before I went. I'd be gone all weekend and return on Monday. My tickets were $87. It was amazing. So imagine my intense heartache and disappointment when I go to improv on Tuesday before I leave and find out that Matt McGorry (google him now if you don't already know who he is. I'll wait) was going to be the guest in my teacher's show on Sunday. The Sunday I'd be GONE.

I died a little inside. I may have posted some "woe is me" comments on my teacher's facebook page. I was a sad little girl.

I went to Missouri, we fed my grandma cake, I slept a lot, the show happened without me there, I flew back to LA.

Now it's important to understand the difference between Mr. McGorry and say, Hugh Dancy. Or Bradley Cooper. Hugh and Bradley are 9000% out of my reach. Hugh is married to Claire Danes, who I consider somewhat mannish but whatever, and Bradley dates models and not attorneys who drive Honda Civics. That's why it's totally okay for me to have a picture of Hugh Dancy as my phone background, because we're never going to meet so I can be as creepy as I want.

Matt McGorry, however, seems like a normal guy. Not only is he insanely hot, but he's age appropriate and not super duper famous yet. And he posts videos on his instagram (NOT A STALKER YOU GUYS, I FOLLOW LOTS OF PEOPLE) and he's actually hilarious, unlike his characters. He seems like he'd be someone I'd get along with well - we have the same political ideas, the same type of sense of humor, he says "fuck" a lot, seems to be intelligent and educated, etc. Really what I'm looking for in any guy.

When I return to class, one of my friends tells me she met him and that he was super nice and really down to earth. She didn't proposition him because she's engaged and not a creepster, but still got a good impression of him. I was sad for about twelve more seconds until someone walks in and puts a flyer on the wall of our classroom that had his really hot face on it and said he was coming BACK this week to be a guest in ANOTHER Second City show.

Well, this was obviously destiny. The stars aligned, Mercury was in retrograde (what the fuck does that even MEAN?), Jesus and Vishnu held hands and danced around a cauldron of glitter, all so I could meet Matt McGorry. I mean, of course. I didn't get to meet him so he comes to Second City two weeks in a row, giving me a chance? Naw, that's some movie shit, that doesn't happen. He was going to get to meet my awesome self and decide that hey, maybe he wants to date a hot attorney who happens to do improv in her spare time and is not a gold digger. Time for me to organize my Pinterest wedding board, aww shit.

I bought a ticket immediately upon finishing class and began preparing for what the sparkly rose-smelling goddess of love had decided was going to be "my moment." I had to be PREPARED.

To me, preparation meant looking hot, having my number readily available so he couldn't refuse it, and pumping myself up enough to speak to an attractive person who also happened to be on two very big TV shows. No big deal. As any reasonable person would do, I Snapchatted my friends across the world (yes, literally) asking hair up or down, glasses or no glasses. All the answers varied so I settled with hair down and glasses, because he seems like he'd like smart chicks - and we all know glasses don't mean "my vision genes are defective" but rather "I like reading books in Latin."

I even thought "What if I ask if I can buy him a drink? What if I ask him to get a drink RIGHT THEN? What if he ACCEPTS? I only have $4! I can't tell someone I'll buy them a drink and only have $4, therefore making them buy said drink!" So, since this was on Sunday and I got paid Monday, I took one of my old purses to Crossroads, that store where you sell your old clothes, and walked out with $9.64. I had to use my $4 for parking for the show, so I hoped to god that he would order a Bud Light and I could pony up the cash like the baller I was pretending to be.

I got to Second City early, watched a class show, wandered aimlessly around for thirty minutes, during which time I stole a business card from the office and, with a Sharpie (visibility, you guys), wrote my name and phone number on the back. I tucked that sucker into my purse and waited for my moment.

I was walking down the stairs to go chat with the door guy when Matt turns the corner and starts UP the stairs. HOLY SHIT I'M NOT READY YET, WE CAN'T MEET YET, THIS IS NOT HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. STOP BEING THERE, GO BACK! He was texting, so I managed to slip by him unnoticed and got a giant wave of anxiety that I can only assume is similar to how you feel after you take a hit of meth.

So in my meth-like state, I watched the show, not really paying attention, and rehearsed what I should say. I knew I couldn't get my full life story out in a few sentences, so I just decided to introduce myself and tell him I was in the class of one of the ladies he improvised with last week.

After the show a ton of girls were lining up to take pictures with him. I decided to be cool and stand by the door, because I didn't want to be lumped in with the chicks that just thought of him as a commodity to be shared and bragged about on Instagram. I wanted to be COOL. A person, not a fan. I waited a good 20 minutes before all the fangirls got done with him, feeling cooler and cooler as I stood there pretending not to be phased by this incredibly hot celebrity that was 5 feet away from me.

Then he turned towards me and started walking to the door. This was my moment. Now or never. I touched his arm to get his attention (so nervously that I didn't even fully appreciate that I was touching a REALLY NICE ARM) and he looked at me and stopped. Then this happened.

"HI I'M IN NANCY'S CLASS YOU KNOW FROM MAMA'S BOY THAT THING YOU DID LAST WEEK YEAH I DIDN'T GET TO SEE IT BUT I HEARD YOU WERE GOOD UM YEAH SO I UH ****honestly no idea what I said here**** YEAH YOU PROBABLY GET THIS A LOT" - pull out card with my name and number on it - "BUT UH HERE'S MY NUMBER SO UH YEAH IF YOU DON'T WANT TO USE IT JUST DON'T TALK ABOUT HOW A RANDOM CHICK GAVE YOU HER NUMBER ON A TALK SHOW OR SOMETHING HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA NO REALLY DON'T OK I'M GONNA GO NICE TO MEET YOU BYE"

*I run down stairs*

Then came the regret. OH SHIT what did I just do? What came out of my mouth? It wasn't MY fault, he was staring INTO MY SOUL. Seriously he looks you straight in the eye when you talk to him and I turned to stone and was unable to control what came out of my mouth. I had so much adrenaline going that I stood and talked to the guy working the door (I know him, so it wasn't weird and random) for 20 minutes pretty much flipping out and really wanting a Klonopin.

And no, I haven't heard from him, if you were curious what type of first impression I made.

THIS IDIOT RATES OSCAR FASHIONS

Yes, THIS IDIOT

In this wedding photobooth (the red carpet of the real world) picture, I'm sporting a thrifty plastic safari hat, unidentified magenta tutu-esque piece of fabric, and a completely clashing bright red dress and lipstick. I was 80% sober here, which means I had entirely too many mental and physical faculties for this to be acceptable.

Go back in time with me, if you will, to 1987. It's Halloween. Your parents don't want to spend a ton of money on a costume. They realize, brilliantly, that a giant black Hefty bag doubles as a California Raisin costume, which was a pretty hip thing to be that year. You cut leg holes and arm holes in your garbage bag, tie it at the neck, and voila, you're a California Raisin!

I assume this is the homage Kate Winslet is going for here.

 

Alright, Alicia Vikander. I have no idea who you are. I don't get to see too many movies since my friends with Oscar screeners have *AHEM* moved to Asia. Either way your dress is trying very hard. I like the light yellow, because bright yellow is harsh, and the sparklies are not bad. I'm just a little turned off by the fact that it looks like you went to the bathroom and tucked most of your dress into your panties without noticing that there's a slight breeze.

 

 

This chick had a really weird name that I have already forgotten in the time it took to find the photo of me wearing a similar (yet slightly more modest neckline) dress to prom in 1998. I was so ahead of my time.

Oh Amy. You are so funny. I'm not entirely sure where you found this costume, but suffice it to say you must be busy writing, acting and performing your duties as the official royal fortune teller at the imperial palace during the Qing Dynasty. 

 

Ok, Mr. Weeknd, let's have a little chat. Not about your tux,  you look fine. Well, except your hair. Whatever you did, please don't ever do it again. We need to have a chat about your name. First of all, you're ONE GUY. You can't have a "the" in your name if you're ONE GUY, unless you're THE president or THE Queen of England. That's just the way shit works. Even Beyoncé isn't THE BEYONCE, and we all know she's the baseline against whom all entertainers measure themselves. Sure, if you want to be all cutesy and spell "weekend" wrong, whatever. But to me, you're just "Weeknd." Always. Forever. No "the." Step down off that tall horse of yours and sit down on that small goat that is your career.

 

Aww, it was so nice of Pharrell's wife to bring Little Timmy to his first Oscars. I hope you packed some snacks in that tiny purse of yours because Timmy's already looking mischievous. And make sure he stays in his seat, kids do the darndest things!

 

Rooney Mara, you are pale. It's okay, I too am pale. But we've gotta work with what we're given. Of all the rainbow of colors in the world, you chose to wear the same color as both your skin and the background. LITERALLY ANY COLOR WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER. And I might even forgive the fact that the material looks like Lizzie Borden's bedspread if I could tell where it ended and your skin began. And don't get me started on gratuitous cut-outs. I kind of wish your dress was fur so that PETA could have livened it up a bit with some bright paint splashes.

 

Kerry Washington, you are beautiful and your skin is like flawless silk. You don't look bad in anything. You really even don't look bad in this, but that's not saying anything for the dress itself. I can't tell if it's a vague homage to Star Wars or Xena the Warrior Princess, but I'm confused and upset. Being Kerry Washington's stylist isn't an invitation to throw anything on her to see if she can make it not look ridiculous, that's just rude. Dress her like the goddess she is.

 

I call my latest modern art piece "Unicorn Vomit Frozen in Time Avec Les Fleurs"

 

A LINK TO THE PAST

Thumbs up if you get the super nerdy title reference.

Now that my second iteration of the bar is over, I can come back to other things, such as writing about what rich people wore to an awards ceremony I didn't watch. Trust me, I've already reviewed my material and there's a good deal I have to say, but that will be later in the week. But first, my return to WORK.

In the fantasy world that I call my job, which I've only had for about two months, I have two "bosses" who are super fun and nice, close to my age, and like listening to KDAY at work. AND they think I'm smart and useful and have good ideas. I'm still looking for the hidden unicorn in the office to prove to me that this is all a dream and there's no way I could have a job I enjoy with people I like who ALSO appreciate me and tell me so. That kind of job doesn't exist. It's the same kind of job that where, when I'd been there a week and turned in one Summary Judgment Opposition, they decided to show me they liked my work and that they intended to keep me around by buying me a gigantic monitor so I didn't have to look at my laptop screen all day.

It's also the kind of job where they're like, "Oh, yeah, don't come in the week before the bar, we really want you to study." I didn't even ASK for time off, but OKAY. And I appreciated it greatly. So today when I came to the office for the first time in two weeks, the guy at the front desk told me they'd moved offices (they'd been trying to get a bigger one since they hired me and the one they had barely fit two small children, let alone three adults with desks). He walked me to a (comparatively) huge office with SO MUCH SPACE and I had a BIG GIANT DESK and could back my chair up without hitting the open door. Okay, I guess that's not like the corner office at the Empire State Building but having a mini-desk behind the door makes you appreciate the small things. Or bigger things.

They were excited to have me back (what? they noticed I was gone?) and I set up my computer and began working. I don't mind being there. It's super weird. They're also terrifyingly confident in my ability to pass the bar this time. It actually does scare me...

When I got home today I opened up my "work box" to find things to take to my big girl desk at my big girl job, since it's SO HUGE that I need to decorate it or the only things that will adorn my desk are food particles and empty Starbucks cups. My work box is exactly how I left it 6 years ago, when I packed up my desk at the DA's office in Missouri, never to return.

The first thing I saw upon opening the box was a large desk calendar for 2010. January was filled with dockets, hearings, my final (winning!) trial, and highlighter cross-outs for every day that passed up until January 15th. That was the day that my boss came into my already-closed office and sat down, an almost sad look on his face, where he told me that he thought I was a wonderful person, but not necessarily the type of person that needed to do this job. I surprised him when I straight up agreed with him. I had been looking for jobs (at home) for the past month or so, with no success. I'd begun isolating myself at this job too, just like the last one. My office was on the opposite side of the space from the others, which didn't really bother me, but even that shelter hadn't been enough in past months. My door remained closed and I was avoiding everyone again.

That was when I decided to leave law. I'd made the decision before, but that was the day it took effect. I cried, not because I was sad, but because I was relieved. That, and I pretty much cried about everything between 2008 and 2013.

Today, despite having started my job in January, I felt was my real return to law. After six years of confusion, school, unsuccessful job hunting, "finding myself," a master's degree, undiagnosed PTSD, living across the world for two months and finally DIAGNOSED PTSD (the difference is staggering, I assure you), I opened the box and took some items from my past to put back into my present. Just a few, but enough. There's a part of me that will always be a DA. That part of me saw hearings scheduled into April in that calendar that was never used, hearings for cases I remember and ultimately worry about the outcome. I hope the more difficult ones weren't dismissed because people didn't believe in the sex crimes cases like I did. I hope some of those people are still in jail.

I credit the last year for getting me back "on track" in life, i.e. having a paying job as well as hobbies and friends, to starting improv. I gained my confidence back. I became happy again. I started making a concerted effort to use the skills I had to do what I knew I was good at so that I could make money to support what I love to do. And today was the beginning of something great.

Thank god I still look like I'm 28 because starting over at 34 isn't easy. But I did need those 6 years to get to this point.

Okay enough with this gooey sh...show of emotion. Let's do this.

MY TAKE ON THE BACHELOR

I've been watching the Bachelor since the beginning of this season. I can't stop. It's like a train wreck. I'd never really watched it before, with the exception a few episodes here and there over the course of the entire tenure of the show, but I had no idea how addicting it could be.

I can't decide if I would be terrible on the show or the one the producers keep around because I provide endless entertainment. It's come to my attention that either these girls don't curse, or they just cut all of that out, because there are no bleeps. Who doesn't curse? That's very suspect. I don't trust people who don't curse. But then again, I don't really trust people who go on a TV show to actually legitimately find love. Also I don't have long brown/blonde ombre hair with loose waves that always looks the same, so I'd stand out immediately.

(Disclosure: I once may or may not have applied to be on the Bachelor, shortly off a bad breakup and just for amusement. I'm not sure if I was rejected because my job title was "attorney" and not "cosmetologist" or "twin," or some other reason, but I'm pretty sure that what got me on Wipeout was exactly the thing that made the Bachelor not interested. I was kind of relieved when they didn't call me.)

Now that I've actually watched most of a season of the show, I know I would be a hilarious disaster. Assuming someone as dull as Ben would keep me around this long, which is highly unlikely as I tend to terrify people who have very little personality, my reactions to these dates and questions would be SIGNIFICANTLY different.

In last night's episode, that I watch a day late on Hulu solely to spite Time Warner Cable, Boring Ben takes the remaining ladies to his hometown of Warsaw, Indiana. The girls think it's adorable how much he loves this tiny town, but I find it absolutely terrifying. Sure, the trees are pretty and fall-colored, and I assume it would be a pleasant place to stay for a  night on a road trip, but to live there? Sweet mother of god, no.

The first "date" he took the girl on a tour of his town, talking about his high school and how he was quarterback, blah blah blah. Oh great, a guy who's still living the high school hometown dream? My absolute nightmare. High school wasn't bad, but for the love of god, grow up and have some adult accomplishments.

"And that's my church."
"Ohhhhh, yeah, this probably isn't going to work out..."

After the tour that showed you how boring your life would be if you moved "home" with Ben after the show, he took the girl to a gym FILLED with children. Like 50 of them. Hold up, I think you made some mistake, we're supposed to be on a date and you've taken me to a fucking day care. I think I'm going to go take a nice walk among the fall trees that I'll never see again since I'm obviously not marrying someone who wants to hang out with a small army of children.

"I really loved working here with the kids in the after school program, it made me really love working with children."

NOPE. NOPE NOPE NOPE. Not only do I not want to have YOUR kid, I sure as hell don't want to hang out with an entire school full of them for no monetary compensation. I don't even want to do it FOR money, but that's likely the only way to persuade me. Well, maybe for that giant plush donut Ben won at the "town fair" later in the show. I would freakin love a giant plush donut.

Also WHY DO ALL THESE PEOPLE KNOW HIM? How can a town be that small?? And how creepy is it that everywhere he takes girls on dates there are at least 20 people he knows that are watching him like a hawk both because a) he's the most "famous" person they've ever seen and b) because they're trying to get on national TV?  GO AWAY. YOU'RE CREEPING ME OUT.

It's also concerning that most of these girls are under 25. There's a VERY small percentage of my friends who married before 25 that are still married. The Bachelor is basically where relatively attractive, uninteresting people can have a "starter marriage." Also, he's NEVER seen them without PROFESSIONAL hair and makeup. He doesn't even know if they can put on their own makeup without looking like a drag queen. Or maybe they always wear sweatpants. THE WHOLE THING IS A LIE.

But I think we all knew that. Except maybe the people on the show. If nothing else, they're all equally boring, so neither Ben nor his first wife will be disappointed in their (lack of) conversation. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go read my Winston Churchill biography so I can gain back all the brain cells I just lost.

AND THE KITTENS WERE GONE!

Don't worry, nothing actually happened to any kittens, that's just what my friends would say when I started telling a story and got off-topic and rambled for 45 minutes. It is basically the last line from a story which, if I'm being honest, was one of the LEAST ridiculously long tangents I've gone on while attempting to tell a story.

If you've ever attempted to have a conversation with me, you'll know that I lose my train of thought about 50 times during the course of any attempt at speaking and generally end up completely forgetting what I was initially talking about. I am in no way concise. When I write, however, I am quite concise. I get to the point and I'm done.

I have a confession to make. If you hadn't already figured it out from my complete radio silence following my countdown to the bar exam, I did not pass. However, I was in the majority, since only 46% of people taking the California bar this past July passed. I was actually so shocked that I didn't pass that I entered my registration number into the box FIVE TIMES to make sure I typed it correctly, and was then still somewhat convinced that there was a mistake. That's what I get for being too cocky - the "I've already passed two different bar exams on the first try, this one will be cake" attorney who was convinced that having practiced in real life would make my answers better.

Actually, that's what I get for being TOO CONCISE. Those were exactly the words my legal writing teacher (may she rot in hell) wrote on my first memo in law school. What, you're mad that I didn't REPEAT MYSELF UNNECESSARILY?  You're mad that I stayed on topic? You wanted me to explain things to you as detailed and dumbed down as one would to a six-year-old?

Apparently yes.

Let's put this in perspective. I received my answer packet from the bar showing what I wrote (with no notes, thanks for the help guys) and today I compared it to the "good" answer for the same question that they posted on the internet. I got each of the questions RIGHT, and came to the conclusions in the same way as the sample answer, but there was a marked difference:

My answer took up four pages. The sample answer took THIRTEEN PAGES.  I'm just going to let that sink in here for a second.

Basically, it was my answer with every single thing defined. While mine would say something to the effect of "the court correctly denied Bob's motion for summary judgment because blah blah blah," the sample answer was more like "Bob, who was born on a farm in 1914, lived a long, hard life picking weeds from his neighbor's yard...he had type A blood, an unnatural interest in the mating habits of pigs, and saw his first grey hair when he was 20 years old. When Bob filed the motion for summary judgment, he drove there in his 1994 Honda Accord that was purchased via quitclaim deed from his sister, Sue, who inherited it from her father through his holographic will that was also videotaped, notarized, and performed via interpretive dance The judge who denied Bob's motion had just filed for divorce from his wife and was in the 7392 day waiting period between filing and actual dissolution of the marriage, therefore his state of mind was relevant to the proceedings and should be taken into account when the case is brought up on appeal, as well as the fact that the judge's brother just found oil on the judge's property and should the judge or his brother have the rights to the oil if the land used to belong to Barbara Streisand but now the judge is renting it from Charlie Sheen and is violating his lease by having a dog?"

Whoa, hold up, I think I'm going to use that answer next time...