You know, I felt like it would be hypocritical to not go out with a guy who is divorced, considering that my parents got divorced when I was seven. Granted, this particular douche bag didn’t actually disclose his marital status (FUCK YOU, OK CUPID) so I totally default to the fact that this particular situation was 100% not my fault. I met SSDbag downtown on a random Saturday night when, yes, something in my brain was telling me…”shit ain’t right, girl,” but I ignored this feeling. We went out, four times, and I liked him. He is 6’4, blonde, from New York state and just a super manly man…which I LOVE. Sorry, but you can’t help what you’re naturally attracted to. Fact. But yeah…speaking of facts…he turned out to be a GIGANTIC ASSHOLE. Long story short, we had four dates and then he went to Vegas for my 30th birthday weekend. Sure, he tried to get me to go, but when I declined, he then FORGOT about my 30th birthday and then didn’t call me for a week. What-the-fuck-ever, I totally forgot about you and your balding blonde head.
The kicker here is when he tried to re-connect, post-30th birthday, and said the reason he didn’t call/text me is cause he was in “the Vegas zone,” which is, apparently, when you’re just so stuck in your gambling high that you can’t even deal. “Well how much did you win?” I asked. His response? “I lost like $2,000.” WHAT A FUCKING LOSER. I don’t date losers, guys. If you forget my 30th birthday, you better have a GOOD FUCKING EXCUSE. E.G. You won some SERIOUS MONEY. Like baller status, ok? Douche!
Long story short, I was over him faster than John Mayer was over Taylor Swift. Good luck being alone forever (in a gross LA suburb, mind you).
It’s been awhile since we last posted…but that’s because we’ve been busy gathering CONTENT for this blog. And believe me, there have been some doozies. I’m going to start with a date that I had a few weeks ago. The guy was cute, smart (a lawyer) and seemed fairly normal. Fairly. I won’t bore you with the details of what we talked about over our four hour dinner and drinks (3 drinks, to be exact) but I could tell he was into me. There were a few red flags; for one, his laugh was louder than everyone else in the ENTIRE restaurant. Not kidding. When he laughed, it was like everyone else got quiet and stared at us. THAT would get annoying after a few weeks…and second, he cursed A LOT. It’s not like I never curse (duh, I do) but when a person’s every other word is “fuck” or “fucking” it becomes a matter of W-T, if you know what I mean. Curses are supposed to be used for emphasis, not as an adjective. But whatever. He seemed nice and we had a good time so I was thinking that I would probably go out with him again, if he did ask.
The end of dinner came and he had taken the Metro to the restaurant, since he works in downtown LA and it’s super convenient there. I offered him a ride back to his apartment (he lives right near me) and he happily accepted. As soon as the valet pulled up, the conversation went a little something like this:
Potty mouth: OH, you drive a Mercedes?
Me: Yeah! I just got it and I love it.
Potty mouth: Wow…that’s a nice car. I like the C Class a lot…I drive a really old piece-of-shit Camaro.
Me: Well, you said it yourself, you never drive so what’s the point of having a new car?
Potty mouth: yeah (gets into car)…this is a REALLY nice car though.
Can you guess the outcome? Potty mouth never called because obviously his penis is the size of a ball point pen. I am 100% convinced that my car is the entire reason that he never called me but I kind of don’t care because I probably wouldn’t have made it past date 2 with that ridiculous laugh anyway.
I think it should come as no shock that I like jerks. Most of us girls do, but especially us girls who are dubbed by psychologists as “children of divorce.”
(See HERE if you want to read more on that)
I recently went on four dates with a guy who didn’t try to kiss me…and yes, you read that correctly, FOUR dates. No kiss. Most girls would be like “awww, what a nice guy! He really respects me”…but not this girl. This girl thinks “GOD, what a pussy.”
I can’t date a man who doesn’t go for what he wants. Who wants a beta when there are so many hot alphas out there?! In fact, on our last date, while he was futzing around with his fanny pack (OK, that’s a lie but he was futzing with something dorky) I noticed a surfer, ex-frat boy type (e.g. MY type) walk buy, shirtless, heading towards the beach. Naturally, I envisioned myself ditching the nice guy (who bought me dinners and treated me well) to go and make out with the hot surfer in the sand.
This is why I will be single forever.
I’ve been doing it for years and it’s no secret, k? I sometimes lie about what I do for a living. Some people might consider my job somewhat glamorous so yeah, when I’m at Soho House WeHo and I don’t feel like listening to the 30 minute agent pitch, yeah, I lie about my job. So what? Get off me, ok? You’d do it too if you had to listen to a 15 minute one-sided convo on why their D-list reality star client should work with YOUR brand. Fuck…off.
Anywho, one day I decided that instead of getting mad, I was gonna just have FUN. A few months ago I decided to let loose on one of these “agents” and instead of telling him what I really do, I told him I was a high school teacher. But not just ANY teacher…an ENGLISH TEACHER. Please note, I can mock english teachers because my mother is an english teacher and fully admits that she’s barely done ANY work whatsover, since grad school. Good for her.
I digress. This boy/man immediately asked me if I was “in the industry” so I felt NO REMORSE when I decided to let loose on him. “so…what do you do?” he asked. “I’m…an english teacher,” I replied back. Yep, I’m stickin’ with it, bitch.
“So where do you teach?” SHIT. Where DO I TEACH? I’m from NEW YORK. How the hell do I know high schools in LA? I replied with the only logical answer: West Beverly Hills High, or “West Bev,” as I called it. DUH.
For anyone who doesn’t know, “West Bev” is a totally made up high school that the cast of the original Beverly Hills 90210 cast attended back in the 90s. I obviously expected him to tell me to go fuck myself up a river so when he replied “ooooh, cool!” I didn’t know what to do with myself…so I went with it, naturally.
“yeah…I’m really close with my students. They’re just fantastic.” “oh yeah?” he replied. “yep, I’ve got these twins- Brenda and Brandon, from Minnesota, they’re so smart and down to earth. Then I’ve got Donna- she’s dyslexic but she’s super artistic and has a heart of GOLD. Oh, and how can I not mention Steve?! He’s the little engine that could. He’s gotten into major trouble but I have faith that he’ll pull through and do something (maybe a charity donation?!) amazing in the end that will win colleges over. Ugh, and let’s not forget Dylan. He’s been through THE RINGER but has somehow made it work, even through parent murders and substance abuse. Ugh, and then there’s my Andrea. She’s my token Jew (even though Beverly Hills is ALL Jew) from the wrong side of the tracks. I predict that she will go to Yale! I’d bet my life on it! But she’ll be back…mark my words.”
“Holy shit, you’re like mother Theresa!” the guy said. Puh-lease…it’s all in a day’s work at West Beverly Hills High.
I AM going to hell.
I’ve always liked cats. But guess what? I’ve always liked dogs as well. This does not mean that I will die alone with 12 felines who will eventually end up eating my rotting corpse. Graphic, I apologize. My point is this – I had a cat for almost 17 years and every guy (yes, every single one) I dated made the obligatory “oh, you’re into cats” comment. Well FUUUUUCK YOU LOSERS. THAT is what I say now.
Why is it that a guy can be totally obsessed with his dog (see Chuck Bass!) and it’s totally “cute” and “normal” but when a woman is into her ONE CAT (not TWELVE!) and she’s automatically a crazy cat lady spinster who will die alone.
What you might not know is the fact that cats are AWESOME. Not hating on dogs but facts are facts: cats are cleaner and you can leave them alone for a night or two and they won’t shit all over your house (unless you’re watching MY cat, that bitch did whatever she wanted…RIP my little Angel) Anyway, cats get a bum wrap and I’m sick of it. Spread the word.
Yes, this is an actual GoogleMaps screen shot of my old Upper East Side apartment in New York City. Circled in red, you can see my apartment “balcony” (in NYC, we consider fire escape platforms to be our balconies) and circled in yellow, you will see the drop that “N” had to make after getting trapped INSIDE my apartment building. It’s at least a 10 foot drop.
N and I had a little flirtation going and after a night out with a big group of us, he did the gentlemanly thing and walked me home. We got into the foyer and I figured he’d go in for a kiss…he didn’t. (As a side note, after a few more “dates,” N turned out to be a serious bitch.) N hugged me and walked out. REALLY? I had already begun walking up the stairs when I heard “uhhh, JSssb? Can you come down here?” I walked down to see N pushing into the door to my building. “Did you break it?” I asked him. “Uh, no. It just…won’t open. Does this happen a lot?” NO, you asshole. Doors usually open.
We attempted going outside to the “back patio” to find a 25 foot wall that there’s no way in hell he was about to scale. “What about your fire escape?” he asked. Seriously? I told N that he could stay over on my couch but N worked as a trader for the now defunct Bear Stearns (ha!) and had to be at work, in a FULL SUIT, at 7:30am every morning. It was already 3am at this point. “I’m just gonna go down the fire escape…no big deal.”
I couldn’t stop laughing as I watched his ginger head climb farther and farther down the fire escape ladder…it’s like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He got to the bottom rung which, like I said, was at least 10 feet off the ground, and kind of hung there for a minute. “N, are you gonna make the jump?!” I yelled down. “yeah, I’m good,” he quipped back quickly and quietly. Now, if you’ve ever seen a New York City fire escape, you know that they make them so that they DON’T hit the ground because, duh, then people could climb UP THEM and break into your apartment. This is why they are for EMERGENCIES ONLY. You won’t care if you sprain your ankle if your apartment is ON FIRE!
A few seconds later he fell into a dirt flower bed, kind of sat there for a minute, got up, and began limping down 95th street towards 3rd avenue.
I got to work at 9am and, as I told my co-workers the story, couldn’t believe what a man would do to avoid being trapped in a building with me.
Sometimes I get emo at night. Add in a few glasses of wine and I often start roaming around the internet; I order clothing I can’t afford, furniture I don’t really need, a Rosetta Stone I never use, etc. However, the other night…I went to a new extreme: I took an online test to see if I’d be a good cop.
THIS TEST to be exact. Which, after taking another (100% sober) look, appears to really be a test to see if I should major in criminal justice, a la those amazingly awkward TV commercials. The results were good, guys…I mean apparently I would be a good police officer, which actually makes total sense. I like the law, right? I mean, I’ve never been arrested. Hell, I only got one ticket ever and it was for making an “improper left turn” when I was 18 years old. I speak English fluently, most of the time. I’m in fairly decent shape. I’m part Irish (oh wait, that may only be an NYPD thing). Imagine if I ended up marrying another cop and we had a little cop family? I might do it just for the pension…
HIRE ME NOW. I already own illegal pepper spray.
Here are my exact results (I got an 8, FYI):
Scores 7 – 12
You did quite well. What will you do next, perhaps a ride-along? If you have a college degree and a clean record you may qualify for a challenging new career. You may want to learn a little more about the wonderful world of law enforcement before you begin taking shooting lessons.