Halloween. The one holiday in which women are given a huge pass to basically show up to a party completely naked. I feel like every year I see women who are trying to out-skank and out-offend the previous year…don’t quote me on this, but I’m pretty sure I know of one person who is planning a “Sexy Kim Jong-un” costume. I, on the other hand, take pride in becoming the weirdest, ugliest and funniest person I can possibly be.
Let’s take this past year as an example. I decided, after much consideration and countless hours of research, to go through Halloween 2012 as Dooneese from SNL (played by Kristen Wiig). If you don’t know this character then…you must not like to laugh and therefore why are you reading this blog? Just kidding…but seriously. I was outfitted in a bald cap to make a huge forehead and glued tiny baby hands (that I amputated from a doll) onto a 40’s style dress. I didn’t break character at the party and continued to sing weird ass songs which turned off some potential gentlemen callers, but you would have to be the freakiest of guys to hit on me – think something out of TLC’s Strange Sex. Like, what if someone asked me out and then I had to wear tiny baby hands for the date? And then, I would be afraid to take them off and would continue to lie to him until one day he catches me, red full-size handed, and he leaves me. There’s nothing more depressing than getting dumped by a man who has a tiny baby hand fetish..besides actually dating a man with a tiny baby hand fetish.
I may not be getting laid on Halloween (or ever, who the hell am I kidding), but at least I’m not getting a weird infection from cheap latex cat suits purchased on Hollywood Blvd. The only thing I’m buying on Hollywood Blvd is a bacon wrapped hot dog…but I’ll leave that for another post.
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’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.
This post is specifically to show that some people just do not think before they speak, or maybe they do and are just a bunch of bitches. Three years ago I was chillin’ with friends at the Red Lion in Silverlake, drinking some beers and eating some fish and chips. A girl walks up to our table and asks that question that everyone loves:
Hipster girl – “Do you know who you look like?”
Attention! This is a loaded question. You don’t want to be that asshole who answers this question, but you don’t want to have to fake a thank you when you have already heard their answer before. I played dumb.
Me – “Who?”
Hipster Girl – “Barbra Streisand!”
Now…I have been told I look like many people, but never in my life has that person been Barbra Streisand. Really? Barbra fucking Streisand? I couldn’t even get a YOUNG Barbra, not even a Barbra in Funny Girl? Nothing makes you feel better than being told you look like a 68 year old who has a huge nose which in turn gave me complex about my nose…one that I never had! Who the hell says that anyway? I don’t know, maybe it’s a hipster thing to tell people their doppelganger is someone they would least expect ever.
I have learned a few things from this experience. First, if this question arises be prepared for a retaliation doppelganger. Some good ones include Tim Curry, Liza Minneli, Aretha Franklin and Steve Buscemi to name a few. Second, I need to track this bitch down and give her all my therapist bills to pay…she caused this complex! Third, this needs to be included in my online dating profile. Just think of all the interesting men I would get to go on dates with?
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.
Photo 1: To start, let me first mention the fact that I live down a private hallway in my apartment building so this “Marcus” would’ve had to actually go OUT of his way to take off/lose his belt. Now that’s out of the way, let’s discuss whether or not we think this “black belt” is a real belt or like some kind of karate belt that he earned by chopping a piece of wood in half with his head. I just cannot. DHssb finds this photo hilarious but, spoken like the true sicko that I am, I can’t help but wonder…is Marcus hot?
Photo 2: It was a gorgeous Sunday morning (ok, afternoon) when I went down to my parking garage and found this business card on my car windshield. I was immediately filled with anger,because I’m me, so I called the 818 number right away- fucking valley! They WOULD. No answer, obviously. I left a voicemail. “Hey Greg, it’s JSssb, um…I think you left your business card with a note to go fuck myself on my windshield? Yeah…I was just wondering exactly WHY you’d like me to go fuck myself. Either way, YOU can go fuck YOURSELF. Have a LOVELY DAY!”