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.
Saying that you like country music in Los Angeles is like saying you like to piss in holy water at the Vatican. As soon as those two words are mentioned people start to form a whole new opinion about you. Things like: You lived on a farm, you’ve tipped a cow, you rode a tractor to school, your favorite beer is Natural Ice and you dated your cousin. None of these apply to me at all, or else I doubt I would be living in Los Angeles people (although I have drank Natty Ice numerous times and my Dad’s family farms).
What is it that is so offensive about this type of music? Is it so strange that I can listen to She & Him and also listen to Miranda Lambert? You know what IS offensive? The lack of country bars in this town! Where does one need to go in order to do a little line dancing ya’ll? Apparently an hour away. On the ride there, you and your friends will be talking about all the cowboys you will meet and dance with to some George Straight like it was fucking Hope Floats. But you know what the reality is? You will end up getting smashed off of Bud Light, sitting all night because only people who KNOW how to line dance are allowed on the floor, making out with someone missing a few teeth and then start crying at Denny’s about how hopeless your life is. Or at least that’s what I’m told happens…
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.
Clearly, as human beings, we’re all fucked up. I’m the first to admit that I have next to no clue how to be in a healthy relationship so you know, sometimes a girl has gotta teach herself OR, read 10-15 books on the subject matter.
A few years ago, a guy I was dating saw my own personal self-help section on my bookshelf (hidden on the bottom shelf, obviously) and called me out on it. Since then, I decided to remove them and throw them under my bed for safe keeping in order to avoid any risk of ever again hearing “OH MY GOD, JS, you actually read He’s just not that into you?!” Well, turns out…THAT guy was just not that into me. OHHH the irony.
Ladies, do not let this stop you. I’m sure we can all find a small square of space (even in NYC) under our beds to hide these books. However, I draw the line at The Rules once I read a sentence in this catastrophic disaster of a “book” about meeting men at “the disco.” I only read self-help books that were written in this decade, thanks.
My personal favorite in my “collection” is Adult Children of Divorce because nothing says “damaged goods” and “serious baggage” quite like a fucked up childhood.