Monday, June 30, 2008
I am the Liza Minelli of roommates, at least according to my friend Emily. In the apartment where I live right now, I've officially had five roommates in three years. I go into living situations with the best of intentions. But somehow I usually end up parting ways with my roommates for various (I think quite understandable) reasons. Some might say that it's me. Perhaps I have a toxic personality. Or maybe I just like my space too much to share it. Or it could just be that I have bad luck with finding people who know where the toilet paper store is. I'm not going to say that I'm a perfect roommate. My mom even says that I'm, and I'm quoting, "completely anal." So, today, I throw my side of things out there and let you decide for yourselves whether or not I drive my roommates away. Or if they are just sensitive.
Reason for leaving: Irreconcilable differences.
Time spent as my roommate: 1 year.
This roommate and I had money issues. I wanted to invest in furniture for the apartment. She was content just sitting on the floor until someone gave us stuff to sit on for free. When free curtains didn't arrive, she happily continued to rely on the trees outside her window to shield her nudity from the neighbors. I forgot to buy a bucket, so she simply used my cooking pot to catch the yellow water leaking from the bathroom upstairs and told me to boil it before I made any more mac and cheese in it. I got a cat. No one gave her free Allegra to protect her from the pet dander. She moved out.
Reason for leaving: Physical and mental cruelty.
Amount of time spent as my roommate: 6 months.
Her body odor assaulted my nostrils. Her stand-up comedy routine assaulted my ear drums. Her racist pervert brother assaulted my couch cushions. This roommate NEVER, ever stopped talking. If you had something to say and could get a word in, she had 15 anecdotes to counter it. Most of her stories had something to do with some ex-boyfriend who had a big dick. I finally tricked her into moving out by telling her there was a captive audience in the downtown area, all with huge penises, who were looking for a live-in entertainment chairperson. Aaaaand, scene.
Reason for leaving: Illness.
Time spent as my roommate: 10 months.
See? Nothing at all to do with me...or my cat trying to eat her cockatiels.
Reason for leaving: Better job, more money to spend on rent.
Time spent as my roommate: 3 months.
This roommate moved out because she got promoted and needed to spend more hours at her job. So she moved into Manhattan to be closer to it. I had NOTHING to do with it. Crimes committed while living in the apartment: 1) Using my computer without permission. 2) Misspelling Saterday.
Reason for leaving: We came to the end of our 5-month living agreement.
But let me just put this out there as advice to roommates everywhere...
Having a boyfriend over is a privilege, not a right. If your roommate is forced to schedule herself around your boyfriend on a daily basis and it's obviously bothering her, he needs to GO THE FUCK HOME. Period. Also, post-party clean up is the responsibility of both roommates. I'm just sayin...
Someone wise once said, "Some of my best leading men have been dogs and horses." My version? "Some of my best roommates have been cats and beers."
Perhaps I'm not Liza Minelli after all but the woman who spoke those words.
Her name? Elizabeth Taylor.
Friday, June 27, 2008
My wee sis and I used to play this game we called "Dress Up Ken." Where each of us would take a Ken doll, put him in a crazy outfit, count to five, turn around, and show the other person what Ken was wearing. Whoever got the loudest laugh won.
Ken wore every dress Barbie ever owned, toilet paper rolls, pieces of string, hair brushes, and live kittens. The shame our Ken dolls must have endured I cannot even imagine, even considering that, to begin with, Ken arrived in his box clad in a purple tank top and glittery pink floral swimming trunks.
I'm always reminded of this game when I hear someone say the words, "Well, if you've got it, flaunt it." Because although Ken had a rock-hard body, perfectly white sparkling teeth, and a sizeable plastic package, he looked completely ridiculous wearing two Ninja Turtles and a squirt gun.
So, let's talk about fashion choices.
I know that there are people out there who dress outside of what might be considered "the norm." Every time I see a person like that, I think to myself, "Go, person!" because I secretly admire some people's ability to be unafraid of scrutiny. Case and point, the love of my life, Eddie Izzard, comedian and transvestite.
But there are so many times when I see what someone is wearing and wonder just why he or she went with that particular outfit. Like the woman I saw this morning wearing tight white pants with pink underwear. Or the girl wearing hotpants on the subway the other day.
I don't know about everyone else, but my butt gets sweaty and sticks to the subway seat. And you know when you feel that happening, and someone sits down next to you, and you try to scoot over but can't because your butt is fused, and you know that if you move, your butt will make a squeaky unsticking noise and embarrass you? So you just kind of reposition your body so that your elbow isn't in the other person's lap? Butt stick is an airtight argument against hotpants on the subway. That and the fact that the subway is a dirty, dirty place. If you're wearing hotpants and sitting on the subway, your BARE butt is touching a place where homeless people nap and kids spill their ice cream.
So I get the idea behind the words, "If you've got it, flaunt it," but maybe it needs a bit of "rewording" in order to prevent embarrassment or a nasty case of Subway Crack. Rather, let's say, "If you've got it, flaunt it, but take a buddy and wrap it before you slap it." Also, live by the "Dress Up Ken" rule. If someone sees you and starts laughing, you've made a fashion error. Go home and fix it.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I Find My Antics Amusing. Will You?
Woman Seeks Man to Not Dislike
A little about me: I look like the above photo sometimes. You like? There's more where that came from. I'm 5'4", but I wasn't always that tall. At one time in my life, I was only 20 inches long. Back then, my hobbies were crying, wetting myself, and sucking on my pacifier. I still do those things now, but I have an appreciation for the finer things in life as well. I like wine, beer, vodka, tequila, rum, and ice cubes. In that order.
Let's talk about my figure. But first, let me ask you, what is your favorite part of the chicken? I hope it's the thighs. Mine are robust like two hamhocks made of sex. But don't judge them on that alone. They are terribly good at their job. I rarely topple. And about the rest of me: the top part is narrow, broadens at the shoulders, comes in at the waist, back out again at the hips, and tapers off down to the ankles. No missing limbs or untrimmed toenails to speak of. Sound from pate to substratum.
My interests: The other day I bought a hamper. Then, I organized my closet. I vacuumed. I trimmed my plants. I went for a walk. I bought cucumbers. On other days, I might do something more amusing, like sew things. I read books. I watch baseball. I make snappy sex remarks about Alex Rodriguez to my cat. (She is never as amused as I am.) When I'm around other people, I hang out, I watch movies, I go to dinner, I go shopping. No surprises here. Moving on.
A bit about what I'm looking for: Someone who can answer the following questions in a way that amuses me.
1. How does the following phrase make you feel? "Buck Melanoma. Moley Russell's wart."
A) Amused; Makes you want to eat giant pancakes and punch clowns.
B) Horny; Warts are sexy.
C) Offended; Melanoma is no laughing matter.
D) Confused; Who are you people? Where am I?
E) Other. Please explain.
2. I have four apples. I give away two. How many do I have left?
A) Why don't I get one? Don't you like me anymore?
B) 2. What do I win?
C) Math makes me itchy.
D) Apples?! Fuck it! Let's bake pie!
E) Other. Please explain.
3. I am to my ideal date as Sir Simon Milligan is to ____________.
B) A castrated ferret.
C) Manservant Hecubus.
D) Wayne Newton.
E) Other. Please explain.
4. You see a man's wallet lying on the ground. What do you do?
A) See if it's Gucci.
B) Take enough money out of it to pay for your sick granny's operation.
C) Think about breasts.
D) Return it to its owner or turn it into the police, and then think about breasts.
E) Other. Please explain.
5. Look at this ink blot. What do you see?
A) Two Smurfs sitting back to back on a hill.
B) An angry pit bull.
C) Nothar, the god of peanut butter. All hail Nothar!
D) Who dropped this paint on my new carpet?
E) Other. Please explain.
Please return the completed questions to me at the provided email address with a photograph of yourself Photoshopped next to your idol giving you a thumbs up. And a urine sample.
Perhaps in a few months, we can go on a date.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Ma'am, I'm going to need you to go ahead and move your children back 15 feet. That's right. Thank you. Yes, behind that yellow tape.
I'm sorry, what's that? No, ma'am, this isn't a crime scene. I just know that if you don't move your children out of this quadrant immediately, I'm going to hit that one with a hammer. That's right, the one on the scooter. He's violating all sorts of traffic laws. For one thing, we're in a laundromat. Secondly, he ran over the other one's hand. Thank you for ignoring the screams of pain by the way. Oh, you were outside smoking for 20 minutes. I see. No, no, I understand. Maybe if you chain them to something before you go next time.
What's that smell? Hm...I think the little one just crapped in his diaper. Yep. He definitely did. How do I know? Oh, he's rummaging around in it like he's looking for his wallet. You won't find it there, little guy! Great, now he's inspecting his hand. Maybe he has a future as an inspector. I mean, he's already cracked his first case...
Just going to let him wear it until it's convenient for you to change him then? I see.
No, I'm not passing judgment. I know how children are. They act up and scream and throw things. That happens. I think the judgment comes when you don't do anything about it. Not that I'm an expert on this or anything. I'm not a parent. In fact, I've decided that after I'm done with laundry, I'm going home to cauterize my fallopion tubes with a curling iron. Why on earth would I need to have my own kids when I can watch yours misbehave for free? And not just today, but every time I have to wash my laundry?
You know how they say that it takes a village to raise a child? Maaaaybe you could take that a little less literally. I'm happy to tell you that your child is being a little shit, but I think you're supposed to step in after that and do something. Besides rolling your eyes. I don't think that helps. He gave you the finger last time.
Uh, it looks like the big one is trying to get into that dryer. Maybe you could...? No? Okay, suit yourself. I'll just put him on tumble dry low. There we go. No, no. The quarter's on me. See you next week.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Take it from me, drinking only leads to shenanigans.
This morning I woke up still fully dressed with my contact lenses fused to my eyeballs. I was short a driver's license, a debit card, and one cupcake.
Allow me to explain.
Last night I went out with my friend B. (I call her B because her name starts with a B, and I am trying to protect her identity. If I don't, I may never see my cupcake again.) B and I used to work together. Our jobs were the type that drove us to drink more than once a week. Now that we don't work together anymore, our drinking outings are rare. So, we thought it might be fun to revisit some of our old haunts.
We never talk about the fact that we're probably going to get wasted and make assholes of ourselves. But we both know it's probably going to happen that way. As B says, "Let's just see where the night takes us." That is our motto. And where did the night take us? Let's see, shall we?
1. Botanica- Bar, Houston and Mott. $3 well drinks during happy hour.
Personal historical significance: Location of 2 "job quitting" parties and three dates. Number of rum and Diet Cokes consumed there last night: 2. Hipster levels: Medium to Partly Indifferent. Gross bathroom index: 5/10.
2. Welcome to the Johnsons- Bar, Rivington and Essex. $2.25 well drinks during happy hour. Personal historical significance: Location of first meeting with Eric the Flaccid. (More on him in future dating posts.) Number of rum and Diet Cokes consumed there last night: 1. Hipster levels: High to Ironic. Gross bathroom index: 9/10.
3. Sugar Sweet Sunshine- Bakery, Rivington and Essex. $1.50 cupcakes. Personal historical significance: CUPCAKES. Number of cupcakes purchased: 2. Number saved for later: 1. Hipster levels: Cupcake in my belly. Gross bathroom index: Don't you understand there were cupcakes?
4. 2nd on 2nd- Karaoke bar, 2nd Avenue and 2nd Street. $1 song requests. Personal historical significance: Probably the finest rendition of "9 to 5" ever performed by yours truly and her friend B. Number of drinks consumed there last night: 3-ish. Number of cupcakes stored in B's purse so that the bouncer wouldn't have to "confiscate" it: 1. Hipster levels: Meh. Gross bathroom index: 3/10.
It was at 2nd on 2nd that I realized I was out of cash. Now, one would think that this would have stopped me from drinking further. But, oh no. Not me. I decided to just put down my debit card. They needed to hold on to my driver's license as well.
Long story short, I went home. My cupcake went to Hoboken, and my license and debit card stayed at the karaoke bar and probably brought the house down with their rendition of "My Humps."
I vaguely remember yelling at the subway because it took so long to arrive. And falling on a wet sidewalk while B stood over me and announced to everyone that I had fallen. The rest of it will probably turn up on YouTube eventually.
Later this evening, I'll be heading into the city to pick up my ID and debit card.
Levels on the jackass-o-meter: 9/10.
Friday, June 20, 2008
I mean it.
I'm not going to reconsider my stand against online dating.
So, let me clarify a few things. It wasn't the two dudes I went out with that caused me to feel this way. It wasn't that I had absolutely no chemistry with the first one and he kind of had a hunchback. And it certainly wasn't that the second one was stalkerish creepy and seemed obsessed with talking about pet demise. It was the way the whole situation made me feel. Me, specifically.
I am totally aware that there are people who have made a go of this online dating thing. I was in a wedding last year that was a result of two people meeting online. (As one of said two people reminded me this morning via Facebook.) That was the right thing for them. But it's not for me.
1. If you are doing the online dating, you are doing one specific thing: looking. Whether you're looking for a quick one in the back of a cab or one of those commitment thingys. I don't want to look. I just want to live my life and meet people and let things happen. If I meet a dude during the normal course of my day, great. If not, whatever. I realized something pretty important at the end of my last relationship: I like being single. I get so much work done, and I don't have to worry about the Wandering Penis Disease that seems to plague my boyfriends.
2. Physical attraction is important. Did any cavewoman ever gauge the attractiveness of a caveman on his ability to do witty cave paintings? No. She saw his hairy ass out spearing a buffalo. And it didn't make her shallow or thoughtless. If I meet someone in person, I know immediately if there's something there. A month of trading hilarious remarks does not attraction make.
3. I have to be in the mood to date. Sometimes I'm just not in the mood. My online dating profile is still saying, "Hi! Look over here!" while I'm in a "Fuck off" sort of mood.
4. It costs money. I'm cheap. End of story.
So, in short, I don't wish to improve upon the quantity of dates I go on. And that's what online dating does. It gets you out there on more dates more often. I don't want that. If I go on one date once in a while with someone I meet in person, I'm satisfied with that. If it goes well, awesome. If not, there will be another date at some point. I'm not looking for my other half. I'm already a whole. Another whole to go with the one I have would be nice.
That's what she said.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
How to Date:
1. Get on the internet.
2. Type in some stuff.
3. Find a guy.
4. Email him funny things.
5. Go out with him if he isn't nuts.
I hate online dating. Hate it. I'm not talking just a little bit of dislike here, like the way I dislike iceberg lettuce and wearing pantyhose. I'm talking a lot of full-on ketchup levels of hatred. (Yes, I hate ketchup. Shut up! It's my life!) It's that kind of hatred I feel when I take a bite of something and realize that there is, in fact, ketchup on it and know that 1) I'm going to have to spit it out and 2) My sandwich is not salvagable, and now I'm going to be hungry. Because you can scrape and scrape and scrape at that ketchup, but it has sunk into that bun and is there to stay.
I've tried it twice, online dating. Both times, I immediately went home and canceled my account.
The first time, I went through Match.com. I had just been through a miserable and very long break-up and thought to myself, "Hey! I'm too good to dwell on someone who treated me poorly. I need to get back out there." So I went out with this 35-year-old English teacher who did stand-up on the side. "OH! A comedian! I could use some laughs," I thought to myself. And he was very entertaining. He entertained me the moment I walked in. And entertained. And entertained. And entertained. And when the date was over, I realized I hadn't even said anything. I decided to not see his repeat performance.
The second guy I met through the Onion personals. He had a cat. I have a cat. To him, it was our destiny to meet and talk about what a crazy coincidence that is. He was a comedy writer who dabbled in filmmaking. How creative and interesting, I thought. So after three weeks of exchanging emails, I agreed to meet him. Here is how our conversation unfolded:
Dude: So, we both have cats. How long have you had your cat?
Me: Oh, a few years. Lucy. She's insane. I think she's secretly plotting to kill me.
Dude: How old is she?
Dude: Oh, Sammy is 19. She's really old.
Me: Yeah, that is old.
Dude: One day, I know she's going to die. And it will be really upsetting. But for now, at least she's with me.
Me: So...you're making a film? What's it about?
Dude: Two people in love.
Me: Oh? Interesting.
Dude: Yeah, and they make out on New Years.
Me: So, I'm going to get more vodka. Do you want anything?
We went to dinner. After a great deal of sniffing (which I thought clashed well with his chain wallet), he picked out a wine. And drank the entire bottle. The date took a turn for the worst. He launched into a long drunken tirade about the ill effects of Johnny Damon on the Yankees lineup. (Fucking Cubs fan...) I launched my exit strategy.
Booze can be a good thing on a date. It calms your nerves. It eases the flow of conversation. But at the level of an entire bottle of wine and several beers, the effects can be annoying, even disastrous. Drunkeness makes you bolder. It can make you ask someone if they want to make out with you. And when that person says no, you might ask again. You might make that person stand there until she agrees to a second date.
I finally escaped my date by dashing off the subway before the doors closed.
When it comes down to it, what I really hate about online dating are the profiles. Because when you write a profile, you sit there for two hours coming up with the most hilarious and interesting stuff about yourself. "I'm a writer! Who bakes cookies! And reads classic literature!" But it doesn't factor in those times when you go home, watch Law and Order, eat cereal in your underwear, and go to bed at 8:30. That's the stuff that really defines who we are. Not the big, elaborate, "Look how much I can impress you" shit.
And profile pictures! They are, in essence, the best available physical representation of yourself you can offer. But is it really you? Or just that angle and the lighting?
You never get what you expect, and you feel shallow and kind of horrible for not being into it. I think we should just post the most ridiculously boring stuff about ourselves and the worst pictures and let dates be pleasantly surprised. Who's with me?
In my next post on dating, I will be posting my own realistic online dating profile. Stay tuned.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Last Tuesday, I woke to discover yellow water dripping from my bathroom ceiling.
"Eureka!" I cried.
At last I had discovered the springs of eternal life. And in my own home, too! I began to ponder my good fortune. I could make a lot of money. I could bottle the water and sell it. I could rent out my bathroom to the sick and the elderly and let them bathe themselves in the healing waters dripping from around my light fixture. I immediately called the building super. He would want to know about this! It might cure his baldness! I quickly put a bucket under the drip. I could not let one droplet of that water go to waste.
My super didn't answer his phone. I called my landlord, thinking he might like to share in the fortune.
"Quick!" I said, "get someone over here! The springs of eternal life are spouting from my ceiling!"
He promised to send somebody over right away and hung up.
Two hours later, a man with a ladder arrived. "I'm here to look at your ceiling," he said. I think he was from the Coronado Institute. He immediately went to work trying to discover the source of the springs. I left for work, promising him 5% of the profits I planned to make. Soon, I would be able to quit my job and bottle and sell my eternity water full time. Everything seemed to be coming together nicely.
But when I returned home later, the man was gone, the leak had stopped, and the bucket had been emptied. I was devastated. There went my fortune, stolen by a man posing as a representative of the Coronado Institute. All he left behind was his ladder, as if to taunt me. Maybe I will sell it on Ebay.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
My mom would like everyone to know that she has never called me a "fucking moron," as implied in my recent post on dating. She does, however, admit to calling my dad a "studmiffin" or a "cuddly-wuddly bear" on occasion.
Wow, I just couldn't take that pic of GW anymore. I like this one better, fo'.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
How to Date:
1. Meet someone.
2. Like him.
3. Make sure he likes you.
4. Fix your hair nicer than usual.
5. Wear a dress.
My mom and dad met because two well-meaning friends thought they should meet and introduced them. My dad thought my mom was a bitch. My mom thought my dad was a nerd. Later, they went to a Cornelius Brothers & Sister Rose concert, found each other less lame and nerdy, and eventually my dad proposed in a parking lot after telling my mom to stop giggling and be serious. They've been married for billions of years since then, and on long car trips my mom will entertain me with her tales of back when she dated my dad.
"Picture it! 1972. Your father was strapping in a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, muscles rippling, chest hair glistening in the sunlight. Back then, you know, men had chest hair, and they wore it with pride! Pride! He had a motorcycle. I had tonsilitis. But I didn't care. I let him drive me all over the park that day on the back of that motorcycle. I knew then that he was the man I would marry."
So I grew up expecting that nice, genuine, chest hair sprouting boys would happen for me as well. You know, guys who show up smiling sheepishly with a handful of daisies and a crooked bowtie. The movie would be G-rated. Dinner would be between his braces. We would have an awkward peck on my front porch, and then I would run inside blushing ridiculously.
But then, I met Mr. Meaty (not his real name).
Mr. Meaty was the first boy who ever cheated on me, a real catch too. Seventeen years old, a manager at Pizza Hut. He wooed me by telling me that changing the soda machine made his hands cramp and then added, "Like other things..." He smelled like stale pizza and Aspen cologne. His face and chest were dotted with those zits that have started to seep. He had a water bed. He tried to convince me that sex was a good idea by pulling out his penis at random times. Like maybe if he did it often enough, I might accidentally sit on it and enjoy myself. It never worked. So, he went back to his ex-girlfriend.
He's dead now.
What? No. Of course I'm not a murderer. It happened several years later. He was riding on the hood of a car when he fell off and cracked his head on the concrete.
Lesson learned for him: Don't ride on the hood of a car.
Lesson learned for me: Don't date dudes with ex-girlfriends who are still lurking around.
Naturally, the next opportunity to date someone involved that very thing, and I, a total ass, went for it.
This time, I made the enormous mistake of falling ridiculously in love. The timing seemed perfect. I'd just come down from the best crash diet of all time. I was thin, and perky, and pranced around like I had fifteen pet unicorns. He appeared to be shy and funny. I fell. Two months later, I was wondering why after six trips over to the ex's apartment to retrieve his belongings, he still hadn't collected everything and needed to go again. At first, I hoped that it had all been a horrible accident. He'd slipped in a puddle of shampoo while trying to adjust her leaky shower faucet. They'd fallen nude into the bathtub together, and the penis had only entered the vagina for a second. But, no, it had happened twice. In a bed. With what I'm sure was a lot of him weeping in shame at what he was doing and blaming it on everyone but himself.
He cried when he told me. He cried when I broke up with him. He cried when I told him that I would shove him into oncoming traffic.
And yet I carried on trying to mend things and still maintain my dignity for another six months. I thought that maybe he would come to his senses and decide to sweep me off my feet and go back to being that shy, funny boy I knew from before. (I love barfy cliches.)
I'm an idiot.
I talk about it now like I didn't know the entire time that I was being a fucking moron. I called my mom probably 300 times weeping about how much I hated my life and would just die and no one would ever love me. And she would tell me I was being a fucking moron and needed to get over it. Then, she would remind me of 1972 and the well-meaning friends who set up her and Dad and how there are still guys out there with rippling muscles, and chest hair, and motorcycles...and I just need to be patient.
Lesson learned by me: Invest in sex toys. Don't tell mother about it.
With no further ado, the search for the crappiest Kansas flea market item continues...
I know what you're thinking. What the fuck is that thing? Well, to be honest, I'm not sure. It's a ball made of string filled with fake flowers. Like a giant bird's egg that hatches knick knacks made out of pipe cleaners. Or an alien pupa from a planet occupied entirely by crazy aunts.
Clown: I have him right where I want him. He looks over at the beaded doorbell cozies, I blind him with a balloon animal, and then, I steal his wallet.
Later in life, Squanto went on to become the first Vegas showgirl and was immmortalized forever in applique.
Looks like some glue gun totin' fancy boys broke into the Elks Lodge again last night, Earl.
And for the panty enthusiasts, some Art Frahm.
They were young. They were in love. They were porcelain. It was not meant to be.
Well, we must leave the flea market now and get on with our crap-free lives. But I leave with you this image of what I ended up buying for my friend. We call it Rainbow the Dragon and His Tiny Wizard Friend, Gaylord Dragonsmiter. A hand-crafted rotating music box that plays a happy little wizard stabbing song. Although theories have been put forth that Rainbow is actually signing an autograph.
Monday, June 9, 2008
I would like to have a mustache. With a mustache on my face, I could rule the world. Or find a better job.
What is this incredible entity of which I speak? If you don't know, you were clearly raised by Hobbits. But I will explain. A mustache is a patch of hair grown over the upper lip. It can be there for lip warmth, for fashion, or to cover something unsightly, like a mole shaped like Hitler's infamous hair part or a scar resembling Napoleon's man boobs. There can be big mustaches, tiny ones, groomed or unkempt ones. Like snowflakes, every mustache is different. Ironically, you can use a mustache to catch snowflakes if it is snowing and you hold your head at the correct angle.
Mustaches are powerful, even magical. Some of the most powerful wizards have mustaches. Gandalf, Dumbledore, Merlin...all have mustaches. And beards, but that's a different subject altogether. I certainly don't want one of those.
Mustaches are also useful and can help you achieve things in life.
Let's say you are in a meeting negotiating with some clients. You don't have a mustache because you don't want to be mistaken for William Howard Taft. "Give me all the money in the cash register!" you shout to the clients. No one listens because you are a baby-faced uglyhead. You leave the meeting with only one scratch lottery ticket and a stale pretzel for all of your negotiating skills. But if you have a mustache, you can demand anything from your clients. "Give me the keys to this safe and step away as I light this stick of dynamite!" you can cry. And everyone will listen because of the strip of hair over your upper lip.
If you have a mustache, you can rule a country. Like this guy:
Or this guy:
New York Yankee Jason Giambi recently grew a mustache. Soon after, his batting average improved. Tom Selleck had a hit TV show in the 80s because of his mustache. I mean, would you cast this guy if he didn't have a mustache? I sure wouldn't.
So, as you can see, mustaches are great. Useful, powerful, magical, give you hit TV shows, improve your batting average, and make you an all-around better looking person.
Unfortunately, I cannot grow one for myself. I was born with two X chromosomes, resulting in a lack of testosterone. And testosterone is the most important ingredient in growing mustaches. Sometimes, I daydream about having a mustache. I will hold a lock of my hair over my lip and pretend. I have Photoshopped a large handlebar mustache onto a picture of myself in the past. A dude friend who can grow facial hair at will and is a jerk told me it looked like a Filthy Sanchez. I have given myself a mustache with magic marker. I drew it on very carefully for several minutes. For a while the world was very shiny and I took a nap. Later, it washed right off. None of these solutions are permanent! I want to purchase a mustache trimmer of my very own. And style my mustache with products with manly names like Oregon Wild Hair and Colonel Conk Moustache Wax.
But in the end, the important part of the mustache is not the shape or style. It's the actual hair growing from the lip. Being able to grow hair there is a very powerful gift. And being able to shave it off and start all over again as well.
We have technology that can take pictures from the far reaches of our solar system. But nothing that can help me grow a mustache at will. And that, my friends, is a travesty. I intend to write to Congress.
In conclusion, I leave you with this final thought on mustaches:
Never accept a ride from a strange mustache.
THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT.
How to date:
1. Find a guy.
2. Agree on a place to meet him.
3. Dress nice.
5. Talk about things.
The movies make dating look so easy. Probably because when a date goes poorly, you see only five seconds of it. Julia Roberts looks bored. Kate Hudson trips over something. Date talks about shellfish allergy, eats shellfish. Head explodes. Good dates always end with a nice long walk near a scenic bridge and a kiss with a guy who doesn't try to eat our heroine's face or collect a bacteria sample from her tonsils.
Reality is not so kind. When a date goes poorly, you slowly begin to imagine what life would be like if this were your arranged marriage. You wonder what your husband would look like in 50 years and if he would still be talking about the rash he got from his laundry detergent by then. You imagine yourself squirting out his no-chinned, giant-foreheaded babies. And finally, the fantasy ends when you pull the plug on the machines keeping him alive after he slips into a coma from drinking too much imported ale and repeatedly declaring it the best he's ever had.
I'm not a person who goes on dates terribly often, maybe four in an entire year. For one thing, it takes a lot to get me to break my routine. I like getting up in the morning, planning my day around what time the game starts, getting my morning exercise, and buying vegetables. Anything outside of those scheduled events will inevitably make me tired. Secondly, I'm picky about dates. Not in a snobbish kind of "What do you mean he doesn't shit in a solid gold toilet?" kind of a way. More of a really simple, "Is this guy even interesting?" kind of way. Do we have anything at all in common, or am I just mesmerized by the length of his eyelashes? I've also never been attracted to standard, by-the-book, good-lookingness. I like guys with interesting faces. My first boyfriend looked like a bloodhound.
So, I met a dude at a party last night. He seemed nice. I drunkenly agreed to go to brunch with him today, not really remembering much about what we talked about. Just knowing that I like brunch and guys with curly hair. We'll call him Dude Guy. And here is how our date went.
Dude Guy: I'm sorry I'm late. I was at the sauna, having a steam, and ridding my body of toxins from all the alcohol I drank last night.
Me: That sounds nice. I woke up at 10 and took four Tylenol. Then I drank a liter bottle of tap water and spent the next hour peeing every four minutes.
Dude Guy: I really like to take care of myself. I'm healthy. That's why I'm going to drink a lot of cranberry juice and tell you about how delicious and healthy it is.
Me: I like mine with vodka.
Dude Guy: I'm a musician. I play two instruments. Sometimes I sit down in my basement and improv on my drums. Let me demonstrate how beautifully I play here on the table.
Me: Wow. You're sure good at hitting the table with your fingers in a rhythmic manner.
Dude Guy: Isn't this food delicious? I love to sit and eat meals that last hours and hours and hours. I like to eat slowly and enjoy my food.
Me: I eat faster because I am hungry and I skipped motherfucking breakfast.
Dude Guy: You are beautiful like a sunflower.
Me: Uh. Your hair is shiny like an oil slick.
Dude Guy: What's your favorite book?
Me: Harry Potter.
Dude Guy: Oh, I really enjoyed the first movie.
Dude Guy and I had nothing in common. We were never going to have Kids-in-the-Hall-quoting inside jokes. Or have slow, romantical sex to his jazz CDs. So I left our relationship there with the organic egg omelets and went off to play some motherfucking Wii.
In theory, dating is easy. I like men. I like meeting them at a designated location and eating and drinking things. But sometimes the dude you originally thought was awesome ends up droning on and on about jazz, while all you can think about is the hilarious Kids in the Hall sketch where Bruce McCullough calls jazz "musical barf" and knowing that if you mention that, it will only perplex him.
I pride myself in knowing when to pull the plug.
More on my dating experiences in future posts...