Neighborhood Whore Watch

There are precious few constants in my life. One such gem is the unceasing fear that I will be murdered. Seriously. Un. Ceasing.

As a child, one of my chores was to lug the trashcans back up to the house from their please-pick-up-slash-dump-our-pounds-of-refuse position on the sidewalk. In short, Tuesdays served as a weekly helping of severe petrification. I would crack open the back door of our house, scan the yard for strangers, then take off in a full sprint down the driveway - ears pricked and peripheral vision in full effect. Once in reach of the trashcans, I would deliver a solid kick to each. Why? To see if anyone was hiding in them, waiting to jump out and stab me. Duh. 

I check beneath my car and in my back seat before getting behind the wheel…I check behind the shower curtain whenever I enter a bathroom…I have been known to walk home with 911 already dialed into my BlackBerry, just in case of unexpected emergency.

Point being, I don’t need to be convinced that rapists and murderers walk the same streets as my adorable little (for my height) feet. I’m already a true believer. Unfortunately, our nightly news is full of heartless souls who seem to have nothing better to do than to terrify our nation’s adult children with stories of tragic deaths and warnings of impending doom. Shortly after moving into my new apartment, it was reported that - not two blocks from my happy Beverly Hills home - a young woman was pulled into a construction zone, raped, and murdered. Right. So I won’t be sleeping for the next seven months or so. Also, where’s my mace?

Apparently, the powers that be didn’t feel like this was quite enough of a heads up.

A few days later, as I was walking down Robertson Blvd., a middle-aged woman waved to get my attention. Thinking she needed directions or something of the sort, I paused and removed my headphones.

Random Woman: ”A good girlfriend of mine just told me there’s a rapist around here. He just raped someone last week!”

Me: ”OMG, I heard about that! So scary!”

Random Woman: ”Oh. (pause) Well. (pause) Because you’re dressed a little….” (Full, slow-motion down and up scan of my general person.)

And then she walked away.

…

It’s always nice to know your neighbors care?

My 'asking for it' ensemble can be seen (sort of) in the photo above. I’m on the right. Also, I hate people.

I Sang With Katy Perry

In honor of Katy Perry’s ROAR-ing VMA performance, here’s a little video from 1999, when she was still Katy Hudson. And I had braces. 

You can skip to 4:10/4:40 for her “solos”.

Dash away, all.

About the Author

I love writing dinosaur books, and I am not afraid to shout it from the rooftops. Also, here's all my contact information, in case you want to stalk me. 

Equinox Creepin'

Hot guy in my class at Equinox! Yesssss.

Hot guy takes the spot right next to me! Swoon. 

Hot guy has a very effeminate stance. Um ok, that can be altered.

Hot guy is possibly dating the male instructor of my class. Figures.

Hot gay guy is much better at all the exercises than I am. Fine. I can match that. Maybe. Ouch. Kind of. Oof. Nevermind. Ugh.

Hot gay guy walks with me to the back of the room to grab weights. Sweet. Maybe we can be BFFs.

Hot gay guy stares at the weights I grab. F. Apparently we are not going to be BFFs. STOP JUDGING ME AND MY OVERALL ATHLETIC WEAKNESS. 

This class went downhill quickly.

USC Students Are Smart

As we were shuttling over to set the other day, one of the PA’s revealed, mid-convo, that she was a USC student.

"You’re at SC?! I went to SC." I get really excited when I have things in common with other people. 

"Really? No way! What year were you?" 

Oy. Luckily, I was on set as a journalist and not as an actress, so I felt less too-old-for-my-chosen-career in admitting my actual graduation year. 

"I was class of ‘06."

Pause. Eye contact. “Ohhhhh.”

Awkward pause. Laughter.

The chick driving the van interjected to remark on the meaningful tone behind that ‘oh’. I nodded in agreement, still laughing in self-deprecation. “I know, right. I get it. I’m old.”

The PA’s eyes grew wide in emphatic sincerity, “No, you just look so young!”

…

Well played, PA. Well played.

(And yes, I will be alternating low side-ponies and high braided ponies for the rest of my twenties. Great success.)

Amish Living

A new friend and I casually sort of planned a low-key evening of Orphan Black and cocktails. What could possibly go awry?

...

I assumed said low-key evening would be taking place at his…place, as I swear I mentioned on our initial outing that I am not the proud owner of a television.

Then I got this text: “What’s you adresssss (sic). I’m leaving hereeeee.” (We’ll go ahead and ignore the grammar on that one for now. Because I’m feeling friendly. And I have another story to tell.)

F. He’s coming over here. 

Me: "Ummmm I don’t have a television."

Him: "We can just drink. Let’s never leave your couch."

Too soon to tell him I don’t have one of those either?

Spoiler alert: He found out. 

Not. Awkward. At. All. 

Fortunes for Talentless Whores

Ho-kay, cookie - you win this round.

It's All Downhill From Here

Last week in Atlanta, we made a group decision to hit up the local AMC for a little matinee action. Movie of choice: This is the End. 

Little did I know, I was about to experience one of those rare, life-defining moments.

A couple points to clarify:

1. This is the End carries an R rating

2. An R rating requires attendees be at least 17 years of age, or be in the pseudo-care of an assenting adult. (Duh.)

You can probably guess what happened next.

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I. Got. Carded. 

Not only did I get carded, but as the girl behind the counter scrutinized my ID, her face shifted into that whole, left-eyebrow-raise-slight-chin-wrinkle-mini-surprised-smirk thing, "I wasn’t expecting to see that age.” 

Because she thought I was under 17. She thought I was in high school. She thought I was frolicking about in that blessed skin-glowing-hormone-raging-hands-holding-other-hands-at-football-games* stage of life. 

I’m going to choose to revel in this moment for the next 17 years or so. 

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I got carded at the theater bar, too, just in case you were curious. 

I really, really love Atlanta. 

*Or so I hear.

Teenagers in Love

These are the two responsible for all of this:

You Might Be the Tall Girl Problem

Coughing. Gurgling. Reeking of cigarettes, booze and plaque. Grey t-shirt soaked through the armpits, a mysterious stain dribbled down the front. This man was a mess, and it was only 2 ‘o clock on a Tuesday afternoon. I’m doing my best to avoid both eye contact and judgment, when he lustily broaches conversation.

“You’re really tall.”

Seriously, sir? You look like you just got hit with a one-two punch of emphysema and malaria, and you’re calling me out on my height?

Swallowing a loud sigh, I reply, “I am indeed.” There’s no escaping the situation as we’re sequestered in line at the CVS pharmacy, and Lord knows I can’t go another hour without my Adderall. Deep breaths and polite niceties it is.

The man leans in with a conspiratorial wink, “That’s a good thing.”

..

Pause. Did the smelly guy with poor social skills just dump a heaping spoonful of it’s-rough-out-there empathy on my plate?

I was dying to ask exactly what it was about my 5 inch heels that led him to believe I was insecure about my height, but I grudgingly restrained myself, offering instead a seemingly appreciative smile.

The path to the high road can be really tough on your jaw.

Yes, I am tall. I have always been tall, and - pending severe medical interference - will always be tall. Like anything else in life, this statistic comes with both benefits and detriments. Contrary to apparent popular belief, I do not view my height as a physical disability. I also do not view my height as a scintillating topic of conversation. I would rather talk about Yahtzee for an hour. And I don’t even know how to play Yahtzee. In the interest of saving my raspy voice a round or two of what’s-it-like-to-be-a-giant-woman-in-a-small-man’s-world, I thought I would tackle an assortment of FAQ’s slash commentary tall girls are socially obliged to tolerate on a daily basis.

How tall are you?

First of all, this question is only appropriate if you are already mid-conversation with someone. This is not an ice-breaker. This is 100% guaranteed to break zero ice. If you should ever find yourself shouting this question at the back of a stranger as she silently laments your birth and increases her pace, you should stop. Second, is this not the sort of thing you can eyeball? Assuming you are well-informed on the matter of your own height, one would think you’d be able to take a pretty decent stab in the dark.  Thirdly, the answer is 5’11”.

No way. You’ve got to be at least 6 foot.

No, no, I do not have to be at least six foot tall. I am exactly 5’11” and one-eighth of an inch. I understand that this may destroy whatever grand delusions you have clung to with regard to your more diminutive stature, but your shortcomings are not my issue. Pun clearly intended. 

Are you standing on something?

This is not funny. No variation on form will make it funny.  For the love of all that is good, holy, and slightly neurotic, please stop trying to make this funny. If you have ever asked me this question, you’ve probably received a sardonic, “Ha. Just my shoes,” in response. Because that’s how I respond. Every. Single. Time.

Hey, Shorty.

Also not funny. And tragically uncreative. Let’s see a little effort here in the nickname department.

Jolly Green Giant.

Too far. I don’t care if a 6’3” girl is head to toe in kelly green…don’t. Walk away, if you must - just don’t say it.

That must have been rough in junior high!

Everything was rough in junior high. That’s what junior high is. Were my jeans too short and did I stand two heads above every eligible almost-pubescent boy? Yes. I also had frizzy hair, peculiar style and unwittingly obnoxious brownnoser tendencies. It seems slightly unfair to force my height to shoulder the bulk of the blame on that one.

Is must be hard to date.

Are there people for whom it is easy? Also, I’m pretty sure my penchant for sarcasm and low tolerance for douchebaggery would hinder the whole process no matter my mark on the physical scale.

Are you a model? Did you play basketball? Volleyball?

Again, only if you are already mid-conversation - and never in a large group setting. These questions are awkward and weird. Please don’t make strangers answer them in public.

That’s all. Carry on. 

Men Want What Women Want What Men Want

When I told my mom I had been maintenance-texted by a boy, she squeezed my hand reassuringly, “I wouldn’t look at it that way – I’d look at it like he was thinking about you!”

Thank you for feeding my delusions, Mother. That explains so much.

I can’t blame my mom for her indefatigable optimism regarding the intentions of the unfair sex. When she was walking the hallway of hormones, things were a lot more straightforward. My dad and his best friend flipped a coin to see who could ask her out. My father won. The end.  Or, more aptly, the beginning.

Many people like to blame the disintegration of chivalry on modern technology. Sure, the advent of texting and social media, and the ensuing fissure in formal communication, have thrown the game onto a whole new playing field; but, I think the real anti-courting culpability lies elsewhere: A serious lack of shotgun-wielding fathers.

If any man-child had so much as attempted to maintenance-anything my mother, Grandpa Smith would have taken to his pickup truck, Winchester in hand, prepared to supplement the fear of God with a few well-placed bullets. (Just ask my dad about the time he came to pick up my mom…on a motorcycle…with long blonde hair and short denim shorts. Let’s just say he’s lucky he has a good sense of humor – and happened to hold the state track record in the 400m.)

I would wager that, for most of us in our mid-to-upper twenties, our fathers are harboring such severe concerns over their daughters’ unceasing singledom that they wouldn’t dare scare off a potential suitor. Any suitor. Any suitor at all.

And they don’t need to; apparently, we are doing a good enough job of that on our own.  Basing this entire theory on personal experience and a solid number of conversations with individuals on both sides of the gender line, I have determined that men are now terrified of women.  In the words of one such shaky soul, “It’s just hard to figure out what you girls want.”

That’s fair. When last June’s Atlantic cover boldly declared that women can’t have it all, many of my friends and I found ourselves asking if we even really want to have it all. And what does “it all” entail, exactly, in today’s society? Then we realized we might be jumping the gun a bit. How are we supposed to boldly assert our right to rule the corporate world, with a ring on the finger and a baby on either hip, if we are still referencing the words of “Why Men Love Bitches” in daily conversation?

I am confident in my beliefs. When I know, without a doubt, that I want something, I have no problem stating that. But what about when what I want really depends on if you want it, too, but you’re not sure what I want, so you’re not entirely certain that it’s what you want? A magazine excerpt I spotted in a MoMA exhibit had a delightfully delicate turn of phrase for this dilemma: “You are your own woman in the hope of being just what someone else is looking for.” This clipping was from the 1950’s, suggesting that this is not a new predicament. I would venture to state that this is an age-old issue, exacerbated by the current lack of clear societal rules.

Women are getting married and having children later in life. They are no longer branded an old maid if they’re thirty and single, and long gone are the days of the virgin white bride. In the immortal Pretty Woman words of Kit and Vivian, “We say who, we say when, we say how much.”

By the same token, men are no longer compelled to commit.  The image of that sad, single adman drinking alone at the end of the bar, while his postwar suburbia peers sit huddled about the TV with their families, has been replaced by a group of laughing, boisterous, middle-aged tech tycoons flirting shamelessly with acquiescing blondes, twenty years their junior. Even if they do plan on settling down eventually, there’s no rush. I can almost guarantee you that there was not a single group of men discussing the potential freezing of their eggs over dinner last night.

Yay! Even playing fields! Betty Friedan would be so proud.

Unfortunately for us indecisive types, this basically means that you either figure out exactly what it is you want, and cling steadfastly to that banner, or you linger indecisively in insecure trepidation around a multitude of romantic possibilities, until one ultimately (hopefully) pans out.

Yeah, I’m probably going to go with option B, too.

Free Cone Day

15 seconds of fame are almost too easy to come by these days.

April Fool's?

"Stuart kissed me today," I pronounced. Cheeks pinking slightly at the confession. Wide eyes sparkling with unabashed glee. 

I was seven. And he had. A sweet little peck on the lips, while we were lined up to head in from recess. 

My mother set down her fork, head slightly atilt. My father cleared his throat. Parentally speaking, how were they supposed to react to this news?

Step 1: Ixnay any further sleepovers at Stuart’s house.

Step 2: Enroll their precocious baby girl in some etiquette classes, where she will hopefully learn a thing or two about appropriate dinner conversation.

If they had only known this was to be the peak of my boy-meets-girl prowess, they might have relished the landmark moment a bit.

Most years, I concoct highly elaborate April Fool’s Day tomfoolery, for the sake of my own entertainment. One such year’s tear-stricken phone call to my mother, alerting her of my horrific ankle injury on an abandoned, out-of-reach trail, had my entire family scrambling to figure out how to get an emergency helicopter to my essentially unknown location. (In reality, I was on the beach in Hermosa. My phone may or may not have cut out mid-folly. Forgiveness was hard to come by for a few months.)

This year, I decided to keep it simple. A few clicks of the mouse, and my Facebook status shined as, “In a Relationship”. One of my acquaintances recently made a similar change, her post eliciting a bevy of ‘likes’ and congratulatory comments: “Who is he?!” “I’m SO happy for you!!” “Pictures! Pictures!” “I can’t wait to meet him!!” “Is he coming for Easter?!” 

I sat back and awaited the laudatory remarks. 

Zero. There were no such responses. Sure, my post received comments and likes…but not a single one of my 1,821 FB friends bought it for a second. One shimmering soul contacted me via text message to find out who I deigned to dine with on a more frequent occasion. He shall be known as my favorite person in the world from this point on. 

My sister’s comment that it was, ‘The best April Fool’s joke she’d seen yet,’ got plenty of play. Awesome. The biggest joke of the day was that I somehow managed to wrangle up a steady plus-one.

It is literally more believable that I would be dying on top of a mountain than that I’d actually have a boyfriend. 

Good to know. I wonder if Stuart’s still single… 

There, Their. It'll Be Okay.

Everyone has to do their part. 

Rejection in the Third Degree

Last Saturday, my besties and I stormed the Ace Hotel late night, after an evening of in-house capers with Palm Spring’s Finest. Proper noun. (You don’t want to know.)

As I danced my medium-sized heart out with the most amazing gays you will ever meet, I was rudely interrupted by an overly drunk, underly coherent soul. I attempted congeniality, as someone in our group pronounced Awkward Drunk Guy a friend of a few of our own from LA. This is how that worked out:

ADG: “This is so crazy.”

Me: “What’s so crazy?”

ADG: “This.”

Me: “What do you mean?”

ADG: “It’s just…you know…crazy.”

…

Me: “Ok.”

…

Scintillating.

Luckily, the aforementioned gays are equipped with excellent swoop-and-rescue skills. Let the revelry resume!

Unfortunately, ADG was not at a point in his night to be picking up on not-so-subtle social cues. As my fav fellow frolicker made all attempts to twirl me out of reach, ADG trailed my beat-friendly footsteps around the dance floor, occasionally capturing me in brief moments of conversational nothingness.

All in all, a slightly hilarious scene, which we proceeded to rehash the next day, as we sweat out our hangovers poolside.

…And then one amongst our crew (we shall call him DD for the purposes of this post)proceeded to rehash the whole thing once again upon his return to LA. With ADG. I love full circles. Here’s how that exchange went down:

DD: heyyyyyyyyy

ADG: hey! that was funny
i hope i didnt do anything too embarassing (sic)

DD: you were creeping on that girl
it was a topic of conversation the next day

ADG: i was creeping on everything

DD: ha
why were you there?

ADG: for a wedding
why were YOU there?

DD: friend’s birthday

ADG: oh fun times
i only hit on that girl
b/c everyone else seemed gay
and she talked to me

…

And here I thought it was my good looks and charming personality. 

Chalk. Win. Meh. 

Anyone Up for a Threesome?

If you ever find yourself at Lion Pub in San Francisco: DO order the spectacularly fresh ‘n pulpy greyhound. DON’T stay for the conversation.

Creeper: You should come back with Mitch* and I.

Me: Why?

Creeper: Because we could offer an experience you’ve never had?

Me: Oh really. What kind of experience could you offer?

Creeper: Whatever fantasy you wanted. We just wouldn’t do each other in the butt.

…

Welp. There goes that dream.

Spoiler Alert: I don’t go home with them in the end.

*Names have been changed to keep things less confusing. Except Creeper. That one’s real.

Nice Guys Don't Finish Last - Weak Men Do

"I didn’t think there was any way you’d take that shot," said the stranger, his delivery laced with forced bravado.

I turned to face my verbal assailant. Stony stare. Left eyebrow slightly peaked. Irritation in full effect.

I know what you’re thinking - that icebreaker wasn’t that bad. And you’re right.  It wasn’t. It wasn’t rude; it wasn’t crass; it wasn’t ridiculously cheesy…it was just annoying. Do I happen to enjoy the process of taking shots? No. Did he know that? Nope. He didn’t know anything about me. 

Presumption and banality are the curse of a nervous pick-up line. This wasn’t some misogynistic a-hole; this was a nice guy pumping himself full of false confidence and attempting to run game.

“Where are you from?”

“Originally? Nebraska.”

“Nebraska?! Ha. I’m sorry.”

…

Seriously?

Nice-guy negging is one of the saddest phenomenons to come out of The Game. Essentially a how-to guide for picking up chicks, The Game perpetuates the myth that the quickest way to a girl’s heart is to cut down her self-esteem.

First of all, this only works if said girl is 18 years old/or seriously damaged. Second of all, good-hearted, well-meaning dudes just don’t do it right.  They don’t fully commit. They can’t bring themselves to say something totally barbaric, so they pick a mundane topic and quibble it to death.

Kill. Me. Now.

At least when a guy’s a complete dbag, you can tell him to f*ck off and continue your evening in peace.  These awkwardly aggressive shy-guys manage to pull at your heartstrings, even while firing up every single one of your neuroses. How long are you supposed to wait before you tell them you JUST DON’T CARE? You don’t want to hurt the poor dude’s feelings.

Approaching a girl at a bar can be a nerve-whittling experience.  We get that.  And we appreciate when legitimate men make the effort.  When we say nice guys are hard to find, what we really mean is, nice guys who haven’t been beaten down by their needless insecurities. If the sweet sector of the less-fair sex would simply embrace their congenial qualities and let that affability fuel their swagger, the dating world would be a much saner place.

And just in case there is any confusion, ignorantly insulting a girl’s home state - or her BlackBerry for that matter - will not get you laid.

Ever.

Missed Connections

I dropped by ShoeDazzle’s Santa Monica showroom earlier today, to interview their newly minted Chief Stylist, Rachel Zoe. 

While I waited for The Hollywood Reporter’s representative to finish up her line of questioning, I kicked back on the couch next to a couple of friendly faces.

They immediately complimented me on my shoes. I immediately loved them. (It doesn’t take much to get on my good side.)

I explained that, while the shoes themselves were branded by rival e-commerce site,ShoeMint, I had painted the flowers on them. They responded with the appropriate level of interest, before introducing themselves as Brian and Mira.

Brian: You could make a living off of that.

Me: Ugh, I would love to make a living off of it.  I could paint shoes all day long.

Brian: Which publication are you with?

Me: FabFitFun

[insert brief dialogue regarding target demos, etc]

Me: You guys are at ShoeDazzle?

They nod.

I get called up to the director’s chair, and gawkily extricate my 5’11” limbs and 5” heels from the low-sitting loveseat.

Brian: (to Mira) She’s really tall.

So I’ve heard.

Ten minutes later, I was walking out the door, internally rehashing the first part of our conversation.  (I’ve been trying to figure out how, exactly, to make a living off of my penchant for arts, crafts & shoes for quite awhile now, so it’s nice to have an unsolicited vote of confidence from a stranger.)

In the parking lot, I paused to check the audio on my interview recording.  Rachel’s voice pervaded my Prius, “I really admired what Brian Lee, as the CEO, has been doing here – and his wife, Mira.”

Brian and Mira. Right.  Brian, the CEO of ShoeDazzle, and his wife, Mira.

“You guys are at ShoeDazzle?”

…

I’m an idiot. 

Also - BLee, can we chat a bit more about my future career in shoe decoration? Thanks.

Sidenote: If anyone would like to buy the above-pictured shoes, they’re available for sale on Etsy. Size 8. $150. Get in there.

It's All Fun & Games Until Someone Eats Dinner Without You

Last night, I met up with imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for a couple rounds of last minute cocktails. This Honor Bar session was to serve two purposes: 1. To continue plotting our world domination 2. To figure out why the F the young man she was supposed to be out with - Emphasis on young. Because he’s younger. Rawr. - had decided to eat dinner without her. 

This conversation got lengthy.

Boy had made activity-unspecific plans with her for the evening. As pick-up time neared, she had to push it back slightly, due to a work conflict. Shortly thereafter, she texted him that she was back in action. He replied, asking if they could meet up later. Much later.

Why? Because he was just sitting down to dinner with a friend. 

…

Oh. Right. Totally. Of course.

She let him know that A. His newly proposed time was, indeed, too late and B. There was no need for him to make it up to her another night.

He seemed surprised.  Seriously? 

…

This brought to mind a similar experience of my own.

A gentleman I had been to drinks with a few times asked if he could take me out on the upcoming Friday.  I said yes. Friday, he texted to lay out the details, explaining that his post-work commitments would probably last until 9 or 10. Oh, and he would probably be eating there.

…

Ahh. How fascinating.

Needless to say, I didn’t exactly swoon. This gentleman also seemed surprised by the lackluster reaction his comments had elicited.

How do these men-children not see the error in their all-too-casual ways?!

imawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo and I began to wonder if we mistakenly set an ultra-lax tone from the beginning.  We’re both easygoing to an occasional fault and are generally more than willing to go with the flow and play things by ear…but there is a line.  And when this line is crossed, we quickly shift from gypsy-boho-whateverstotallyfinewithme to Type sarcastic A-hole. Is this shift too quick? Is there a specific trigger?

Maybe. And yes. Dinner. The trigger is dinner.  Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars? Absolutely. Are we totally cool grabbing drinks and hanging out at random dive bars after you just told us you pushed back our date time to eat dinner with your friend? Absolutely not. 

Why? Maybe because men have spent half their lives telling us the difference between the girls they take to dinner and the girls they take straight to the bar for tequila shots. One such man even brought this up when he and I were two courses deep: 

"If I didn’t like talking to you, I would have just asked you if you wanted to get a drink."

"Why would you take someone to drinks, if you don’t even like having a conversation with them?"

"Why do you think?"

…

Charming. Noted. Guard promptly reinstated in its upward and locked position.

… 

Back at Honor Bar: As we reached to pay our check, our server askedimawkwardlyreallyawkwardtoo for her phone number - his friend had wanted to stop by our table to ask her to coffee, but he didn’t get a chance.

He should probably tell his friend to make sure there’s a scone with that latte.

Puppy Love

Maria Menounos hosted an event for Rickland Orchards to benefit the Shining Hope Charity at the W Hotel last Thursday evening.

If that mouthful didn't taste enough like LA for you, sink your teeth into this sucker:

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...

That's all.