Thursday, October 25, 2012

Why People Still Won't Let Me Babysit

A coworker of mine was out of the office for a few days chaperoning a field trip to Coloma, mostly noted for being the first place gold was found in California. Here is an actual conversation we had upon his return:

Me: How was your trip?
Coworker: Awesome, but I'm tired now. 
Me: Did you find millions in gold? 
Coworker: No, but I met a lot of great kids.
Me: ...can you trade the kids for gold? 

Stop looking at me like that, you're just mad you didn't think of it first. 

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

In Which I Get Kicked Out Of A Coffee Shop For Looking Like A Prostitute

I don't get out to San Francisco nearly as often as I should, but because of my writing I've had more opportunities to spend time in the city. There's something about the city that I just love. I don't know if it's the people, that it goes from bright and shiny to gritty and dirty in the span of a block or the people that make it so interesting to me. 

Whatever it is, whenever I head out that way I try to spend as much time as I can wandering and exploring. I do miss the city since I left Chicago and I try to find excuses to head out as often as I can. 

A few weekends ago I found myself sitting in a coffee shop, sipping a Diet Coke and killing time before one of my performances. I was dressed in what I usually wear for performances: a pair of dark jeans, black boots, and a black wrap shirt. Because the city is ungodly cold, I was also wearing a hoodie from the 2012 Ex Boyfriend Collection. 

I was halfway through my Diet Coke when the homeless guy wandered in. 

He approached the register and started babbling incoherently to the little Vietnamese lady behind the counter. 

Because I don't live under a rock, none of this really caught my attention and I continued watching some guy in a wheelchair across the street spoon a fire hydrant. (And for what it's worth, I'm not sure what his secret was but I don't sleep that well in my bed. He might be on to something.)

I didn't notice that the homeless man inside the coffee shop had come up behind me until he started babbling at me. 

There is one life lesson that every busty girl on the planet has learned: if someone is harassing you, if you ignore them they eventually wander away. If that doesn't work, that's why God invented Mace. But usually the ignoring works. 

As he continued rambling about my hair, my chest and my ass, I kept ignoring him. 

He eventually started bugging some cute blonde guy for change. The blonde guy, being far more tolerant than I, gave him some change. The homeless man then turned his attention to me again. 


About two more minutes of random screaming about various parts of my anatomy that I refuse to write about on the internet followed. After that he progressed into screaming about all the inappropriate things he wanted to do to me, some of which may not actually be legal in this state.

I continued sipping my Diet Coke.

It was at that point that the little Vietnamese lady got sick of his crap and insisted that the man leave. 
(And before any of you tell me how racist this sounds, I swear to God these are exact quotes)
"You! You go! You get out! I don't let people beg for money! You get out!"

She then proceeded to chase him out of the door with a broom. 

I looked up from my Diet Coke and smiled at her. Just a silent "thank you for getting rid of that man who was claiming he wanted to do inappropriate things to me with a beer bottle" if you will. 

Which is when she looked at me and glared.

"You! You go too! You dress like hooker and make trouble! You get out!"

I decided to go before she brought out the broom. I was about halfway to my performance that it occurred to me that I was just ushered out of a coffee shop in San Francisco for dressing like a hooker. 

I can't decide whether or not the prostitutes around here are really well dressed, or if I should take a good hard look at my life and my choices. 

Monday, August 27, 2012

In Which I Go Out With Someone Who Has Trouble With The Word "No" And Breathing Out Of His Nose

So it's been awhile since I posted, and for once for a good reason.

I have a tendency to date men who are much bigger than me. A guy I spend a great deal of time with is 6'5'' and 250. My best friend is 6'4''. Even the guys I wind up seeing that are on the shorter side are still bigger than me, usually by at least 3 inches and 40 pounds.

It never really bugged me that much. I'm 5'6''. I may have a big ass, but you get used to the majority of men being bigger than you. So when I went out for sushi with a guy who was about 6'2'' and built like a pro athlete, I didn't think much of it.

Sushi went pretty well, right up until I realized that he was painfully stupid. Not the "Aw, it's kind of cute that you occasionally say dumb shit" kind of stupid, more the "How the hell has natural selection not picked you off" kind of stupid.

About halfway through dinner, my phone rang. Usually I'd never answer a call while out with someone because that is so painfully rude. However, this call came from someone who never calls, so naturally I assumed someone had died.

A friend of mine was in the hospital, and it was a friend of his asking me to drop him off a thing or two. Which I agreed to because 1. What kind of person doesn't agree to that?  2. It was on the way.  3. What else was I going to do? The only way I could communicate with the guy I was currently with involved small words and pictures.

I hung up the phone and apologized, because I really loathe people who answer their phones halfway through a conversation.

Now, before I continue let me make two things very clear: 1. I was not cutting dinner short.  2. I was simply apologizing for being rude. 3. My friend was going to be fine.

All I said was "I'm sorry about that, turns out a friend of mine is in the hospital and needs me to drop him off some things later tonight".

At which point the guy I was with slammed his glass down and snapped "Well if you love this guy so much why don't you just marry him?!". I gently reminded him that my friend was sick, and although he was going to be fine, I still needed to see him to feel better. Plus, if I was in the hospital I'd want someone to bring me a thing or two and come see me.

"You said he was going to be fine. I think you're just being stupid."

Not what I was expecting, but after a little back pedaling and deciding that this is the last time I'm seeing this person ever, he seemed to calm down. He paid for dinner and as we were walking out of the restaurant, he started pawing at me.

"Please don't."

How that phrase could possibly be misinterpreted, I'm not sure, the only thing I can figure is that he was, in fact, that stupid. He continued grabbing at me as I got to the car.

"Come on, I got dinner, the least you can do..." and then he tried to kiss me. At least I think that's what it was, all I know is that his face collided with mine so hard that it split my lip open. This? This pissed me off.

So I'm 5'6'', backed against a car by a guy 7 inches taller than me, built like a pro athlete, and he keeps touching me after I told him not to. This pissed me off more.

Apparently, he has problems with the word "no".

So I did what any lady would do.

I punched him square in the throat.

And while he was crouched over, I stepped to the side, causing him to fall face first into the window of my car. So now he has a problem with the word "no" and breathing out of his nose. In a moment of sheer awesome, I pulled forty bucks out of my back pocket, tossed it at him and said "Now I don't owe you dick. And if I were you I'd get out of the way before I start to drive away."

All things considered, it could've been much worse.

As it stands, I hate dating, I hate being touched after I specifically told someone not to, I hate being yelled at, I hate having my lip split open and I hate the realization that there's not a whole lot of people here who would've noticed if something did happen to me.

Oh, I also hate having blood smeared on the driver's side window of my rental car.

But that's where I've been. It took a little while for me to get my head on straight again, I spent a few days showering eight or nine times a day but I think I'm about straightened out now.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Internet and Sodomy

Getting reliable internet in my new place has been nothing short of a nightmare.

Don't even get me started on Comcast and their bullshit. Apparently the person who lived in the place before me had service that wasn't disconnected so they couldn't install my service which didn't stop them from sending me a huge bill anyway. But I digress.

I sucked it up and went with AT&T.

Which is fine, because internet is internet, right?


It's so fucking slow I'd be better off if I tethered from my phone. That would be better than what I have now. Which is kind of unacceptable.

I got a bright shiny email from AT&T stating that I can see a video of my current bill.

Which I can only imagine is AT&T's way of saying "Check out this video of us forcibly sodomizing you and your bank account. But do it at work because our internet is too slow for you to do it at home".

I still don't get it. I work and live in Silicon Valley. I'm pretty sure they invented the internet here, how can it possibly be this hard?!

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Hope And Other Bullshit

People keep coming up to me and telling me how impressed they are by how strong I am. About how great it is that I moved and how impressive it is that Ive been able to keep everything together despite all of the recent bullshit. How lucky I am to be strong because that makes everything magically ok.

They're all assholes. Was that inappropriate? It's not any less appropriate than telling me I'm strong like it makes all the problems in the world go away. It doesn't. All it does is tell me about a character trait that's totally irrelevant to the conversation.

Of course I've kept it together. I don't have the luxury of curling up in a ball for a week because I have a broken heart. If I don't go to work, I don't have a job. If I don't have a job, my bills don't get paid. Being tough isn't a trait you develop one day because you think it sounds like fun. You do it because you don't really have a choice otherwise, so you might as well suck it up, Nancy.

Strong or not there's only so much hurt you can handle all at once before things start to fall apart. Even the strongest people in the world have a breaking point. Anyone who claims otherwise is a liar. Everyone falls apart. Everyone has scars. Some just hide it better than others is all.

I caught a glimpse, a very tiny glimpse, of something that might actually start to turn this shit show around for me. 

I don't like it. 

If I chase it and it doesn't work, I'm going to wind up so much farther down and out than I was to start with that I'm not sure I'll be able to handle it. If I don't' chase it, I'm stuck in a perpetual state of feeling like this. Which honestly, isn't that good.

I've never been a big believer in hope. At best I always thought it was bullshit. Something people held on to for lack of any other option. Something to keep you sane in a world that doesn't make sense. Right up there with believing in God, I always considered hope to be something people did to make themselves feel better when they couldn't afford a new pair of shoes.

At it's worst, hope seems like a cruel joke. I can't count the number of times I've seen someone so far down that they seem like they'll never be able to get up again, and they always say the same thing. "I have hope". Inevitably what seems like a change in luck comes along and blows up in their face. Their perpetual hope winds up leaving them a bigger mess than they were to start with. 

Never been a big fan. Tried it a few times anyway. Didn't work out well for me. Actually, I don't ever think it's worked out well for me. That being said, I think I need a little of it right now. A little pointless, stupid hope. Something to maybe make the universe feel alright again. 

A breath of fresh air maybe. 

But all I can see are the ways it won't work. The million ways that I get my ass handed to me one more time because why the hell not? Kick her while she's down. 

Because I'm a fucking idiot, I'm grasping at that little shred of hope like maybe this time it'll be different than the plethora of other times I've thought that and had my spirit stomped on. I have to. I've run out of alternatives. 

I guess I hope if I keep chasing it like an idiot, I'll eventually come out ahead. Kind of like those people who are convinced they'll win the lottery someday.

They probably won't. But there's always that chance. 

Thursday, May 31, 2012

I've been trying really hard to keep myself busy, or else I'm going to curl up in a ball and just be a depressed loser. Not that being a depressed loser isn't incredibly sexy, it's just that I already have a line of men a mile long waiting outside my door for a little bit of my time and I don't want to exacerbate the situation by being even more attractive.

Ultimately, moving across the country sucks. And not just because you're away from everything you know. I am fortunate (or unfortunate enough, I'm not sure yet), to move to a place where I have some kind of support system in place already. So when that support system changes, even a little bit, that becomes incredibly difficult to deal with. I just need normal.

It almost feels like the people that are supposed to love me here love me better when I was 2000 miles away. Which sounds emo and ridiculous to even type, but a little part of me wonders if it's not true. Things were easier with me farther away because there was a little bit more distance between me and my bullshit.

That being said?

They can fucking suck it up.

I'm here now, I live here now and they will either make me a part of their lives and fucking get over it or they can eat shit.

There's no nice way to tell people you love that as weird as this is for them, it's infinitely weirder for me and I'm the one who needs support right now. I've been keeping myself super busy, but at some point there's going to be some down time and I'd prefer to not lose my shit the first time I have a weekend to myself.

It could just be me trying to ward off what is going to most likely be soul crushing depression, but right now I'm starting to lean towards angry, and I don't like it.

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

I am twenty nine years old and I showed up to work today with a hickey.

Well it wasn't so much one hickey as it was a grouping of them, a set of teeth marks and a black and blue earlobe. 

The issue here would be that I somehow didn't notice any of them until someone at work asked me what happened. What exactly do you say to that? 

I got hammered this weekend and the rest is none of your business? 

I know that you pay me a retarded amount of money but I can't manage to come in without looking like I was somehow attacked by a runaway vacuum cleaner? 

I'm in a weird vulnerable spot and I have a thing for boys with shaggy hair?

Sometimes you just need a good looking guy to tell you that you're pretty and bite you on the neck?

I got into a bar fight and they fought dirty?

If you're me, you just look at the person asking, blink twice and walk away. It's better than the "I'm a drunken whore" defense, which is really all I've got at this point.

Sunday, May 27, 2012

I think I'm broken

I hate writing sometimes.

I really do.

A lot of other mediums allow for some kind of social interaction. Writing really isn't one of them. Not that I'm knocking people who can socialize while doing their thing, it just so happens that writing isn't really one of those things.

At the end of the day, I wind up sitting alone in a room with my laptop, trying to pick one idea out of the millions of thoughts that run through my head. There's never a clear idea, it's mostly abstract shapes, half formed ideas, and the occasional snippet of a sentence.

What people seem to miss is that even though my writing tends to be funny, it's still incredibly painful. Every time I write, I'm ripping the stitches on something. Every joke comes from a little bit of pain, disappointment, sadness, rejection, heartbreak or missed opportunity. The logical choice would be to simply not write.

For someone like me that isn't an option. I might not update my blog every day, but I do write everyday. Otherwise, the same thoughts just swirl in my head and chip away at me until I can hardly function. There are days that no matter how hard I try I can't get the thoughts out on paper. The problem is just by trying all of those thoughts wind up front and center, but there's absolutely no abreaction because my words just won't work.

Those days are the worst. How do you explain to the people around you that you're 2000 miles from home and kind of a mess because the one outlet you have from the stress of the move, relationship issues and new job rips the stitches on things you didn't know you felt anymore? How do you tell someone that you can't eat, you can't sleep and you just kind of need someone who gets it?

There are days when I would kill just to have someone sit next to me on the couch while I tried to string words together into thoughts that make some sort of sense. This is one of those days. It's all I can do not to curl up in a ball on my floor and cry.

The problem with writing is how easy it is to get stuck in your own head. It's even harder when you don't have anyone to shake you out of it every once in awhile and remind you that you're not broken.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

You can't take me anywhere

I've decided I want to do everything in the world. And if I have to do it by myself, I have to do it by myself. This sucks, but hopefully it's a situation that takes care of itself.

Because of this, I got to go to a very exclusive party in a very exclusive place with very successful, notable and beautiful people tonight. I also got to go to it alone. My current situation notwithstanding, I probably would've wound up by myself there anyway, mostly because the people I gravitate towards would rather chop off their own testicles than go to some red carpet bullshit party.

So I got poured into some ridiculous dress, propped up on some crazy tall heels and let loose into a super exclusive party full of people way out of my league. It's the same scene every time...coke in the bathroom, alcohol everywhere, more drugs than I can even name, incredibly expensive clothing and really shitty music.

You can imagine how well I fit in.

The thing with me though...give me high enough heels, some of those drugs and that alcohol and I can fake it long enough to get by.

Despite my ability to blend in, at the end of the day I'm still myself.

This poses a problem.

This poses a bigger problem if I'm already feeling vulnerable.

I was meandering to the bar, chit chatting and making small talk with people I have jack shit in common with when I heard a snapping noise. I kept walking. There wasn't a drink in my hand and come hell or high water something good will happen this week and I'm not positive that little shred of good isn't hiding at the bottom of a bottle.

I heard the snapping again.

I kept walking.

That's when I heard the whistle.

I stopped mid stride and stood there just for a second. There's no way anyone at this party would be whistling at me. Unless they maybe thought I worked there and they needed a drink, but not for any other reason.

I heard it again, immediately followed by a "Hey! Dollface!"

I turned around to see a gorgeous man in a very expensive suit staring at me. Brown hair, gorgeous brown eyes and a resemblance to Robert Downey Jr. that made me look twice. Then he smiled at me and proceeded to whistle in my direction again and nod his head in a kind of "come here" gesture.

As it stands, I'm kind of in a weird place. I just want someone to scratch my head, kiss me on the cheek when I have nightmares and watch TV with me. A normal girl would see this man and think "Maybe he could be my head scratcher. And oh, he looks like Robert Fucking Downey Jr. maybe you should give this a whirl, the worst case scenario involves waking up in a penthouse with someone who looks like Robert Downey Jr."

Unfortunately, the girl he was whistling at wasn't normal. The girl he was whistling at was me.

I decided now is as good a time as any to start talking to guys I might want to spend some time with. I very casually wandered over to him, smiled and said nothing. He leaned in, right against my ear and whispered "Dollface. You look stunning. I have a penthouse, you should come see it."

I took a little step back, smiled sweetly and leaned right into him until my lips were almost against his ear whispered "Clare. My name is Clare, not Dollface. I am not a dog. If you whistle at me again, I'll rip your lips right off of your face.", kissed him right on the mouth, turned on my heel and walked away.

I don't know why I don't get invited to more of these things.

It occurs to me that I could be in bed with a gorgeous man that drips money and style. Instead, I'm sitting in the middle of a gigantic bed wearing the worlds most ridiculous dress and eating pizza while watching USA.

Because this is what I do. I ruin everything by threatening to rip people's lips off of their faces.

It's a miracle I'm single, isn't it?

Thursday, May 24, 2012

I finally received some good news that I had been waiting for what can only be described as what feels like a fucking eternity for.

Over the last holiday season, I got incredibly sick with pneumonia. Lots of hospital visits, had to stay home for a month...was not in a good place.

After that it was like being treated with kid gloves. There was just stuff I couldn't do, be it because I was uncomfortable in my skin after gaining weight on the steroids or because my doctor was concerned about the environmental factors contributing to my having more breathing issues.

It's been a long road. A lot has fallen apart because of it. I mean, really, who wants to be with someone who can't do anything because everything makes her wheeze? Yes, I was eventually going to get better, but I can see not wanting to wait for that. It was incredibly frustrating. More frustrating for me because I had no choice but to become a spectator in my own life. I watched people I love go hiking, or swimming, or riding on their motorcycles, or whatever else but I could never go.

I'm still not 100% where I should be, and that is annoying. It's like...climbing Mount Everest, getting to the top and seeing a flight of stairs labeled "To the top". It's the ultimate middle finger.

That being said...I am better. I finally got the clearance to do a few of the things I've wanted to do for a long time now. Like ride motorcycles, go hiking (depending on the day and whether or not I have enough inhalers) and work out again.

There are still things I want to do that are absolutely out of the question for the time being. Skydiving, for example, is out. I won't be running any marathons any time soon. However, I can run again. You know, if my car was broken, someone was chasing me and there was absolutely no other alternative.

But it's kind of a hollow victory at this point. The 7 months or so of not being able to do anything has already taken such a huge toll on my relationships I'm not sure there's any turning back from that. The same people I want to call and tell the good news got sick of waiting for me a long time ago. You can't blame them really. After being told "I'm sorry, I still can't" enough times, people just stop asking. They find someone who can.

That's what breaks my heart the most. That it was such a fight and by the end of it I feel like I've no one to share it with. I might not have been public about how hard it was getting better...but it was hard. It is hard. It's exhausting. There were days I sat in my shower and cried because I didn't have the energy to even wash my hair. It's partially my fault because I did it alone, but there was nothing anyone could've possibly done to help me with it.

I was getting better partially for me and partially for the people I wanted to share parts of my life with. It makes me incredibly sad that people who were waiting for me to go hiking, ride on their motorcycle, or go for a jog (shut up, it could happen) got tired and wrote me off a long time ago. I certainly don't blame them.

I know that it wasn't for nothing, but it kind of feels like it. How do you call those people, even if you see them a lot, and say "I wish I could do everything on earth with you"? You just can't.

An incredible artist I know named Raven once said "art saves my life".

Writing saves mine.

So that's why I'm telling you guys. I know it's not the typical hilarious Clare that you expect, but I needed to share it with someone before I get all tangled up in my words again.  

So it took exactly 3 weeks for my life to turn into a massive cluster fuck.

I guess I really just don't get it. I don't feel like airing my issues on the internet, but god dammit sometimes I'm such a fucking asshole.

I'm one of those people who fights for the good things in my life. Whether or not they turn out well for me is an entirely different story, but I fight like hell for them because I don't think anything worth having is ever easy.

This becomes a problem when people involved in the situation have the exact opposite mentality.

It becomes a gigantic fucking problem when I realize that there's nothing I can do to change the situation because no one will let me, and all I see is what could've been if I was given a fair shot.

It becomes a gigantic fucking problem, when you combine all of these factors. Because the same thing happens to me every time.

I talk.

And I know what you're probably thinking. That this sounds like a situation where talking is a good thing.

That's because you're wrong.

Because what happens is too much starts swirling in my head. I start processing every experience, every conversation and pretty much everything that ever happened in the history of the world as it relates to this, and then inevitably someone asks me a question.

And because I'm a jackass who can't remember that other people can't actually hear what's going on inside my head, I tend to answer those questions with responses that sound shitty because there's no context for the other person to draw from. Then I wind up writing blog posts at 1:49 AM on a school night trying to hash out my thoughts when I really should've done that before I opened my big fucking mouth.

So the moral of this story?

I shouldn't be allowed to talk.

Monday, May 21, 2012

It's been a few weeks since I've been in California, and there are a few things about living here that I just don't understand. And because I can't sleep, I'm going to list them out here. 

1. Turn signals.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not an idiot. I understand the concept of turn signals. What I don't understand is how it is possible I've been pulled over as many times as I have for not using them. In Chicago, you will most likely never be pulled over for not using your turn signal. Perhaps in combination with other offenses, like transporting a kilo of cocaine with a handful of hookers while speeding and not using your turn signal, sure. But solely because you didn't signal before switching lanes? Never would happen. However, if you go three miles over the speed limit in Chicago, they will pull you over almost immediately. 

In California? Apparently you can drive 120 miles an hour as long as you use your left blinker. 

I don't get it and it's about to get very expensive for me if I can't train myself to use my turn signal. And it's gotten so bad that one of the last times I left Chris's house, I didn't get "Drive safe" or "See you tomorrow" or "God, you are the sexiest chick I've ever met and every time I even think of you I'm so overcome with lust I can't contain myself and it's resulted in socially devastating but hilarious situations I'll let you write about some day*". I got "Use your turn signal". 

2. Mind readers.
I touched on this in my last post, so I won't say much here. However, the next person who presumes to know what is going on in my head is getting slapped in the mouth. If they know what I'm thinking they should see it coming. 

3. Medical marijuana
I understand the concept of medical Marijuana. What I don't understand is where it comes from. Not in a "how does it get from the plant to the bong" kind of way. More in the "I don't smoke pot, so I am entirely confused how I woke up and there was a shit load of weed on my coffee table". I've asked my friends, it doesn't belong to any of them. It's like the pot fairy showed up and left me a present. Which would be nice if a) I smoked weed and b) I didn't have pneumonia. 

3b. Medical marijuana joints
Apparently they make pre rolled joints. Like, you show up and they hand you a little joint in a baggie. Which just baffles me that it's someone's job to roll joints all day. How do you even apply for that? 

3c. Dispensaries 
I didn't even know this was a thing. In Chicago we call them "dealers". 

4. Pneumonia 
I was in California less than 10 days before I had to go to the hospital. The night before I was watching Game of Thrones and Chris pointed out that I was feverish. I immediately blew him off because I have been warm exactly 3 times in my entire life. As usual, he was right. (Which by the way? The frequency of his being right is nothing short of absolutely infuriating because it usually means I'm wrong.) The next day my boss sent me home early because, and I quote "You sound like crap". One trip to the ER later and I'm told I have pneumonia. 

Which raises the question.

Who the fuck moves to California and gets pneumonia?! My lungs fail at not sucking. 

5. Sunburns
The first thing I did upon moving here was get the most ridiculous sunburn in the history of the world. Wait. That's not fair. 

The first thing I did was play with a hot guy and then God punished me for being a filthy sinner by giving me the world's most asinine sunburn. 

Somehow this sunburn covered my chest, half of one of my shoulders and only most of my face. It got the front of my arms, up to the elbow, where it decided fuck it, and narrowed into a stripe on each arm. I look absolutely flipping ridiculous. The only upside is that I begged the guy who took my ID picture at work to photoshop some of the sun burn out. He felt so bad for me he did it. He didn't think it was cute when I asked him to make me look like Angelina Jolie, though. 

What I don't understand the most? I was out that day with people who have skin tones about as pale as mine. None of them even seemed to notice the sun was out. Bullshit, I say.

6. People who think I look like Elizabeth Taylor.
No fewer than 7 people in the past 3 days have told me that I look like a young Elizabeth Taylor. While this is  a great compliment because she was holy-shit-so-smoking-hot, I'm pretty sure that I kind of...don't. I mean I can see a resemblance with the hair and skin tone, but I'm pretty sure if I looked like her I'd be too busy staring at myself in the mirror to type this. 

7. Pastels
I'm not big on pastel colors. My friend Alexis swears that I will start wearing more of them the longer I live here. I will move back to Chicago before that happens. 

8. Why everyone who hears I'm from Chicago immediately asks me how I miss the snow.
Every. Single. Time. I don't know how I miss the's May. I've lived here for five minutes. Ask me in December and I might get a little misty because it's Christmas and if it doesn't snow maybe Santa won't come, but until then? You should probably be asking me how much I miss tornadoes. 

There are a few things that are the same I guess. Namely, me writing pointless blog posts at midnight when I have to work in the morning. Good to know some things never change. 

*What? Isn't it every girl's dream to have a guy say that to her? Just me? Seriously? 

Sunday, May 13, 2012

So I live in California now.

It's only really been a week, so I shouldn't be so quick to say that I love it here. But so far, I do. The new job is interesting, and it seems like it's going to be crazy challenging. Everything else is kind of shaking out, and it's all working out pretty well for me.

Except one thing.

Quite a few of the people here seem to think that they know what is best for everyone. Which is normal human nature, people have a hard time stepping outside of themselves to see things the way another person would.

The problem here?

The people here have no problem telling you that they know what is best for you. The amount of people here who have had the testicular fortitude to tell me things about myself that they think I should know after meeting me once, for at most a few hours, is nothing short of staggering.

It's driving me crazy.

I've had people who don't know me from anyone else tell me things I should be doing, that they know what I'm thinking, or even more obnoxious, their opinion on what I think, despite my never having told them what I think.

The next person who tells me, after seeing me pick up something with gluten in it, that I should absolutely go gluten free because it would be so good for me, is going to spend the rest of their night removing my foot from their ass.

I'm sure that it's just a weird culture difference between here and Chicago, but holy fuck me is it annoying. The truth is, if quite a few of these people knew what I was thinking or how I actually felt, very few of them would be brave enough to continue to stand within my reach while telling me what I think.

I caught lunch with a good friend who I met in Chicago who now lives in San Francisco and it was amazingly refreshing to spend some time with someone who isn't judging me, or presuming to know what I'm thinking. The thing is? She knows me well enough that she could tell me what I was thinking, and probably be spot on. And the reason she's my friend? Is because she wouldn't.

That being said, if this is the only thing I hate, I will either learn to live with it, or simply stop associating with people who do it. But it's so prevalent that it shocked me.

But, so far so good. Most of the people I've met are freaking amazing.

Minus the ones that keep picking me up. I don't know how that's a thing now but that's a different post for a different time.

And thanks everyone for all the support during the move!

Saturday, May 05, 2012

I hate TV shows. Movies, too

And here is why.

In TV shows, the chunky but lovable main character gets a once in a lifetime opportunity to work at a great company, say in...Cupertino, California.

In the TV show, this girl would move to California from Chicago, there would be some happy going away party where no one cried, and she would land in California and immediately be given a pretty new car and a boyfriend with 16 inch biceps.

In reality, they don't tell you that once in a lifetime opportunities come along and when they do they happen fast.

I am currently on a plane, over Denver I believe, headed out to Cupertino California. I live there now. Well, kind of. I don't actually have a permanent place to live yet. I live in the general in a corporate apartment for a month and then maybe with a good friend unless he realizes that I'm a terror to live with and tells me to live in a box.

What they also don't tell you is that leaving a boss that loves you is scary as all hell, and that even with a company bending over backwards to help you, moving sucks.

The biggest lie, however? The going away party. Never in a TV show does the chunky but loveable main character get shit faced drunk and spend the entire night crying into her very tolerant ex-boss' shirt about how she wants to go but doesn't want to leave. They also don't show every single person you've ever met in your entire fucking life coming out of the woodwork for a reference all the sudden.

They also leave out the part where the people you know cry a lot when they see you.

So in short, TV is full of lying liars who lie out of their lying holes.

Despite all the stress though, I think this is a good thing.

I mean I could be totally and hilariously wrong, at which point expect a "WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I DONE TO MY LIFE?!" post, but I get the feeling I'll be OK.

Plus they have Jack in the Box tacos, so ho could this possibly go poorly?

Wednesday, February 22, 2012


  My friends at work are assholes. I say this with all the love in the world. I relayed the boob story to 2 of my work buddies. This was my mistake. To one of them, in his head, this entire thing played out like an episode of Star Trek.

So, Nick, being the hilarious dude that he is, actually wrote it out.

You read that right. He wrote out my boob injury like a Star Trek: The Next Generation episode.

There's not really much else I can here. Enjoy my pain further.      
Stardate 4372.4


PICARD: Captain's log. While en route to the edge of the Pirolis Sector, the Enterprise has come across some kind of gravitational field.
        I've ordered a full stop until we can determine the nature of this anomaly.


PICARD: Mr. Data, status report.

DATA: Scans indicate that the energy field is somehow being trapped and compressed.
      It appears that there is a thin, curved, metallic satellite near the field, somehow related to this phenomenon.
      I am..


DATA: Captian, there has been a breech in the hull of the satellite.
      The energy field is expanding.
      We should..


PICARD: Data move us back!  Geordi, status report!


GEORDI:  Captain!
         What's going on out there?
         We almost lost the containment field in our antimatter storage tanks!
         All sorts of systems are offline.
         Let me check...this is really strange captain, plasma conduits, internal force fields, shields...
         Anything having to do with containment is either damanged or offline!

PICARD:  Why is my bridged, jiggling, Geordi?!

GEORDI: The inertial dampeners are only running at five percent.
        That means can't go to warp, either.

WORF:   There is severe damage to the port nacelle, Captain.
        We are leaking plasma and atmosphere until the internal force fields are back online.

PICARD: Data, one quarter impulse, back us away from that thing.

RIKER:  But, Captain, it' beautiful...I just want to rub my face in it and-

PICARD: Nubmer One!
        Pull yourself together!
        This energy field is somehow affecting you!
        You're relieved of duty, and confined to your quarters until we have the situation under control.

RIKER:  Um, yeah. I'll be in my quarters.
        I've got some, uh, 'work' to do anyway while I'm all alone.


DATA:   Captain, I believe that we can use the holodeck transmitters to temporarily seal off the breech in the port nacelle.

PICARD: Make it so.

DATA:   Rerouting holotransmitter control to bridge...programming holodeck scenario...reconfiguring force-field nodes to accept holodeck control..
        The breech is sealed captain.


GEORDI: I've managed to patch things up, Captain, using Data's lead on the holotransmitters.
        I wouldn't want to run like this for too long though - we need to get to a Starbase fast!

PICARD: Is is safe to go to warp, Mr. LaForge?

GEORDI: I wouldn't want to push it much past warp two, Captain.

PICARD: Helmsan, plot in a course for Starbase Macy, warp factor two.

DATA: Aye, aye, Captain.



So there it is folks. A big thankyou to Nick for being hilarious, and a fuck you to all of you for laughing at my pain.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

A Story About Boobs

If you've followed me on twitter at all, you are probably aware that I've done something horrible to my boob.

So here's the story, and I understand that it's a difficult read, as it involves a horrible injury to the only part of my body that makes up for my personality.

I was sitting at a meeting at work, minding my own business, when I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my left side. At first I kind of shrugged it off, and then I started feeling weird. Seriously weird. The pain started getting significantly worse, and by the midway point of the meeting I was in so much pain that I couldn't see straight, my hands were shaking, and I literally thought I was going to pass out.

My first thought was that someone finally got sick of me and stabbed me. My second was that something is seriously wrong here.

I work for the most awesome man on the planet, I truly do. That being said, he is only marginally aware that I'm a female. He understands it on a conceptual level, however, I am positive that if he was asked to identify me by any body part, he would only know me by anything left uncovered by a burqa. He's a solid dude, but for a long time the team was just my boss and myself, so he is profoundly uncomfortable with anything girl-part related. And who can blame him? If I ever call off for work with PMS there's a good chance he won't actually come near me for six to seven weeks. But I digress.

It's because of this I can't stand up in the middle of a meeting and announce that my tit hurts.

So I sit quietly, pretending to type notes. What I was really typing was an IM to a poor guy who shall remain nameless because I'm not sure he'd appreciate being mentioned by name in a blog post about my tits. Either that or it would be the greatest single day of his life. Anyway, what I was typing was the world's longest instant message describing in detail how I was sure I was dying.

As soon as the meeting ended, I high tailed it to the bathroom, where someone else who shall remain nameless because I'm not sure he'd appreciate being mentioned by name in a blog post about my tits followed me because he was worried about me.

I pulled up my shirt, and all I saw was blood. A lot of it.

I look closer, and I see what can only be described as a gash across my underboob caused by my bra.
How is that possible, you ask? Let me show you.

I look exactly like this, too.
This is the bra that I wear. I have 9 of them. I love them.

If you look, the under wire is separate from the front of the bra. What happened was it separated, pinched the skin on my brib (the place where my rib and boob meet) and when I adjusted my bra? The fucking under wire came out and sliced it across.

At that point, my other friend who shall remain nameless because I'm not sure he'd appreciate being mentioned by name in a blog post about my tits patched me up the best he could and made me promise I'd go to Macy's and get a new bra during lunch. Mostly because if I told my boss I had to make an emergency run to Victoria's Secret he'd never speak to me again.

As soon as the clock hit 12, I grabbed one of my favorite marketing girls and hauled ass over to Macy's. I grabbed the first bra I saw on sale in my size. Which was a great idea if it wasn't a super duper push up bra. I looked like I got my boobs done over lunch. That bra should've come with a complimentary turtleneck because good God in heaven were those things inappropriate.

So not only did I get to wander around in pain all day, I did it looking like Dolly Parton's less trashy cousin.

Unfortunately, the boobjury is still healing.

And I know what you're thinking. "It's just a broken under wire, stop being such a baby".

So to stop that before it starts? I present to you the grossest picture I'll post on this blog.

Here is a picture of the injury, about 18 hours later, once the bleeding stopped but  before I got medical attention for it. (Cropped, because Jesus Christ guys my parents read this blog).

It's been a difficult road to recovery and I appreciate all of the concern and prayers. This has been a hard time for me and the twins, and it's only with your support that I've been able to recover thusfar. I'm glad that by my speaking out, others who have been afflicted by similar trauma won't feel so alone.

And before I forget?

Fuck you Fredricks of Hollywood, way to ruin my best feature.

Sunday, February 05, 2012

I was wrong about my target demographic

I always assumed the majority of my readers were geeks and nerds like myself. I was wrong. It turns out the majority of my readers are 80 years old and still using dial up. Why, you ask? Or not, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

Because I pulled some of my recent traffic, and 28% of my readers are people who use Internet Explorer.

22,967 of you should be horribly ashamed of yourselves. This is why we don't have nice things, people.


Tuesday, January 17, 2012

25 Things Women Should Know About Men...An Article Originally Designed for Someone Else.

So, I was asked to write an article for a site last week.

I did, and the author of said site decided to, in an ultimate dick move, post it, and tear it apart in examples of how I'm not getting laid. Or something like that, I kind of stopped reading. What can I say, random capitalization and bolding make Baby Jesus cry.

Since I was smart enough to retain the rights to my work (yay me!), I'm just going to go ahead and post it here for y'all.


Here’s 25 things women really ought to know about men.

1. Guys will never understand why we wear 5 inch heels that pinch our toes, make us crabby and give us blisters that are so violent we have to wear flipflops for a week.
The vast majority of men have five pairs of shoes or less. Gym shoes, dress shoes, sneakers, sandals and a pair of boots. Now there are some variations on the above list, but they tend to keep it pretty simple. They will never understand why we need four pairs of black patent leather hidden platform pumps. Yes, I am aware that there is a huge difference between the black leather hidden platforms with the 3 ½ inch heel and the pair with the 4 inch heel and peep toe. They never will. Men think it’s stupid that we would pay hundreds of dollars on shoes we can barely walk in. Men think it’s stupid that we talk about shoes. Men think it’s stupid that I’m even explaining this right now. If I had to put money on it, 95% of the men who have read this far have stopped paying attention to this paragraph and are now daydreaming about sandwiches.

2. Your boyfriend hates your friends.
Well, that’s a little unfair. He doesn’t hate all of your friends, just an overwhelming majority of them. It’s not because your friends are bad people. It’s because you fight with your friends all the time, and then you bitch to him about it. You have a friend or two that you don’t get into petty arguments with and remembers to bring a case of beer when she stops by to chill. He likes that friend. He does not like the friend that constantly picks fights with you and blames her consistent bitchiness on her period. He doesn’t like your friend that has decided anything with a penis is bad. He doesn’t like your friend that blows every tiny thing he’s ever done out of proportion and glares at him every time he enters a room like he’s got a hooker on each arm and an ounce of blow in his pocket. He would never tell you outright that if he didn’t know otherwise, he’d think your choice in friends made you just shy of mentally handicapped because he’d like to see your boobs again sometime before the day he dies.

3. Your boyfriend does not understand your relationship with your mother.
Women have a complex at best relationship with their mothers. Few of us are lucky enough to not have constant mom drama. I consider myself lucky that my mom and I have never had an argument once in my adult life. Every other female I know goes back and forth with her mother. Horrible words are exchanged, phones are slammed down, and there are hours of crying. He’s smart enough to not outright say that your mother is acting like a bitch, but secretly he can’t understand why you can’t see that. The reason guys are so quiet when you fight with your mom? They know they can’t win and they are secretly trying to gauge whether or not they are staring at you in twenty years.

4. It’s acceptable to have different interests than he does. He won’t love you any less.
Part of what makes people awesome are their differences. Unless you are in 7th grade, it shouldn’t be a deal breaker that he has interests that don’t involve you. If you want to be a part of them, go ahead and ask. Most guys are more than happy to include their chick in something they are passionate about. Consequently, if it’s not your thing, it’s not your thing. One of the guys I love most in the world (although I would never admit it and he can shut up if he’s reading this) has taken to skydiving. Absolutely loves it. I have tried on numerous occasions to try to figure out why in pluperfect hell someone would jump out of a perfectly good airplane just to do it, and it completely escapes me. But he loves it, and goes frequently. He’s asked me to go, and I’ve said no. Mostly because I’m pretty sure it would embarrass him in front of his friends when I proceeded to cling inside of the plane like a spider monkey while bargaining with God. And guess what? He still talks to me.

5. It’s not acceptable to dismiss his interests just because you think they’re childish, stupid or a waste of time.
Do I give my friend a significant amount of shit for jumping out of perfectly good airplanes? Of course I do. Do I dismiss it as stupid and meaningless? No. For a few reasons. First and foremost, I’m not a cunt. Here’s the thing. Guys are going to like things we don’t. It might be video games, heavy metal, skydiving, football, shooting, fishing or internet porn. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t tell you that Grey’s Anatomy is a vapid waste of time (it is, by the way), so learn to keep it shut. And if you want to really impress him? Next time he’s playing that “stupid X-box” ask him if you can play with him. If it’s a single player game you’re shit out of luck, but a lot of games have a co-op setting. The worst that could happen is you now have a valid reason to dislike it. Who knows though, you could find out you really do enjoy stabbing zombies in the face. You don’t know unless you try. And even if you hate it? Shut up about it. No one wants to hear that their interests are stupid.

6. Guys are dicks to their friends.
Some things in life just defy explanation. This is one of them. Guys are assholes to their guy friends. They do this for sport. Don’t believe me? Go ask him, right now. I’ll wait. There’s not a guy on the planet that doesn’t have at least one story about something his best friend did to him that was horrible and hilarious. My friend Ben once called me to tell me that his best friend Ray had just punched him in the face out of the blue. When Ben demanded to know why, all Ray said was “You know why”. Ben didn’t know why. 3 weeks later, Ray finally admitted the reason he punched him was because, and this is a direct quote “I felt like it”. Shitty? Yes. Hilarious? Absolutely.

7. Guys think that you look cute in sweatpants…sometimes.
And for those of you who think you’re clever, I’m going to go ahead and categorize yoga pants as sweat pants. The reason guys think girls in sweat pants and a tank top is hot is because that’s not how they usually see us. There’s something adorable about a girl in comfy clothes when you’re used to seeing her dressed up that says “ I’m comfy and cozy and would be comfier and cozier in bed with you”. However, there is a limit. Ask yourself this: When is the last time you wore real pants at home? When is the last time you had a bra on? If you can’t remember, you’re abusing the privilege. I’m all for being comfy, but never wearing anything other than your jammies is going to leave your poor confused boyfriend wondering exactly what happened to his hot girlfriend.

8. Stop asking guys what they’re thinking about if you’re not going to accept the answer.
Ever asked a guy what he’s thinking about and gotten the answer “Nothing”? Sure you have. Because chances are you then blew it out of proportion and convinced yourself that he was mad at you. Perhaps there’s another girl. It’s probably that slut that runs the self-checkout lane at the store. Why doesn’t he love me? How dare he throw away everything we have? Meanwhile, and I promise you this is true, your boyfriend is sitting on the other side of the couch thinking things like “I’m hungry” or “I think the transmission is making a funny noise” or “Man, I really like pie”.

9. Our diets exhaust them.
When men diet? They all do it the same way. It’s always some variation of “Man, I’m getting fat. Time to cut back on the crap and work out”. They don’t make a big scene out of it, they just do it. Women on the other hand? It’s a production. The first thing we do is cry to our girlfriends before spending the rest of the night on the internet looking up ridiculous and dangerous diets to starve ourselves thin. We then purge everything that even resembles food from our kitchens while waiting for the tapeworm we ordered from Bosnia to arrive. Then we cry some more, drink lemonade that’s been infused with pepper, syrup and something else that makes it taste like rancid ass and call it dinner. Every time he dares to put anything with flavor or saturated fat near his mouth, he can feel your white hot glare from across the house. They watch us do this for about 3 days before we collapse face first into a pizza because we haven’t actually eaten anything in 72 hours. Then they have to deal with the inevitable “I’ll never be thin!” crying. They’d rather punch themselves in the testicles.

10. They will tolerate the stupid crap we do to promote health to a point.
Men have an amazing ability to tolerate crap if they think it will end with you touching their penis, and most will sit quietly while you go to yoga, choke down 17 different vitamins and herbs and water board yourself with a netipot. You might even get an adventurous man to try tantric sex, if only because there’s sex involved, even if he doesn’t get to blow his wad. But there is a line. They will not take a “Guided Vortex Hike”, they will not sit in an “Oxygen Steam Cabin” and they will not agree to “Colon Hydrotherapy”. Especially that last one. There is no man on the planet that is going to pay someone $120 to shoot a stream of water up his butt.

11. They don’t know why you’re mad and no they don’t know what they did.
Now before you rip me one, stick with me. Every single time I have ever been legitimately mad at a man in my life, he has known exactly what he did. There was no confusion. I didn’t wake up one day and decide that today was the day I couldn’t deal with him leaving his boxers in the middle of the floor any more. Every single time they knew why because it was a legitimate reason to be angry. So if your boyfriend is asking why you’re mad at him, there is a very good chance he is asking because he doesn’t have the slightest clue why you are so pissed off at him. Men are amazing at a lot of things, but they are not mind readers. If you’re pissed because he passed out drunk on the floor of his friend’s house when he said he’d watch The Notebook with you, tell him. If you keep getting mad at him for no good reason, don’t act surprised when he doesn’t give a shit when you have a legitimate complaint. You’re like the little girl who cried whiny bitch, and no one wants to pay attention to you.

12. If he actually wants to talk about what’s going on, don’t give him the silent treatment to be a bitch.
There is a difference between not talking because you’re not ready to talk, and not talking because you’re acting like a seven year old. Personally, I am one of those people that says god awful horrible things when I’m hurt. If I feel like I’m backed into a corner, I will come out swinging every time. Consequently, I’ve taught myself to be very quiet until I am sure that I will say exactly what I want to say, and not the streams of profane, soul crushing insults that are running through my head. This bothers one of my friends who claims that when I do this, I radiate anger. Which is kind of a neat super power, but I digress. What it comes down to is that I’m doing it for a reason. It’s perfectly acceptable to say “I am not ready to talk to you about this right now” if you know that you aren’t capable of contributing anything constructive to the conversation. It’s ok to take time to get your emotions under control. It’s not acceptable to be very obvious about giving your boyfriend the silent treatment while he begs, pleads and whines for you to speak to him just because you like the attention. If you’re that type of girl, I think we’d much prefer you to keep your cock garage shut anyway.

13. Your constant need for validation makes them want to kill themselves and everyone around them.
Most men assume that if they tell you they love you, that’s the status quo unless something significant happens to change that. They will tell you once or twice a day, and assume that everything is fine. Most men won’t get jealous every time you talk to a person with a penis. They won’t uproot their entire lives to show you in grandiose ways just how much they love you. Because in their head? This is taken care of. Men have a certain amount of willpower that keeps them from slipping into a murderous rage because of our crap. The more you call them crying about how you don’t feel that they love you enough, or they don’t show it enough, the more you chip away at that willpower bit by tiny bit, leaving them one step closer to murdering you in your sleep. This is not a romance novel, and if he spends every waking moment of his life proving to you just how much he loves you I would recommend a restraining order.

14. It’s OK for men to cry, but they still don’t want you to make a big deal of it.
Believe it or not, men cry. And every girl on earth swears they want a sensitive man…right up until the waterworks start. Then we have an obnoxious tendency to run for the hills. Truth be told, men cry. They’re human. But they cry for entirely different reasons than women. We cry all the time for everything. It’s Tuesday, time to cry. Someone was mean to us, time to cry. Generally speaking when men cry they want to be left the hell alone about it (unless it’s because of the death of a close family member). The following situations are ones in which a man will cry, and you should pretend that you didn’t notice: the death of Aeris, when watching Old Yeller, any situation in which he has been kicked, punched or head-butted in the nuts (don’t laugh, I know someone who was once head-butted in the nuts. In case you’re wondering, it’s still funny.), if their team wins, if their team loses, when Wash dies (if anyone even mentions being a leaf on the wind, I tear up), the ending of any amazing videogame, if something happens to a beautiful piece of machinery or if they happen to see a beautiful piece of machinery for the first time.

15. Men will do almost anything to see your boobs.
I know that they are just two lumps of fat stuck in the middle of our chests, but to men they are an amazing mystery that holds the answer to every question in the universe. Even guys who aren’t boob guys would still do almost anything if they thought it would get them a glimpse at a nice set of hooters. I am a pretty busty chick, and I distinctly remember sitting with a friend of mine who is completely and totally an ass man. He looked up from the TV, turns to me and said “I’m sorry, but can I touch your tits?” After I got over the fits of hysterical laughter, I had to ask “Why? You’re an ass guy.” His response? “Well yea, but look at those.” (For the record, I let him. Points for brutal honesty.) Thus cementing what I suspected all along: all men love boobs. Is your guy going to your little cousin’s piano recital? It’s because he wants to see your boobs. Is your guy suffering through dinner as the only male among your male bashing girlfriends? It’s because he wants to see your boobs. Is he holding your purse while you try on the 4th shirt that is identical to every other shirt you’ve tried on the 8 hours you’ve been shopping? It’s because he wants to see your boobs. Guys will do anything to see your boobs. Knowing this gives you power. Remember, with great power comes great responsibility. Do not abuse this and ruin it for the rest of us.

16. Sometimes men just want to be men.
I have lived alone for a few years now, and because of that I’ve grown accustomed to doing things for myself. Mostly because if I didn’t, they’d never get done. Most guys find it somewhat endearing that their girlfriends can change a tire, or patch drywall. I will never do any of those things with my boyfriend around. Sometimes you have to let a man be a man. There’s nothing wrong with it and nothing weak about it. I’m not saying you should slide off your chair so overcome with lust that you can hardly contain yourself because he opened a goddamn pickle jar for you. I’m saying let him open a jar you can’t get open, thank him and peck him on the lips. Tell him how hot it is that he changes his own oil. (By the way? It’s super-hot when guys change their own oil.) Let him take care of you on occasion. Even if he doesn’t have 14 inch biceps, most men want to feel powerful. Don’t be a helpless idiot, but let him use those muscles he has. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be checking the angry emails I just got from the feminists in the group who think that having a boyfriend open up a jar sets our society back fifty years.

17. Men don’t get Sex in the City.
The entire show is based on four women who make horrible life choices, when they aren’t acting like shallow, superficial bitches. The characters have few if any redeeming qualities, and if anyone could please explain to me how someone who writes for magazines can live in an apartment that big in Manhattan and still afford $1000 shoes, I’d love to hear it as I am clearly doing something wrong. Furthermore, the show expects us to believe that there are men all over New York who want to bang these four women. There is only one woman out of the four most men would even think of putting their dick in, and that’s only if they could gag her first.

18. Fucking a guy does not make you his girlfriend.
Or his fuck buddy. Or anything else. Even if he’s a friend. If you hop into the sack after hearing “I’m not looking for anything”, that’s what you get. If you can handle being fuck buddies, a one night stand, or an if I’m in town and the guy I’m here to see is being a dick so let’s fuck, more power to you. That does not give you any right to ask about what he’s doing, who he’s doing it with and when. You don’t have the right to get mad if he dates someone else, you don’t get to get jealous when you see him at parties. Consider it a business transaction. If you can’t handle it, that’s fine. It’s surprisingly difficult to separate love and sex. Some of us can do it. A lot of us can’t. But it’s against the rules to say you can and then go all Single White Female on him. There’s almost no chance that he’s going to be so overwhelmed by your sexual prowess that he falls in love with you immediately. It’s not going to happen.

19. Men don’t notice 5 pounds.
Or that little bit of cellulite. Or that tiny stretch mark. Why? Because if they are in a position to see these things, there’s a good chance you’re naked. And although you’re used to picking yourself apart in front of the mirror for not looking airbrushed in real life, he’s just happy that you’re naked. Pointing out your flaws to him is not going to make him see them, it’s going to make you look like an idiot. You’re naked. He’s about to get laid. Unless you kick him in the balls, take his wallet and leave, he’s happy. Shit even if you do kick him in the balls and take his wallet, if he’s into that sort of thing he’s still happy. When he tells you that you’re pretty, take the compliment. Telling him the reasons that he’s wrong makes it sound like he has no idea what he’s talking about, and no one likes being told that their taste in their significant other is wrong. Plus, if you’re not nice to yourself, you can’t expect other people to be. Stop being an ass.

20. Looking at porn doesn’t mean he wants you to look like a porn star.
Every single guy I know looks at porn. It’s one of those universal experiences that all men share. I’m not sure when looking at porn turned into “he wants me to look like that girl!” because, well, it doesn’t. Why? Because if you saw some of the porn he looked at, you’d have nightmares for life. It’s the internet folks. There is some nasty shit on it. And your boyfriend has watched it. Not because it gets his rocks off, but out of the same morbid curiosity that causes people to continue watching Whitney. (If you don’t believe me, I refer you to Two Girls One Cup, and I accept no responsibility for the nightmares and uncontrollable vomiting). For the actual porn he watches to get his rocks off? That doesn’t really reflect on you either. Very few guys I know really want their girlfriends to bleach their hair and let 10 random men glaze her like a donut. However, guys do like fun sex. I’m not saying you should bring the Denver Broncos home (although Tebow is super-hot), but shake things up a little bit. Everyone has a little freak in them, let yours shine. You don’t have to be a porn star, or lick your own back, but have a little fun. And get over it. Does your boyfriend cry every time you watch Ryan Reynolds chopping wood in those thin pajama pants that fall dangerously low on his hips in the rain in Amityville Horror? No? Exactly. And god I love those pants.

21. On some level, men equate love with sex. But not the same way you do.
Yes, it’s a little nonsensical. He’s not going to dump you because you didn’t fuck him once. However, men love sex and they love having it. Hopefully with you. And the less you put out, the more he thinks that you might be losing interest in him. Most guys won’t admit this, but it’s true. Just like you want him to constantly show you how much he loves you and all that romantic bullshit, he wants you to do the same. Nothing says “I love you” like a morning blow job. Or an afternoon blow job. Or a blow job in general.

22. Stop ignoring the geeks and nerds.
Yes, that guy with the porcupine haircut and fake tan has incredible abs. Why yes, his arms are amazing and I too want to bite him. The problem is, that guy? Is a huge dick. And while you’re wasting your time with him, there is a sweet, adorable geek or nerd who would love to spend time with you. And I mean spend time with you, not treat you like an accessory. Yes, some of them are a little squishy. Some are a little awkward around women. But these guys will treat you like a fucking princess, will listen to you when you speak, and are good dependable dudes. Men will never understand why women date guys who are flaming douchebags, and then cry when they act like flaming douchebags. It would be like me purposely slamming my tit in a car door. I know it’s going to hurt, so why the fuck would I do it? Here’s the truth: those sweet geeks that you’re crying to? Those are the guys you should be with. I’ve seen more than one geek go from adorably snuggly to looking like he’s carved out of fucking marble. And with one glaring exception, every one of them still remained a loveable geek. It’s far easier for someone who is already loveable to get washboard abs than it is for a gorgeous dickhead to grow a personality. And also? If you only love that geek after he has the abs? You’re a shallow bitch and deserve to get herpes from someone who looks like he was rejected from a Jersey Shore audition.

23. Men do not want to have sex with all of their ex-girlfriends.
Most men aren’t even friends with most of their ex-girlfriends. Occasionally, a guy will keep one around because it’s obvious they were better off friends than lovers. Do you keep in contact with any of your exes? Any of your guy friends that you may have drunkenly kissed one night? No? If you said no you’re a lying liar who should be ashamed of herself. Here’s the truth: If he wanted to fuck his ex, he would. There is absolutely nothing you would be able to do to stop it, so you might as well quit being an insecure psycho every time he talks to anything with a vagina. Am I saying that you should be OK if he has his ex-girlfriend sleep over while you’re on a business trip? No. But should you freak out if they go out for a drink with some friends? Not unless you’re ready for him to do the same thing every single time you want to talk to any of your guy friends ever. This includes your gay friend who loves your boobs but totally doesn’t want you. That’s what I thought. I know you’ve been told your entire life that the sun rises and sets on your ass, but it doesn’t. You are not the first woman your boyfriend has ever seen, so stop acting like you should be. He didn’t do anything wrong.

24. Men don’t talk about sex as often as you think.
Contrary to what popular media might have us believe, men don’t actually sit around, drink beer, and compare their girlfriend’s dick sucking skills. The women I hang out with talk about sex far more often than men, and they are graphic as hell about it. Any woman can tell you just about anything about her closest friends sex lives. They discuss dick size, positions, orgasms, whatever. Men on the other hand? Tend to keep it vague. I know for a fact that men talk, as I made the mistake of fooling around once with my ex’s friend and he said “wow, he was right you are good at that”. That was not a happy discussion with my ex. The good news is we finally came to an agreement once the last of the stuff I threw on to the lawn and set on fire was extinguished. Generally speaking, if there is a group of men talking about your sexual talents, it’s because you’ve slept with enough of them that they no longer give a shit about whether or not you come off like a total whore. You’re the community bicycle, everyone’s had a ride. At that point it’s no different than talking about that one time they all went to Six Flags and rode the Batman ride.

25. Don’t Tease.
Teasing is only fun if there’s an eventual payoff. Girls who tease just to do it deserve to be cunt punched. There is a difference between a little tease while you’re a party, knowing that you’re going to put out when you get home. Or better, when you get to the car. But getting him hot and bothered and then making him “work for it” is a bullshit move. Flirting is one thing, sitting on his lap with your top off and then deciding that you want to wait until you’re ready (weeks later) is just confusing. If you have no intention of making good on your promise, it’s not cute to tease. Don’t start shit you don’t intend on finishing. There’s nothing wrong with leaving them wanting a little more. There’s everything wrong with leaving him to drive home with a raging boner.
But if all else fails? Refer to #15.

I know it's kind of a throwback to when I would post way more stuff like this. Hopefully it didn't shock you too much. Now back to my regular schedule of forgetting to post....

Sunday, December 04, 2011

In Which I Discuss My Boobs and My Career

I've been doing some interviewing, recently. (If you're on my team and reading this, please don't freak out. It'll be fine, it just never hurts to talk to people.)

It's not that I don't like my job, I do. I have a wonderful boss, a great team, and I'm given a ridiculous amount of freedom. That being said, we have a lot of process issues, and ultimately, I'm really tired of working 70-80 hour weeks for not enough money.

I was even OK with the ridiculous hours, until I worked 40 hours in one weekend, and instead of getting a "thank you" from the person who's ass I saved, I was instead forwarded a badly spelled email about how I need to be "more supportive" of the mistakes of the people on his team.

That was the line.

So I figured, what the hell, I'll answer some of the recruiters who call me every day and see what's out there.

Consequently, I landed an interview with a huge company out in California, that pays pretty well. No idea what the outcome is, but things seem to be progressing nicely.

With one exception.

And that exception is my Mother.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my mom. She's one of my best friends, and arguably she's the one I get my sense of humor from. She's an amazing lady, and I wouldn't change a thing about her.

She doesn't necessarily understand what it is I do, and the IT/eCommerce world is foreign to her. However it's in a mother's nature to try to impart wisdom on their children, so without fail, whenever I tell my mother I have an interview, she says the same thing.

"Cover your boobs".

It's not like I run around like those women in National Geographic or anything, but my mom's side of the family has blond hair, blue eyes, and the women aren't necessarily curvy. The women on my father's side of the family have dark hair, dark eyes, curves, and big honkin boobs.

Guess which side I take after?

Because of that, I could have cleavage in a turtleneck. I've managed to reign the twins in for the most part, but they aren't going to go anywhere. This was further evidenced by the fact that one of the first things my new work husband said to me was "I'm sorry, but I can't stop looking at your boobs".

So, in the absence of any other relevant advice, we always come back to my sweater puppies. It doesn't matter the situation, the advice remains the same. The interview I had was over the phone, the first thing my mom said to me was "did you cover your boobs?"

Apparently, you can see them from California. Over the phone.

But, it's not terrible advice. It never hurts to be reminded to cover the twins. Unlike most of the women in the L.A. area, I've never had a nip slip.  I think my mom could contract her services out in Hollywood for a shitload of money. But barring that, it's a nice reminder that even though she has no idea what I'm talking about, she cares.

Either that or she doesn't want her daughter parading around like a whore.

I like to think it's the caring thing, though.

Sunday, November 06, 2011

My bad days tend to be a thing of legend.

I'm not sure exactly when (or how) this started, but they are the type of bad that if I was watching them play out on a movie screen, I'd have called bullshit and left the theater.

Last Thursday was one of those days. I woke up late for work because I spent the night drinking with Deanne. In my defense, she had come from Iowa and I see her maybe once a year, so it's totally acceptable for us to be drinking hard liquor at 3 PM on a Wednesday night. Anyway, I digress.

I rolled out of bed and magically made it to the train station on time. And that's when I realized that there wasn't a single car in the lot. Once I got over the initial Oh-My-God-Its-Already-The-Weekend-And-I-Slept-Through-Work-For-Days panic, the conductor told me that there was a freight train derailment and huge fire. There would be no train service for days.


Anyone who lives in Chicago can tell you that getting there from the suburbs isn't always the easiest thing, and even the tiniest disruption in a commute can leave you hours late in getting to your destination. After wandering the suburbs for about an hour, I managed to find a different train. Ten miles away. Ridiculous.

Wednesday was an interesting evening for me. I got on the train from work and I had my Blackberry. I know this because I distinctly remember thinking "I shouldn't put that there, I'm going to lose that stupid thing". So you can imagine my utter shock when I got home...with no Blackberry.


I figure this is the best opportunity to see if someone turned it into the lost and found, so after waiting 10 minutes in line, some lady finally waved me up to the window.

The conversation we had went something like this:
Lady At The Window: Can I help you?
Me: Yes, I was wondering if someone turned in a Blackberry.
Lady At The Window: What kind of Blackberry.
Me: I'm not's a little older, company's easy to identify as it's most likely gone off 9000 times since you got it.
Lady At The Window: Where did you lose it?
Me: On the (Train I take, redacted to prevent stalking) outbound at 1:40.
Lady At The Window: Which car were you sitting in?
Me: The second car from the front.
Lady At The Window: Are you sure?
Me: I'm positive.
Lady At The Window: You'll have to go to window 10, that's the lost and found. He's at lunch.
Me: Wait...I have to talk to someone else?
Lady At The Window: Yes.
Me: So all that so you can tell me that I have to talk to someone else.
Lady At The Window: He's at lunch.
Me: It's 9:50 in the morning.
Lady At The Window: Window 10.

I feel like I deserve some sort of an award at this point for not breaking through the glass in the window an strangling her with my bare hands. As I was leaving the station, a very large black man came up to me.The first words out of his mouth were, and I quote, "Hey baby girl, can you help me get to Wacker Drive".

Having tried to navigate Chicago, I can feel this guy's pain. Unfortunately, I am no help at this point and I'm not having a real great day. I give him a polite "I'm sorry, I don't know."

This is where it gets weird.

Next thing I know, he's got his hand on my shoulder and he's thanking me for stopping. "God bless you, no one else has even hesitated". Then? Then he extends his hand, and before I know what's happening, I'm doing some weird ass handshake I didn't know that I knew. And I'm not talking a fist bump, either. I'm talking there were thumbs locking and fingers wiggling and I'm not entirely sure but I think I might have accidentally joined a gang on my way to work.

After I stopped to get a bandanna, wifebeater and a switchblade, I finally made my way out of the train station, where it started pouring.

Then my mom calls. It's never good when someone starts the conversation with "No one is hurt...but..." In this case? The "but" was "our mechanic took the car for a joyride and wrapped the car around a pole. It's totaled, we can't afford a new one and Jesus knows those inbred hillbilly assholes don't have insurance".

It was just one of those days.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go shave off my eyebrows and have them tattooed back on in an attempt to blend more seamlessly into my new lifestyle, yo.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

A few weekends ago, my dad invited me to go to some company event with him. This company event required me to leave my house by 5:30 AM, so I could be in a place called Vandalia Illinois by 11:30. I'm usually not the "Let's have a fun time with my father's employees!" type of girl, but I AM a daddy's girl, so my choice was pretty obvious.

I rented a cute little car, woke up early, and drove out to the middle of butt-fuck Illinois. And I mean buttfuck. The jail in this place is across the street from the highschool, I would assume so the teenagers can see a snippet of their future if they stay there.

Once I finally found the place, I pulled into the parking lot and there is a bus there. My father's employees are mingling, and I'm being introduced to a shitload of people I will never remember. Shortly thereafter I'm shuttled onto a bus, where the tour lady starts talking.

"Our first stop will be at the Rusty Penny".

What the hell is the Rusty Penny?

"A bar down the street."

And that's when it occurred to me

My father is taking me on a pub crawl.

Holy fuck this is amazing.

That my friends is exactly what happened. My father took me on a pub crawl that started at 11:30 in the morning. These people are hardcore. I knew I was in over my head when a 50 year old woman lined up 12 shots at the first bar, killed them all and then washed them down with a beer. (She hung until the end of the crawl, too.)

We actually saw a bunch of adorable bars and had a good time. And that's when shit got weird. I realized I wasn't far from my friend Jimmy from college.

The problem is that by this point I was too lubricated to make good choices.

Honestly, the next thing I remember? Waking up on my friend from college's couch. In downtown St. Louis. I woke up in another state.

The more concerning part is that the person who's couch I was sleeping on was at the time in a different state than me. I had to go through my FourSquare history to figure out where  the fuck I had even been. Turned out, my dad decided that I should have more fun, and encouraged my friend to take me and get me trashed.

Essentially, my father let me go to party with a guy he had just met and had no way of knowing and wished me luck.

I'm totally telling mom.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

So, you've probably wondered where the hell I've been.

No real excuses, life kind of exploded. So I neglected my blog because I'm a bad person, but I really do promise to try harder. Why?

Mostly because this blog has been good to me, and I have it to thank for my career as it stands now.

I also have it to blame and honestly, my career has been sucking the life out of me.

Anyway, just a quick post to promise to post tomorrow.

And it will be worth it.

Or not.

There's really only one way to find out.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

So, it has not been a relaxing vacation.

I've been pulling a ridiculous work schedule trying to become rich as hell and more famous than Jesus, and eventually you wind up burning out.

So I figure, what the hell. Go to California, see my favorite boy and his roommate who looks kind of like a red headed Jesus, if Jesus was totally awesome.

If you've read my twitter, you'd know things did not turn out well.

In typical Clare fashion, they exploded less than 15 minutes after I touched down in San Fransisco.

This, dear readers, is a record for even me.

So I'm blogging this from first class on my way home, trying not to cry. Speaking of, where the hell is that flight attendant? I'm fucking out of wine.

I am not about to air my dirty laundry all over the internet, but I'll give the broad strokes.

I fly 2000 miles from home to find out I've been lied to, and then the person who did it proceeds to ignore me almost the entire rest of the trip. I can't entirely blame him for this. I know, how could this possibly be my fault, as I am an even tempered angel?

Well let me tell you.

After he admitted he was a lying sack of shit on the car ride, I got quiet. Not the silent treatment, but I wanted to be very careful of what I said next, as I have a tendency to say what I mean when I'm upset, and usually it's soul crushing and horrible. (I know, shocking right?)

He says "Youre quiet again."
I respond with "I'm thinking."
He says "Want to think outloud?"
I respond with "I don't think you want me to".

We ride in silence for awhile, and my brand new phone keeps sliding off my knee. In a show of testicular fortitude I didn't know he could possess with what are essentially no balls he says "maybe that's not the most secure place for your phone".

I'm not entirely sure what got into me at that point.

I looked at him and witout breaking eye contact proceeded to throw my $500 smart phone at his windsheild during rush hour traffic and then said in a very soft, very calm voice "Better?"

So you can't really blame him for avoiding me.

The trip was somewhat salvageable. I did spend quite a bit of time with his best friend/roommate, who is a pretty awesome dude. Either that, or he is owed something huge for babysitting me the entire weekend while his friend hid in his room from me.

I just need a vacation. I need to relax. I need to have fun.

However, I did learn a very important lesson. I sent 3 text messages from my phone in that car ride, and less than 45 minutes later I had no less than 8 places to stay 2000 miles from home, and 3 offers from people to fly me back immediately. I have the greatest friends any snarky blogger could ever ask for. There aren't any words for how grateful I am to those people. Namely Eric and Buffy, O'Leary and Wyly, Wil, Vanessa, Irene, Shane and Con, Travis, Jessica, Spring and Mary. I love you all.

There is a far bigger problem with this situation though.

His roommate, who really, I owe more than just cookies, got me hooked on 3 new TV shows. (Ok they aren't all new but they are new to me). Like I have enough time for this.

It's like his revenge for putting up with me all weekend.

So, thanks all for the concern. Ill be alright, I'm chilling in First Class on a Virgin flight, ready to go home and bury myself in work and every X files episode ever made. (Thanks Nick, thanks a lot.)