Got a good question from a reader and I wanted to share:
Hey Cecily,
Here's a question for you...which of these options sounds like the best plan? Or if they all suck, I'm totally open to your suggestions.
SCENARIO:
I recently had a lunch date with a very cute lawyer, under business pretenses. I believe him to be very cute. I want to ask him for drinks after work, just casually, so I can spend some more time with him and feel him out as to whether to try to pursue beyond just being business associates.
Option A: Email him a couple days before to ask to go out after work on a predetermined day. This ensures the plans are made around both our schedules and I'm not rejected due to him being busy by asking at the last minute.
Option B: Email him at 1:00 on the day to ask to go for drinks at 5:00. This way I can act like I just came up with the idea and it's an off the cuff thing, and I didn't sit around premeditating it for three weeks, which I totally have been.
Option C: Email him and ask him if he'd like to grab a pint after work sometime, but don't specify the date. This leaves the ball in his court.
What do you think?
-Cosmo Girl
Hi Cosmo Girl!
Your name alone makes me want to make myself a delicious vodka cocktail while writing this, but I won't so that I can answer with a clear head. Of course my initial inclination is to make "lawyer jokes" like..."Ask him if he wants to approach your bench" or "Tell him you want to go through his briefs" or (and I'm so sorry in advance to write this) something about your "juror box". But I will refrain because that stuff is ridiculous.
I think yours are all viable options and although I'm tempted to tell you to go with Option A (as it seems the most mature and straight-forward), I'd personally probably go with Option C. Not because I think in any way that a man needs to take control of the court, but I just feel like it would get the point across without sounding too formal.
I should ask how personal your conversation was over your lunch date. Were you able to find out his relationship status (or if he's even straight)? I suppose either way, it couldn't hurt it put it out there that you'd like to grab a drink after work. If he jumps on the opportunity, that's of course encouraging and you can then feel out the situation at the pub. If he doesn't respond or yells "objection" when you casually put your hand on his knee, you have your answer.
Hope this helps at least a little and let me know how it goes!
Cheers, Cecily
If you have a question or want more lawyer jokes, let me know! Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
On The Wings of Gross
As someone who is fairly (okay, completely) addicted to reality television, I am ready to admit that I love nearly all dating competitions. Bret Michaels’ bandana/hair extensions combo in “Rock of Love”, Flavor Flav’s giant clock-necklace and simply Ray-J’s smile have all been enough to get me though a hangover on a Sunday morning. And it’s with that said that I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without discussing ABC’s “The Bachelor: On the Wings of Love”. The show reminds me of the good old days when dating shows like “Elimi-date” would capture moments of potential love-birds (read: out-of-work actors) exclaiming with straight faces, “You are my soul-mate. But there’s a better soul-mate for me over here and I’m gonna go with that soul-mate. Bye, other soul-mate!”
So before that exciting finale next week, (Oooh will Jake pick Vienna, Tenley or that wildcard producer, Jason?), I’d like to say the following: if a guy ever said to me that his “heart was crying” when he broke up with me or that he hopes to have a “little boy crush” on his wife 20 years down the line, I will respond by vomiting and then possibly impaling myself on something. Oh hey Jake…hope you didn’t read that!
Here are five more things I’d hate to ever hear from my hypothetical TV bachelor:
1) Our journey has been so special. But all journeys must end and mine is gonna end with that red-head over there.
2) Cecily, I can see inside your heart and it appears your arteries are a tad clogged.
3) If eyes are the windows to the soul, your window is double-paned…(wait…what?)
4) Hey, love your Pradas! Can I try them on?
5) When you hug me, would you mind moving over to the left a little? You’re kinda blocking my light.
(And two more for good measure)
6) When I kiss you, I feel just like I did at my first Hall and Oates concert.
7) Cecily, will you accept this rose? And will you accept this other boyfriend I have on the side?
As I write all of this, my “heart is crying”. I suppose we should just end this “journey” here.
Are you a Reality TV Love junkie? Let me know! Email me: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
So before that exciting finale next week, (Oooh will Jake pick Vienna, Tenley or that wildcard producer, Jason?), I’d like to say the following: if a guy ever said to me that his “heart was crying” when he broke up with me or that he hopes to have a “little boy crush” on his wife 20 years down the line, I will respond by vomiting and then possibly impaling myself on something. Oh hey Jake…hope you didn’t read that!
Here are five more things I’d hate to ever hear from my hypothetical TV bachelor:
1) Our journey has been so special. But all journeys must end and mine is gonna end with that red-head over there.
2) Cecily, I can see inside your heart and it appears your arteries are a tad clogged.
3) If eyes are the windows to the soul, your window is double-paned…(wait…what?)
4) Hey, love your Pradas! Can I try them on?
5) When you hug me, would you mind moving over to the left a little? You’re kinda blocking my light.
(And two more for good measure)
6) When I kiss you, I feel just like I did at my first Hall and Oates concert.
7) Cecily, will you accept this rose? And will you accept this other boyfriend I have on the side?
As I write all of this, my “heart is crying”. I suppose we should just end this “journey” here.
Are you a Reality TV Love junkie? Let me know! Email me: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
Monday, February 22, 2010
Brunette on Blonde
I was at a Mensa meeting last week when I ran into a guy named Ryan whom I’d dated quite a few years ago. I lied just then, I’m not in Mensa and I was actually at the Beverly Center shopping mall when I bumped into him. Nope, again…lying. I’d looked him up on Facebook and after reading a few comments on “his wall” and scrolling through a photo album entitled “Honeymoon in Paris,” I inferred that Ryan had gotten married. (Sorry for all of the lying, but I’m starting to get embarrassed by how much time I spend stalking people).
I was bored and when I get bored, I begin to ruminate over the past which leads to one of two things: 1) I make some sort of 80s dance mix, which usually includes a nice ditty from Adam Ant and 2) I start looking up old emails from ex-boyfriends and/or people with whom I’ve had one or two dates. (And yes, I keep those emails). Ryan was the lucky winner last week and even though we only went out for about six weeks years ago, I was happy to see that he was happy, (or at least seemed to be according to a creepy social networking site).
I bring this up because as I combed through Ryan’s pictures, I noticed that his wife looked perky and blonde and athletic and outdoorsy and frankly…quite lovely. And I remember having dinner with him one night on one of our few dates, wherein he seemed pretty bored by my company. I’d asked him “what was wrong” and he said, “I’m worried that you’re not really my type. You don’t like the outdoors or camping and to be honest, I kind of prefer blondes”. I’d wanted to say, “Well I kind of prefer five star restaurants and guys who don’t resemble Dennis Miller (which he did) but you don’t see me bringing that up.” Instead, as usual, I internalized it and filed it away in the “Why can’t I ever get it right” portion of my brain.
Shortly after this unsettling conversation, he tried to end our brief romance over the phone and even though I didn’t really like him romantically all that much, I forced him to sit down with me face-to-face so we could deconstruct our “relationship” for five hours over chips, salsa and tequila. I’m not sure if I did this out of boredom, pride or sheer insanity but probably needless to say, he was terrified of me and we never spoke again. The thing is if only I’d listened to him when he said, “Hey, you’re not for me”. And more importantly, if only I’d listened to myself who said, “Hey, he’s not for you”, then I wouldn’t have made such a big deal over a two-month courtship. But instead I tried to make it fit, like a Gucci dress from a discount store. It didn’t fit and it wasn’t ever going to.
I am glad that he found the camping partner-in-life he was looking for. I’m also thrilled that she clearly didn’t mind his stint as a color commentator on Monday Night Football. Oh wait, that was Dennis.
Feel free to email me comments or questions or just to say “hi” at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
I was bored and when I get bored, I begin to ruminate over the past which leads to one of two things: 1) I make some sort of 80s dance mix, which usually includes a nice ditty from Adam Ant and 2) I start looking up old emails from ex-boyfriends and/or people with whom I’ve had one or two dates. (And yes, I keep those emails). Ryan was the lucky winner last week and even though we only went out for about six weeks years ago, I was happy to see that he was happy, (or at least seemed to be according to a creepy social networking site).
I bring this up because as I combed through Ryan’s pictures, I noticed that his wife looked perky and blonde and athletic and outdoorsy and frankly…quite lovely. And I remember having dinner with him one night on one of our few dates, wherein he seemed pretty bored by my company. I’d asked him “what was wrong” and he said, “I’m worried that you’re not really my type. You don’t like the outdoors or camping and to be honest, I kind of prefer blondes”. I’d wanted to say, “Well I kind of prefer five star restaurants and guys who don’t resemble Dennis Miller (which he did) but you don’t see me bringing that up.” Instead, as usual, I internalized it and filed it away in the “Why can’t I ever get it right” portion of my brain.
Shortly after this unsettling conversation, he tried to end our brief romance over the phone and even though I didn’t really like him romantically all that much, I forced him to sit down with me face-to-face so we could deconstruct our “relationship” for five hours over chips, salsa and tequila. I’m not sure if I did this out of boredom, pride or sheer insanity but probably needless to say, he was terrified of me and we never spoke again. The thing is if only I’d listened to him when he said, “Hey, you’re not for me”. And more importantly, if only I’d listened to myself who said, “Hey, he’s not for you”, then I wouldn’t have made such a big deal over a two-month courtship. But instead I tried to make it fit, like a Gucci dress from a discount store. It didn’t fit and it wasn’t ever going to.
I am glad that he found the camping partner-in-life he was looking for. I’m also thrilled that she clearly didn’t mind his stint as a color commentator on Monday Night Football. Oh wait, that was Dennis.
Feel free to email me comments or questions or just to say “hi” at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Safe Mode
“Like Peter Pan or Superman…you will come to save me.” – Aimee Mann
The first time the Geek Squad came to my house was in 2005 after my hard drive had been riddled with viruses, (hey, how was I to know that “Naked Tobey Maguire dot com” was an unsafe site?) After fumbling around for four hours, the guy working on my computer stopped making eye contact with me and at about the sixth hour said, “Hey, you sure do Google yourself a lot.” I felt exposed and ashamed and a little defensive and so I answered, “Yeah, well, ya know, that’s what Google is there for.” Then I felt even more exposed and ashamed, so I hid in the kitchen drinking Dr. Pepper until he left. “Back it up, Sista” were his parting words. (Actually, he’d said, “Make sure to get an external hard drive and back up your stuff”, but we hear what we want to hear).
Cut to five years later and guess which “sista” didn’t “back it up”? To be fair to myself, I did attempt to drag my “important documents” folder over to an external hard drive, but later learned I’d only succeeded in creating a “shortcut” to the C-drive. (And here I always thought shortcuts were a good thing). Five years of pictures and letters and sad songs and London music mixes were on that thing in bits and pieces of RAM, slowly losing memory like a brain whose synapses was short-circuiting. “You can still save it,” my boyfriend told me. “Put it in safe mode and then back up your folders before the drive collapses.” So dramatic, this whole computer thing. All this talk of “collapsing” and “memory”, I felt like I was in an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.
I don’t know what mode my hard drive was in, but it was far from safe. Appropriately on Valentine’s Day, it stopped booting completely and after my boyfriend patiently carried the entire thing to Best Buy, I once again came face to face with the Geek (or as I call them “Judgment”) Squad, who told me there was little they could do. I, of course, burst into tears and cried for five minutes near the “Guitar Hero” display and finally went home with a new computer, but very little drive.
And then the weirdness began. The “Squad” had done a full back-up onto CDs in 2005, so I was still able to salvage some of my computer past. But because my boyfriend wanted to transfer the files for me (I assume to avoid user “error”) I had to watch him upload my entire dating history, once again in fragments of memory. “So where do you want this ‘ 2003 Hot Sexy Mix from Matt’ thing? Your iTunes?” “Sure, iTunes is fine.” “Okay, how bout’ these pictures from your trip to San Francisco with Jordan?” “Those can just go into my 2005 pictures folder.” I wanted to say, “Just put it all in a file and name it ‘Over and done with’” but I didn’t. Instead I said, “Just…put it on there and I’ll organize it later, if I can find a good therapist.”
As the “Crazy night with Brian, 2002” video was uploading, I poured myself a glass of wine and gave silent gratitude that I had such a nice boyfriend. And at least in that moment, I was in safe-mode.
Have a question about me, my blog, or my book? Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
The first time the Geek Squad came to my house was in 2005 after my hard drive had been riddled with viruses, (hey, how was I to know that “Naked Tobey Maguire dot com” was an unsafe site?) After fumbling around for four hours, the guy working on my computer stopped making eye contact with me and at about the sixth hour said, “Hey, you sure do Google yourself a lot.” I felt exposed and ashamed and a little defensive and so I answered, “Yeah, well, ya know, that’s what Google is there for.” Then I felt even more exposed and ashamed, so I hid in the kitchen drinking Dr. Pepper until he left. “Back it up, Sista” were his parting words. (Actually, he’d said, “Make sure to get an external hard drive and back up your stuff”, but we hear what we want to hear).
Cut to five years later and guess which “sista” didn’t “back it up”? To be fair to myself, I did attempt to drag my “important documents” folder over to an external hard drive, but later learned I’d only succeeded in creating a “shortcut” to the C-drive. (And here I always thought shortcuts were a good thing). Five years of pictures and letters and sad songs and London music mixes were on that thing in bits and pieces of RAM, slowly losing memory like a brain whose synapses was short-circuiting. “You can still save it,” my boyfriend told me. “Put it in safe mode and then back up your folders before the drive collapses.” So dramatic, this whole computer thing. All this talk of “collapsing” and “memory”, I felt like I was in an Andrew Lloyd Webber musical.
I don’t know what mode my hard drive was in, but it was far from safe. Appropriately on Valentine’s Day, it stopped booting completely and after my boyfriend patiently carried the entire thing to Best Buy, I once again came face to face with the Geek (or as I call them “Judgment”) Squad, who told me there was little they could do. I, of course, burst into tears and cried for five minutes near the “Guitar Hero” display and finally went home with a new computer, but very little drive.
And then the weirdness began. The “Squad” had done a full back-up onto CDs in 2005, so I was still able to salvage some of my computer past. But because my boyfriend wanted to transfer the files for me (I assume to avoid user “error”) I had to watch him upload my entire dating history, once again in fragments of memory. “So where do you want this ‘ 2003 Hot Sexy Mix from Matt’ thing? Your iTunes?” “Sure, iTunes is fine.” “Okay, how bout’ these pictures from your trip to San Francisco with Jordan?” “Those can just go into my 2005 pictures folder.” I wanted to say, “Just put it all in a file and name it ‘Over and done with’” but I didn’t. Instead I said, “Just…put it on there and I’ll organize it later, if I can find a good therapist.”
As the “Crazy night with Brian, 2002” video was uploading, I poured myself a glass of wine and gave silent gratitude that I had such a nice boyfriend. And at least in that moment, I was in safe-mode.
Have a question about me, my blog, or my book? Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Me...My Book...In the Flesh!
I went to vist my book She's Crazy, He's a Liar at the bookstore in West Hollywood to take some nerdy pictures and sign a few copies! Visit your local bookstore and know that I'll nerdily be taking pictures there, in spirit!
Look, right next to Breakfast at Tiffany's!
Did you pick up a copy yet? Buy it here!
Monday, February 15, 2010
PLEASE STEP AWAY FROM THE SEND BUTTON
Here’s something to keep in mind: if you’re like me and have apartment neighbors who claim to be “Hollywood club promoters” (read: complete and utter d-bags) who are so loud that you must take an Ambien to sleep…do not and I repeat do not allow yourself to spend time on Facebook. I took that Ambien and after having a fight with my robe, I promptly scurried over to my computer, logged onto Facebook and did a “people search” for every ex-boyfriend I’ve ever had. One of said exes (with whom I’ve been broken up nearly eight years) had a picture of a baby next to his name. And so Ambien and I did what any balanced, healthy young ladies would do…we emailed him the following. “Dear Hank, It appears you have become a tiny baby. Congratulations on that and I hope you have fun as a baby. Yours, Cecily”\
Okay, let’s break this down. First of all, the very idea that I would even contact this person so nonchalantly after EIGHT YEARS is preposterous. (We did have a brief encounter at a mutual friend’s wedding five years ago, when he tried to politely say “hi” but I was too busy tastefully doing shots with the bartender). So years go by and… “Oh hey, Hank. You’ve got a picture of a baby by your name so I guess you’re now…what? A baby?”
Let’s give me and Ambien the benefit of the doubt and assume we were joking. Still…after eight years, it seems like surely we’d have come up with something better. And why would I sign it “Yours”? I am not his and he is certainly not mine and did I mention it has been eight years? Luckily, Hank was one of the more forgiving exes and he was cool about the whole thing, replying, “Yes, it’s true. I am now a tiny baby.”
For now, although Ambien and I are still speaking, we are no longer having three-ways with Facebook or cell-phones or anything in which we can hit a send button and get ourselves in trouble. It’s for the best.
Do you have some drunk (or otherwise)-dial stories? Email them to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
Okay, let’s break this down. First of all, the very idea that I would even contact this person so nonchalantly after EIGHT YEARS is preposterous. (We did have a brief encounter at a mutual friend’s wedding five years ago, when he tried to politely say “hi” but I was too busy tastefully doing shots with the bartender). So years go by and… “Oh hey, Hank. You’ve got a picture of a baby by your name so I guess you’re now…what? A baby?”
Let’s give me and Ambien the benefit of the doubt and assume we were joking. Still…after eight years, it seems like surely we’d have come up with something better. And why would I sign it “Yours”? I am not his and he is certainly not mine and did I mention it has been eight years? Luckily, Hank was one of the more forgiving exes and he was cool about the whole thing, replying, “Yes, it’s true. I am now a tiny baby.”
For now, although Ambien and I are still speaking, we are no longer having three-ways with Facebook or cell-phones or anything in which we can hit a send button and get ourselves in trouble. It’s for the best.
Do you have some drunk (or otherwise)-dial stories? Email them to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com
Thursday, February 11, 2010
IT'S OFFICIAL!
My book, She's Crazy He's a Liar - Now What? is officially available in stores TODAY! What are you waiting for?? Go get yourself a copy! And while you're at it, get one for your sister, your friends, your coworkers, and your sister's friends' coworkers!
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
FROM TWO DRINKS…TO A TWO-DRINK MINIMUM
The following might just be an issue relating mostly to the daters of Los Angeles and New York, but I wonder if every city has something comparable? I’m just gonna get right to the point. If I go on one date with you and you then stand me up for the second date, please don’t keep my email so you can invite me to see your “actor’s showcase” at the Beverly Hills Playhouse or your weird-ass band (“The Winona Ryders?”) at some bar in East Hollywood. It’s not that - - after sharing one awkward Calamari plate - I don’t wish you all the luck and joy in the world, but if I spent five dollars to see the stand-up comedy of every on-line date that didn’t lead to something, I’d owe the bank millions.
Here’s what happened. A few years ago I went out with a guy we’ll call Morris, whom I met on Match or Nerve or Sad People.com or something like that. He was what I call “Cecily-type-cute” (blonde, impish, dimples, small teeth). He seemed lovely on paper and said that although he had a “jobby-job”, he also aspired to be a singer-songwriter. Perfect. We met at my favorite Mexican restaurant on Sunset Blvd and he was even cuter than his picture. After a few cocktails, I realized he was funny too and into the same music, movies and even MTV reality shows that I was. After what I thought was an excellent date, we made specific plans for that upcoming weekend.
But Morris never showed for that date, nor did he call to cancel. When I called him, it went straight to voicemail and after a few hours of worrying, I saw his little AOL name pop up on instant-message. Wha? I waited for him to IM me and give me any sort of excuse, but he never did. Weeks went by and still baffled, I finally received an email from him. “Good.” I thought. “He finally has the nerve to tell me he just wasn’t interested”. But when I opened the email, I was shocked to see that it wasn’t any kind of apology or explanation letter at all. The body of the email read: “Come on out and see Morris play with his new band ‘The Bong Hits’ at the Coconut Teaser. For only 12 dollars and two drinks, you can support your local musicians! Sorry, but we can’t validate your parking.” (Now the email subject header, “Come jam with Morris” made more sense). I wrote him back and asked him to please remove me from his “fan-list” and he did.
…Until last week! Yes, after years of being excused from Morris’s open mic guitar night announcements, I had the honor of being re-instated to his fan list! Had I been filed away in some sort of “stood this girl up but can probably squeeze 7 dollars from her to hear me play outside in a park” email list? I certainly hoped so. I was, unfortunately for Morris, unable to attend his latest “jam night” as I had to see the one-man show of a guy who once slipped me a roofie.
For the record, I understand that dates very often don’t work out and sometimes people just don’t “feel it”. Now, if you’ll excuse me…I need to email Morris a link to buy my book. It’s only fair. Want to discuss? Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com.
Here’s what happened. A few years ago I went out with a guy we’ll call Morris, whom I met on Match or Nerve or Sad People.com or something like that. He was what I call “Cecily-type-cute” (blonde, impish, dimples, small teeth). He seemed lovely on paper and said that although he had a “jobby-job”, he also aspired to be a singer-songwriter. Perfect. We met at my favorite Mexican restaurant on Sunset Blvd and he was even cuter than his picture. After a few cocktails, I realized he was funny too and into the same music, movies and even MTV reality shows that I was. After what I thought was an excellent date, we made specific plans for that upcoming weekend.
But Morris never showed for that date, nor did he call to cancel. When I called him, it went straight to voicemail and after a few hours of worrying, I saw his little AOL name pop up on instant-message. Wha? I waited for him to IM me and give me any sort of excuse, but he never did. Weeks went by and still baffled, I finally received an email from him. “Good.” I thought. “He finally has the nerve to tell me he just wasn’t interested”. But when I opened the email, I was shocked to see that it wasn’t any kind of apology or explanation letter at all. The body of the email read: “Come on out and see Morris play with his new band ‘The Bong Hits’ at the Coconut Teaser. For only 12 dollars and two drinks, you can support your local musicians! Sorry, but we can’t validate your parking.” (Now the email subject header, “Come jam with Morris” made more sense). I wrote him back and asked him to please remove me from his “fan-list” and he did.
…Until last week! Yes, after years of being excused from Morris’s open mic guitar night announcements, I had the honor of being re-instated to his fan list! Had I been filed away in some sort of “stood this girl up but can probably squeeze 7 dollars from her to hear me play outside in a park” email list? I certainly hoped so. I was, unfortunately for Morris, unable to attend his latest “jam night” as I had to see the one-man show of a guy who once slipped me a roofie.
For the record, I understand that dates very often don’t work out and sometimes people just don’t “feel it”. Now, if you’ll excuse me…I need to email Morris a link to buy my book. It’s only fair. Want to discuss? Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com.
Monday, February 8, 2010
All of My "Duckies" In a Row
A few days ago, I found a poem I’d written (and luckily never sent) to a guy I had a crush on in junior high. It was something about “sad clowns and dark, unrequited hearts” and its rhymes (yes, it rhymed) were clearly inspired by Pink Floyd lyrics, with maybe a touch of Cyndi Lauper. I think I fancied myself a character in a John Hughes movie, (think Molly Ringwald or even Eric Stoltz) and believed that somehow - - by wearing weird, mismatched clothes and ironic “old lady hats” - - I’d land an Andrew McCarthy type.
Okay, maybe he wouldn’t pop up from behind a computer, but he’d notice me and how “different” I was and although his jock friends would want to keep us apart, he’d see how special my oversized blazers were and he’d tell them all to “go to hell”, (or something dramatic like that). But guess what? I never did get an Andrew McCarthy. I did, however, land about a hundred Duckies and as great as they are, that’s far too many.
Back in the day we had Hughes to tell us who we were. We could fit so neatly into one of his clichéd categories: the jock, the brain, the princess, the basket case, the “richie” or Duckie. But somehow I’ve gotten stuck in defining the world around me this way. I’m still begging the question, “What about prom, Blane? What about prom?” What’s sad is even Jon Cryer has moved on quite successfully, but I just can’t. In fact, because of John Hughes, I can see that my life is so off-balance. I don’t have any Ferris Buellers or Jake Ryans around me, but those 100 Duckies won’t stop calling.
I’m not sure I can ever not see the world as an 80s movie and because of these expectations, I don’t know that I’ll ever actually settle for less than a Jake Ryan. This doesn’t mean that the Duckies don’t stand a chance, but they’ll have more of a chance if they play me a Thompson Twins song on my birthday. Okay, maybe it’s time for me to move on and pattern my love life after new movies…at least ones that came out in the 90s.
To discuss the “Duckies” in your life (or anything you’d like) feel free to email me at Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com.
Okay, maybe he wouldn’t pop up from behind a computer, but he’d notice me and how “different” I was and although his jock friends would want to keep us apart, he’d see how special my oversized blazers were and he’d tell them all to “go to hell”, (or something dramatic like that). But guess what? I never did get an Andrew McCarthy. I did, however, land about a hundred Duckies and as great as they are, that’s far too many.
Back in the day we had Hughes to tell us who we were. We could fit so neatly into one of his clichéd categories: the jock, the brain, the princess, the basket case, the “richie” or Duckie. But somehow I’ve gotten stuck in defining the world around me this way. I’m still begging the question, “What about prom, Blane? What about prom?” What’s sad is even Jon Cryer has moved on quite successfully, but I just can’t. In fact, because of John Hughes, I can see that my life is so off-balance. I don’t have any Ferris Buellers or Jake Ryans around me, but those 100 Duckies won’t stop calling.
I’m not sure I can ever not see the world as an 80s movie and because of these expectations, I don’t know that I’ll ever actually settle for less than a Jake Ryan. This doesn’t mean that the Duckies don’t stand a chance, but they’ll have more of a chance if they play me a Thompson Twins song on my birthday. Okay, maybe it’s time for me to move on and pattern my love life after new movies…at least ones that came out in the 90s.
To discuss the “Duckies” in your life (or anything you’d like) feel free to email me at Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com.
Friday, February 5, 2010
How Not to Date a Semi-Famous Musician
Remember Max, the musician who thought I was a total fool after the guy-friend incident? Well flash forward a few weeks and our paths cross once more…
I’m at a local “hipster” pub where enormously talented singer songwriters play their bittersweet ballads in that way you think they’re singing just to you. You know how those guys do it…they look out into the audience and they’re really just seeing a blinding white light but they move their eyes around and get all soulful and you think, Bono means me…he says he can’t live with or without me.
So, Max finishes singing just to me and as I’m walking out with my friend Jen, there he is standing by the door. I say “Great show” and he grabs my arm and says, “Could I please get your phone number?” At that very moment, I regress to age 13. My brain has superimposed Max’s face with that of Simon LeBon’s. I can’t breath. I can’t focus my eyes. I’m picturing doves and that boat Duran Duran used in the Rio video and for some reason MTV VJ Nina Blackwood. I also can’t remember my phone number but Jen quickly writes it down and hands it to him.
Sweet Jesus, he was singing just to me.
Alright, so let’s skip ahead a week when Max calls. To be honest, he’s a little “eccentric”. I’m surprised he even has a phone as he seems like the type who would use like a Morse code telegraph machine because that’s more “alternative.” He asks me out for that night and of course, I say, “Sure, I’d love to.” Whoa, whose voice did I just use? “I’m totally down for anything.” Why was I talking like Victoria Jackson? So Max says he’ll be there in two hours and Jesus…what do you wear with an eccentric musician? Oh damn, I’ve gotta hide the illegal bootlegs of his songs. Oh shit, I’ve got to hide my Jewel albums. No Pink or good Lord, no Kelly Clarkson. I shove the CDs under my bed and try to find the perfect indie baby-tee. I think, “I bet he’d like a shirt with a skull on it or maybe Batman”. I settle on one that says “Everyone loves an Asian,” because it’s ironic, seeing as how I’m not Asian. He’ll love it.
So, we’re at dinner and I’m so nervous I keep ordering shots of Patron. He says something about how String Theory can be exemplified through basic guitar chords. Yeah, okay. I, trying to sound like I “get it” say “Yeah, and so can quarks.” What? The conversation takes another lull. I then say something really odd like, “I’m just so over America.” He asks why and I can’t articulate it, probably because I don’t know what it means and if I did, probably wouldn’t mean it. He drives me home and I invite him up for an innocent night cap. I say, “So this is my pad”, like it’s 1972. He seems a bit put off by this voice I’m using, but then things get really weird. I start to pretend like I don’t know exactly what he does for a living. I say, “So you’re, like, what a musician?” He says, “Uh yeah, you have my CD on the coffee table.” Ooh, forgot to hide that one. “Well I just didn’t know you did it full-time.” He says, “But you have a schedule for all of my shows on your fridge…” All I can think to say for this one is, “Do I?”
He starts to kiss me. Having someone’s lips on yours makes their illegal bootlegs seem less exciting. But I can’t relax because I can’t help but think that my kissing is…too pedestrian. Too normal. Why can’t I kiss him more alternatively? I’ll bet Rose McGowen wouldn’t be this lame. He senses my fear and pulls back. “You alright?” he asks and I realize, I might actually be too alright. I mean, yeah, I’m edgy. I’ll even stay up till 3:00am watching a Real World/Road Rules challenge. Yes. But I’ll never be strange enough, which will ironically make us strangers. There is an uncomfortable silence and after searching my brain for anything to say, all I bring is “I’m really bummed Paula left American Idol.” Arrgh. That’s not edgy, is it?
After all that work to seem off-beat, I blew my cover. I buried the lead. He says something to the effect of “Yeah, I don’t even own a TV” and my heart…dies. Seriously, when a guy says “I don’t own a TV”, he may has well have said, “I’m gay” or “I hate the Jews.” Any of those statements normally mean, “This probably won’t work out romantically”. But it’s him…it’s Max and so I say, “Yeah, I hardly ever watch it either.” As I say this, I notice him staring at my Tivo which at that very moment is recording a late-night showing of “Judge Judy.” Yes, Judge Judy. Is that alternative? I don’t even know anymore. He says “Well I should probably get going. This was fun, I’ll call you.”
He never did call. The next time I saw Max, he was hitting on a girl with green hair and a Partridge Family lunchbox. I still get giddy at the thought of him and his lovely music, although now when I listen to those bootlegs, I know how he tastes and it changes every note. But I suppose he and my fake “Victoria Jackson” persona just weren’t meant to be. Thank God, I’ve got Judge Judy on Tivo.
Tell me your worst dating disaster here and you could win a $500 Shopping Spree!
I’m at a local “hipster” pub where enormously talented singer songwriters play their bittersweet ballads in that way you think they’re singing just to you. You know how those guys do it…they look out into the audience and they’re really just seeing a blinding white light but they move their eyes around and get all soulful and you think, Bono means me…he says he can’t live with or without me.
So, Max finishes singing just to me and as I’m walking out with my friend Jen, there he is standing by the door. I say “Great show” and he grabs my arm and says, “Could I please get your phone number?” At that very moment, I regress to age 13. My brain has superimposed Max’s face with that of Simon LeBon’s. I can’t breath. I can’t focus my eyes. I’m picturing doves and that boat Duran Duran used in the Rio video and for some reason MTV VJ Nina Blackwood. I also can’t remember my phone number but Jen quickly writes it down and hands it to him.
Sweet Jesus, he was singing just to me.
Alright, so let’s skip ahead a week when Max calls. To be honest, he’s a little “eccentric”. I’m surprised he even has a phone as he seems like the type who would use like a Morse code telegraph machine because that’s more “alternative.” He asks me out for that night and of course, I say, “Sure, I’d love to.” Whoa, whose voice did I just use? “I’m totally down for anything.” Why was I talking like Victoria Jackson? So Max says he’ll be there in two hours and Jesus…what do you wear with an eccentric musician? Oh damn, I’ve gotta hide the illegal bootlegs of his songs. Oh shit, I’ve got to hide my Jewel albums. No Pink or good Lord, no Kelly Clarkson. I shove the CDs under my bed and try to find the perfect indie baby-tee. I think, “I bet he’d like a shirt with a skull on it or maybe Batman”. I settle on one that says “Everyone loves an Asian,” because it’s ironic, seeing as how I’m not Asian. He’ll love it.
So, we’re at dinner and I’m so nervous I keep ordering shots of Patron. He says something about how String Theory can be exemplified through basic guitar chords. Yeah, okay. I, trying to sound like I “get it” say “Yeah, and so can quarks.” What? The conversation takes another lull. I then say something really odd like, “I’m just so over America.” He asks why and I can’t articulate it, probably because I don’t know what it means and if I did, probably wouldn’t mean it. He drives me home and I invite him up for an innocent night cap. I say, “So this is my pad”, like it’s 1972. He seems a bit put off by this voice I’m using, but then things get really weird. I start to pretend like I don’t know exactly what he does for a living. I say, “So you’re, like, what a musician?” He says, “Uh yeah, you have my CD on the coffee table.” Ooh, forgot to hide that one. “Well I just didn’t know you did it full-time.” He says, “But you have a schedule for all of my shows on your fridge…” All I can think to say for this one is, “Do I?”
He starts to kiss me. Having someone’s lips on yours makes their illegal bootlegs seem less exciting. But I can’t relax because I can’t help but think that my kissing is…too pedestrian. Too normal. Why can’t I kiss him more alternatively? I’ll bet Rose McGowen wouldn’t be this lame. He senses my fear and pulls back. “You alright?” he asks and I realize, I might actually be too alright. I mean, yeah, I’m edgy. I’ll even stay up till 3:00am watching a Real World/Road Rules challenge. Yes. But I’ll never be strange enough, which will ironically make us strangers. There is an uncomfortable silence and after searching my brain for anything to say, all I bring is “I’m really bummed Paula left American Idol.” Arrgh. That’s not edgy, is it?
After all that work to seem off-beat, I blew my cover. I buried the lead. He says something to the effect of “Yeah, I don’t even own a TV” and my heart…dies. Seriously, when a guy says “I don’t own a TV”, he may has well have said, “I’m gay” or “I hate the Jews.” Any of those statements normally mean, “This probably won’t work out romantically”. But it’s him…it’s Max and so I say, “Yeah, I hardly ever watch it either.” As I say this, I notice him staring at my Tivo which at that very moment is recording a late-night showing of “Judge Judy.” Yes, Judge Judy. Is that alternative? I don’t even know anymore. He says “Well I should probably get going. This was fun, I’ll call you.”
He never did call. The next time I saw Max, he was hitting on a girl with green hair and a Partridge Family lunchbox. I still get giddy at the thought of him and his lovely music, although now when I listen to those bootlegs, I know how he tastes and it changes every note. But I suppose he and my fake “Victoria Jackson” persona just weren’t meant to be. Thank God, I’ve got Judge Judy on Tivo.
Tell me your worst dating disaster here and you could win a $500 Shopping Spree!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Guy-Friends and [Potential] Boy Friends
Never tell a guy-friend about your current crush. Girls understand, they don’t roll eyes or laugh in your face; dudes take it as an opportunity to publicly humiliate the cause.
It all started a few years ago. I’m at Amoeba records with my friend Dave, annoyed because it’s too crowded and smells like a mix of Patchouli and broken dreams. As I pick up the newest Bloc Party record, I see from the corner of my eye, a well known local musician whom I’m not only a f an of, I’ve had a crush on for quite some time, (let’s call him Max.) Eye contact, smile, look away…ya know, creepy-sweet. Dave, who’s one aisle over sees this exchange and knowing who this guy is, winks at me. I shoot him a warning “Keep your mouth shut” glance,” but it’s too late.
“Hey Cec”, he yells, looking at Max to make sure he’s listening. “Here’s that Michael Bolton CD you were looking for. Aw, he totally cut his hair!”
I reply, loudly enough for Max to hear: “Ha ha, you moron. I was picking up this new Wilco album I hadn’t yet…”
“No, you weren’t…”, he insists. “Dude, you told me you had three CDs to get. John Tesh’s Christmas album, Mariah Carey’s ‘Rainbow’ and Michael Fricken Bolton.”
“Dude, don’t…”
Max looks disappointed and walks into the import section. I follow him and say loudly, “I wonder where the new Interpol import is.” He looks up and smiles. I continue, “I just love listening to my indie-rock, all alone, naked in my apartment on 4500 Spaulding Street, where I keep a spare key above the door.” It seems I’ve now confused Max. He picks up a handful of guitar picks and heads for the check-out. Meanwhile, Dave continues to hold up various CDs, while screaming, “Look, we finally found the best of Jefferson/Starship. Oh but you only have a cassette player, right? Let’s see if we can’t find it on…”
“Shut the F$%k up.”
Guy friends are valuable for many things; unfortunately they’re best at throwing a pie in your face in front of America’s Top 100 Sexiest Bachelors.
***To find out what eventually happens with Max, come back Friday!
It all started a few years ago. I’m at Amoeba records with my friend Dave, annoyed because it’s too crowded and smells like a mix of Patchouli and broken dreams. As I pick up the newest Bloc Party record, I see from the corner of my eye, a well known local musician whom I’m not only a f an of, I’ve had a crush on for quite some time, (let’s call him Max.) Eye contact, smile, look away…ya know, creepy-sweet. Dave, who’s one aisle over sees this exchange and knowing who this guy is, winks at me. I shoot him a warning “Keep your mouth shut” glance,” but it’s too late.
“Hey Cec”, he yells, looking at Max to make sure he’s listening. “Here’s that Michael Bolton CD you were looking for. Aw, he totally cut his hair!”
I reply, loudly enough for Max to hear: “Ha ha, you moron. I was picking up this new Wilco album I hadn’t yet…”
“No, you weren’t…”, he insists. “Dude, you told me you had three CDs to get. John Tesh’s Christmas album, Mariah Carey’s ‘Rainbow’ and Michael Fricken Bolton.”
“Dude, don’t…”
Max looks disappointed and walks into the import section. I follow him and say loudly, “I wonder where the new Interpol import is.” He looks up and smiles. I continue, “I just love listening to my indie-rock, all alone, naked in my apartment on 4500 Spaulding Street, where I keep a spare key above the door.” It seems I’ve now confused Max. He picks up a handful of guitar picks and heads for the check-out. Meanwhile, Dave continues to hold up various CDs, while screaming, “Look, we finally found the best of Jefferson/Starship. Oh but you only have a cassette player, right? Let’s see if we can’t find it on…”
“Shut the F$%k up.”
Guy friends are valuable for many things; unfortunately they’re best at throwing a pie in your face in front of America’s Top 100 Sexiest Bachelors.
***To find out what eventually happens with Max, come back Friday!
Monday, February 1, 2010
P.D.A-Hole
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much we learn from our parents when it comes to intimacy. Whether it’s how we were raised or the genetic code we were instilled with, I believe our tolerance for hand-holding, public kissing and calling our mates “piggly-wiggly baby-doll puppy-head” in public is on par with those who raised us.
I come from a family (at least on my Dad’s side) of patters. Ya know when they hug you, it’s one-hand on a shoulder and the other hand giving you one-two-three pats on the back. This might just be the cool (yet ultra friendly) distance of true Texans or it might just be us…but either way, we’re not big on the whole lovey dovey, touchy-feely thing and I’m totally fine with that. But you know who’s not fine with it? The guys I’ve dated. In fact one was very upset that I not only wouldn’t make out with him outside of Applebees, but that I asked him to “please stop calling me ‘Monkey-face” in public. (It may have just been that he’d bring other people, like waiters, into it. “Hey I’m gonna order the chicken wings for an ‘Appa-teaser’…what do you want, Monkey-face?”)
It’s not that I don’t think people should be able to express their love for each in public. I’m just asking to tone it down a notch. Sure, hand holding and a fun little kiss is delightful (for most people) but full-on tongue kissing and pants-removing seems unsettling. And worst of all is the baby-talk! I used to work at a movie-theater in Dallas and one guy on a date came through the concessions line and said, “I want a small Coke and baby waby wants some Whopper, boppers” I replied, “Sir, I’m going to exercise my right to not serve you.” “Oh no!” he said, “Baby Waby has to get served!”
I have a friend who dated a guy named Chuck and after just two dates, she insisted on calling him “Chuckles”. Now if that were just between them, I could see how that might be kind of cute. But for the rest of us (or at least me) it was excruciating. “Chuckles said the cutest thing today. Chuckles is so good in bed. Chuckles just got audited by the I.R.S…” SHUT IT or both you and Chuckles are gonna get de-friended on Facebook!
Again if it were left just between them, it’d be fine. I mean, I’ve certainly had my share of nicknames in relationships. (One guy used to call me “Puppylicious McClanahan” and it had an accompanying song and everything!) But please…don’t bring the rest of us into your cutesiness or I, Puppylicious McClanahan will get saddy waddy.
What’s the worst pet-name you’ve ever been given…or doled out yourself? Let me know!
I come from a family (at least on my Dad’s side) of patters. Ya know when they hug you, it’s one-hand on a shoulder and the other hand giving you one-two-three pats on the back. This might just be the cool (yet ultra friendly) distance of true Texans or it might just be us…but either way, we’re not big on the whole lovey dovey, touchy-feely thing and I’m totally fine with that. But you know who’s not fine with it? The guys I’ve dated. In fact one was very upset that I not only wouldn’t make out with him outside of Applebees, but that I asked him to “please stop calling me ‘Monkey-face” in public. (It may have just been that he’d bring other people, like waiters, into it. “Hey I’m gonna order the chicken wings for an ‘Appa-teaser’…what do you want, Monkey-face?”)
It’s not that I don’t think people should be able to express their love for each in public. I’m just asking to tone it down a notch. Sure, hand holding and a fun little kiss is delightful (for most people) but full-on tongue kissing and pants-removing seems unsettling. And worst of all is the baby-talk! I used to work at a movie-theater in Dallas and one guy on a date came through the concessions line and said, “I want a small Coke and baby waby wants some Whopper, boppers” I replied, “Sir, I’m going to exercise my right to not serve you.” “Oh no!” he said, “Baby Waby has to get served!”
I have a friend who dated a guy named Chuck and after just two dates, she insisted on calling him “Chuckles”. Now if that were just between them, I could see how that might be kind of cute. But for the rest of us (or at least me) it was excruciating. “Chuckles said the cutest thing today. Chuckles is so good in bed. Chuckles just got audited by the I.R.S…” SHUT IT or both you and Chuckles are gonna get de-friended on Facebook!
Again if it were left just between them, it’d be fine. I mean, I’ve certainly had my share of nicknames in relationships. (One guy used to call me “Puppylicious McClanahan” and it had an accompanying song and everything!) But please…don’t bring the rest of us into your cutesiness or I, Puppylicious McClanahan will get saddy waddy.
What’s the worst pet-name you’ve ever been given…or doled out yourself? Let me know!
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