I Want Your Smart-Ass

Because my book project centers on my previous relationships, I've been analyzing who I am in that context. And what kind of guys I am attracted to. So, while I'm sure ya'll are sick to death of my posts deconstructing my ghosts of boyfriends past, hopefully my postulations are relateable enough to be interesting.

Thus far, I haven't been able to nail down a decent guy and I finally figured out what my freakin' problem is. (Was.) Well, someone else figured it out for me, and, in an effort to protect her identity, I will just say that this person is about twenty-years older than me, knows my dating history, and has been a wonderful mentor to me. Thankfully, this person not only figured out my problem, but was kind enough to share her findings with me.

Ready for it? I have never dated a guy who was as smart as me.

Sure I dated a guy who got better SAT scores than me and went to a boarding school that was much more prestigious than my high school. I dated guys who went to college with me, so one could assume that, if we all got in, we must be on the same field. Not to be arrogant, but, no, we were not.

Because it's not just about being intelligent, or well-read, both of which I am, thankyouverymuch, it's about drive. I've dated a guy who was writing a book but wasn't sure if he wanted to be a writer. He'd amassed less than 100 pages in a year and a half of working on his project, a feat I could (oh, wait, did) complete in a month. I've dated a guy who would make films but do nothing to promote them, leaving the leg-work to his more business-savvy brother. I've dated a guy who's dad is a famous actor and wanted to break into the biz himself but didn't have the stamina to see it through. The weird thing was, all three of these guys had ample support from their parents/caregivers but, clearly, all the money in the world couldn't buy their determination.

All this time, I kept thinking, geez, what's wrong with these guys, and the problem has always been right here, with me, another point my wise mentor-friend made. I'm the one who is choosing these guys, who have no real gumption or goals, who think things will just happen for them if they wish real hard, an attitude which couldn't be more unlike my own.

This need to date men who are on my mental level makes sense. I mean, I am a sucker for guys who wear glasses. Seriously. Turn-on central. When one of the guys I dated revealed he could translate Greek and Latin I swooned. When another divulged his desire for a Ph.D. I practically proposed. But, alas, that was the extent of their intelligence quotients. They were all talk and no action. Such teases.

From now on, I want to date smart. I'm talking career-obsessed, takes-night-classes, Phi Beta Kappa, Ivy League, grad school, book-by-your-bedside-that-you-actually-read, New York Times-enthusiast types. I'm talking guys who have given up drinking every night so they can rise to the top of their fields. I'm talking guys who are actual men, who can make decisions on their own, and most of all, who don't need "a strong woman" behind them.

Happiness.

Atlantic Monthly published findings of a study that began in 1937 when over 200 Harvard University sophomores were asked to participate in measuring a formula for the good life. One of the findings was that the happiest people consistently spent time with loved ones (friends, family, spouses, etc), as opposed to secluding themselves.

While this concept seemed a little like one big Duh to me at first, maybe that's because I'm blessed with a truly amazing circle of loved ones. I am lucky enough to see my friends regularly, hang out with my parents once a week, and habitually receive completely random and amazing inside-joke texts or Facebook messages that further reinforce my stance that life pays off in the most unexpected ways.

For such a long time, I relied on my boyfriends to be my safety net--who I called when I got good news or who'd get me medicine when I was sick, or who I would go to for advice. This might sound crazy but without a boyfriend I finally feel like I have my own life. I'm creating this life and it revolves around me. But it's not like I'm some kind of one-woman-show (I mean, I can be...) or that I'm my own safety net. I've just got my peeps, now. Not some dude.

Oddly, my life feels fuller now than it ever has, which might just be because I am currently on an upswing. Last weekend, Meagan and I were sitting around our kitchen table sobbing over the conundrum that, if we're so great, why didn't those guys want us? (Let me tell you, it was not pretty. I am done crying over that jerk. You hear me? Done.) Afterward, we did some Facebook de-friending, drooled over Bradley Cooper while watching The Hangover, went out unexpectedly with some boys, and felt loads better.

But that's just how life is--up and down. Either way, I have great people right here to make the highs even higher and to help me out of those lows. I've said this before and I will say it again, now: the greatest thing about being single is discovering that my friends will always be there for me, even after such a long hiatus from them (while I was in Boyfriendland). And now that I am in Natashaland, and here to stay for some time, I am realizing it is much, much more fun. And my friends are even more amazing than I remembered, especially the new ones I've allowed myself to make. Imagine that.

Journalist David Romanelli, writing from Yahoo's Shine.com, said of the Harvard study's finding, "One can never give enough hugs, say enough 'I love you's,' and send enough 'I miss you's.' So, loved ones--whether you're family, friends (in-person and Facebook variety), and/or blog-devotees--you're all fabulous. And I love you. Thank you.

MJ, You're Just Another Part of Me.

It was a sad day in my childhood when the beloved 3-D movie Captain EO was removed from Disneyland. And, yes, I am one of those people turning a blind eye to the allegations against Michael Jackson in the wake of his death.

Anyway. Back to the sad day. I don't know what I loved most about Captain EO...Was it MJ's sweet moves complete with weird little ff-fft noises? His soothing voice? The claymation? Fuzzball? (I did have a stuffed animal of him at one point, and whatever day he was lost was also a sad one I'm sure.)

When I'd get a little tired from spending the day at Disneyland, I imagine, my parents would take me into Tomorrowland and we would get our purple plastic glasses that didn't fit anyone's face. I'd sit in a cushy chair in the dark, anticipating the show. No matter how long the lines were for the rides, or how much I had walked around that day, it was impossible to not dance myself out of the theater's automatic doors as the song "Another Part of Me" resonated through the speakers. Rejuvenated, I could go back out into Disneyland feeling peaceful and exquisitely happy.

Which is probably why I downloaded both "Another Part of Me" and "We Are Here to Change the World" when I was in high school and still have both tracks on my workout playlist on my iPod.

Watching Captain EO again today (an ex-boyfriend scored me the DVD from eBay some years ago) I get that same childhood excitement to watch MJ moonwalk like a champ and save the evil queen from her hideousness. (Somehow, this film is so powerful I am able to ignore how it conforms to the common narrative that strong, ugly women need to be transformed into beautiful, man-adoring ladies. Thus is the power of EO).

This is the way I will remember Michael Jackson--young, cool, without a tainted reputation, and the proud owner of a nose. I wonder if Disneyland will consider bringing EO back for a short run...I will certainly pay the steep $60-something fee just to get to hang with that rag-tag space crew one more time.

31 in 31

I'm making myself a proposition. Which I worry will come off as slutty, but, hey, life is short, right? And I'm working hard on this not-caring-what-other-people-think-of-me thing, so here it goes:

By July 31st, I will kiss 31 different guys. Ew. I know. Writing that actually makes me feel super dirty and gross, so I don't know if this will actually happen. But now that I am rounding the corner of my two-months single mark (July 5th--just 11 short days away) I feel like I need to be taking good advantage of my situation.

When I was with my boyfriend (the four-year relationship, not the more recent disaster), as much as I loved him (and I did, immensely), a little part of me mourned how I would miss out on that notorious single-girl lifestyle. Now that I am experiencing said lifestyle it's not as whirlwind crazy as I'd thought (though I am having insane amounts of fun going out with the girls). I really want to take advantage of it, while I can.

The thing is, I'm just not a slut. I enjoy pining. I enjoy infatuation. I enjoy love. I enjoy the whole partnership thing. But my God I need a break. If I've learned anything since I've been officially without boyfriend/whatever-he-was, it's that I need to take a minute here to get my own stuff together before adding some dude in the mix. Besides, I don't want just any dude anyway. And I realize that finding a quality man (as opposed to boys masquerading as men) is probably going to take a while. I've learned to be much, much pickier.

Thus this whole 31 in 31 concept. Really, it serves as a challenge in detachment. I tried it at the bar Saturday night, just grabbed a guy by the side of his head and smacked my lips on his. He proceeded to follow me around the whole night. Which was annoying. No pining there--so far so good.

So what do ya'll think? Am I a huge whore for even considering this?

W.W.A.N.D.?

I have a black-and-white postcard baring Audrey Hepburn tacked to the bottom of a dry-erase calendar behind the door of my room. Her photo is nestled in between a photo of my college girl crew roughly 30 minutes before a male stripper arrived at our then apartment for one of our birthdays (of course this was my idea) and a photo of me at six, standing in just my underwear, my long hair down to my waist and festooned with a bandanna. I look rather angry with my hands on my hips.

Sometimes I wonder what Audrey, with her penchant for helping children in foreign countries, as a wearer of Givenchy, and the owner of both perfect eyebrows and a slight, elegant frame would not do, should she be living today. I mean, she was one classy broad. Here's what I've surmised:



What Would Audrey NOT Do?

1. Host a reality show.
2. Frequent The GasLite.
3. Wear platform Gladiator sandals.
4. Do body shots.
5. Eat a fried Twinkie.
6. Read Us Weekly. (Forget about Perez Hilton.)
7. "Forget" to wear underwear/allow the paparazzi to snap photos up her dress.
8. Associate with Denise Richards.
9. Get Botox.
10. Have a Facebook fan page.
11. Drink Red Bull/vodkas.
12. Attend Promises in Malibu.
13. Allow her thong to show over low-rider jeans.
14. Star in a film alongside Will Smith.

This is just a short list. But I do wonder sometimes what it would be like if Hollywood still had some decorum. Or just loose standards. (P.S. I've stuck to that New Year's resolution to stop reading gossip sites/trashy rag mags. I only partake while at the hair salon. Or when I have a cold. I certainly don't miss knowing what product Heidi Klum or Kelly Ripa is hawking this week. Or who's in rehab. I don't even know who Jon and Kate are--except I understand they have eight kids and she has a terribly tragic haircut. Thumbs up.)

Is it Weird...?

That I think Bradley Cooper is really, REALLY super hot in this poster? Seriously. I am only going to date guys who are this attractive when presumably hungover. And ones who actually look like heterosexual men. (As opposed to questionablysexual boys, who seem to be the only "type" I attract.) Deal? Deal.



I mean, do you see the rugged, unshaven face? The chest hair sneaking from the V of his shirt? (I'm not one for chest hair, but, hey, not ruling it out.) The dirty clothes? Bloody lip? Greasy hair? Of course, this is all juxtaposed by clear, bright eyes, and good skin, thus diminishing the potential for an altogether creepy, homeless man look. All I have to say is: swoon.

(Oh and you haven't seen The Hangover, I suggest you get yourself to a theater near you. The slideshow during the credits may be the best two minutes of movie magic ever.)

Driving Under the Influence (of Sweet Music)

I absolutely love driving.

You see, a car is not meant for merely getting from one place to another. Especially in L.A. when actually getting from one place to another often proves to be tedious, lengthy, and irritating. So, instead of playing close attention to how horrific traffic is or calculating how late I will be to a given destination, I simply pretend my car is my own private karaoke bar/dance studio. Enjoy the free show, fellow drivers, and prepare to be serenaded.

I do this by first putting at least one window down, as well as the sunroof if the temperature is over 75 degrees. Then, I plug my iPod in (just in case I can't find a good song on the radio and have to rely on my sure-thing stand-bys). Lastly, I pull out my sweet moves and vocal talents (I mean, did you see those karaoke videos?) and just let the magic happen.

But, said magic is only possible with the right music. In no particular order, here are my official Top Ten Best Driving Songs. If they don't get you busting out the white-girl fist maracas, I don't know what will. (Oh, and yes, I do have the best taste in music. Thank you for noticing.)

"I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston
"To Live and Die in L.A." by Tupac
"Womanizer" by Britney Spears
"The Way I Am" by Eminem
"Juicy" by Notorious B.I.G
"Disturbia" by Rihanna
"Out Tonight" from the Rent soundtrack
"Love in This Club" by Usher
"Here I Go Again on My Own" by Whitesnake
"Like a Rollin Stone" by Bob Dylan
"M79" by Vampire Weekend
"Man I Feel Like a Woman" by Shania Twain

(Okay, okay, that's twelve. And, actually, I could keep going. But, I won't in the interest of time, space, and fear of being judged for my erratic taste.)

Now, if you hear one of these songs on full blast while you're deadlocked on the 10, take a look around, you just may see me bust a move.

An Ode to The GasLite

So. Right after my 25th birthday two and a half short months ago, I proclaimed that I would not longer be frequenting a certain Santa Monica establishment. Said establishment coerced me into doing bad things, which included, but were not limited to: spilling drinks on myself, kissing random boys (not the one I was dating), singing karaoke without my knowledge, flirting with creepy older men so they would buy me drinks (which I certainly didn't need), dancing erratically, and hanging on people.

If you're thinking, "Wow, Natasha, good thing you can acknowledge your problem of making a complete ass of yourself. You are way past such sophomoric behavior," you are about to be disappointed.

Because, actually, since my declaration of abstinence, I have frequented that fabulous Santa Monica establishment three times. It just keeps getting better and better. Maybe this is because I have not been to many places in L.A. I have heard of amazing mystical places people enjoy--Miaygi's, Sky Bar, Social Hollywood, Hyde--but, seriously, these are way too cool for me.

Call me uncultured. Call me not really from L.A. Sorry, dudes, I prefer The GasLite.

My going-out preferences are much like my wine ones. Nothing fancy, just dark and cheap. At The GasLite, I can sing (scream) "Since You've Been Gone." On a stage. With mylar streamers behind me and real lights illuminating my super-stardom-ness. I can walk into the men's bathroom to watch a guy puke and tell him not to wave his Blackberry over the toilet, only for him to yell at me. I can buy a round of Patron shots from my friends and still afford my rent. I can tell the bartender to surprise me and she will--with something awesome. And, by God, I can make-out with random boys beneath hazy dark-reddish lighting. Eat your heart out Miyagi's. You've got nothin' on my GasLite.

Apparently, a woman having her birthday party there the other night thanked Julie for letting her group "take over" our bar. Since we were clearly GasLite regulars. I'm going to take that as a compliment, obviously.

On Honesty

Recently I wrote about how I decided to email/otherwise message guys I had dated to clear the air/say the things I had always wanted to say them but just didn't. (I repeat: I did this without the help of substances such as wine. I know.)

While doing this was not only fun in that holy-shit-this-is-scary-and-probably-a-huge-mistake sort of way, airing what had been trapped in me felt really freeing. Like a huge exhale. Finally.

But why did I even have to send post-humous messages at all? Oh, that's right, because every time I know precisely what I want to say, I either freeze in the moment (a la Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail--LOVE that movie), or I just decide (convince myself) that speaking up is a bad idea. As I've gotten older I've found it is even more difficult to say what I need to to say, as John Mayer puts it.

There are several factors contributing to this affliction, in no particular order:

Fear
Rejection (fear of)
Pride (fear of having none)
Not wanting to hurt the another person's feelings
Not wanting to be responsible for hurting another person's feelings
(I'm sure there are more, but these are the ones I came up with in two minutes.)

All being honest boils down to is: fear.

Someone once told me that he couldn't be honest, as if there was some kind of blockage or tangible entity preventing him from doing so. Really, it was an excuse. The only factor that prevents people from being honest with each other is the fear of what will happen next if you actually tell the truth.

This week, I am vowing to pay extra attention to my honestly levels: when I am saying certain things just for the perceived benefit of the other person (lying-by-omission, typically), when I am telling white lies to get myself out of situations, or just straight up lying out of a fear of whatever. I wonder how difficult it will be to really, fully be honest--without agenda, without ego, and certainly, without fear.

Whoa. Seriously Guys.

I would just like to proclaim that I, the incomparable Miss Natasha Burton, have been single for an entire month. I have kissed no boys. I have shown no legit interest in a boy. I have not pined for a boy and, while I would say I have not whined over a boy either, that is a lie, because I have. (If you can't be honest with yourself, who can you be honest with? Oh, that's right. Nobody. Ugh...fine. I pined. A little.)

But! I feel very accomplished. And so to celebrate said singleness, I think you should head over to my friend Carrie's blog and read/watch her post commemorating various tributes to Beyonce's "Single Ladies." (I particularly love The Dan Band's version.)

Because, really guys, if you wanted this, then you shoulda put a ring on it. (Now put your hands up...Oh oh oh...oh oh oh..oh...oh oh)

And, yes, I really do get a kick out of myself over here. Besides, you had your turn and now you're gonna learn what it really feels like to miss me... Can't. Stop. The. Singing.

Things that Give Me Joy

Wine on Pine
Photos of little dogs in dresses emailed to me by my Mom
Emails from Jenn
Two-inch Cappuccino foam
Writing red flags
Beyonce
Facebook pokes
Editing my thesis until my eyes want to fall out
Meagan and my wall-to-wall
Non-covertly running away from people I don't want to see
Savasana
Ryan's harmonium
Sofie, Sascha, Scout, and the Pold
When someone comments on my blog (hint hint)
The GasLite
Re-reading diary entries
Really good metaphors (extra joy if I create them)
Ruling the world with Meagan and Julie
The New Moon trailer
Cha Cha Chicken
Britney

New Interviews on Fancast.com

Check out my chats with Master of the Grill Bobby Flay and Deadliest Catch Captain Phil Harris.

Phil was probably my most fun interviewee, ever. At one point, which didn't make the actual story, we were talking about life at sea and he asked me if I was married. I said no. So, he was like, well, do you have a boyfriend? I said I got nothin'. He said, good, keep it that way. Thanks Cap'n Phil.