I was mindlessly trolling the Internet this evening and came across a WikiHow article entitled "How to Convince a Girl to Buy You a Drink", which pretty much made me want to kill myself.
Now, there is nothing wrong with girls buying guys drinks. I've somehow cultivated a circle of very gentlemanly male friends, which means I rarely buy my own drinks, so I enjoy treating guys when they let me. Which is not often. (And with my teacher's salary, their generosity is very much appreciated.) I do have a problem with people who assume that another person should buy them anything. And I especially cannot stand the girl who leans on a bar and asks/demands the complete (male) stranger standing next to her to buy her a drink. I don't care if it's her birthday or whatever. It's rude.
So, when I came across this article, I was, at first, amused. In fact, I looked forward to reading about the creative ways the author may have devised to give girls a taste of their own medicine. But then I realized that said author was a douche. (And an anonymous one at that--good call buddy.)
Apparently, the way to get a girl to buy you a drink is to tell her a really awesome story about this super chill time when some totally bangin' chick bought you a drink. Here's the example given:
Check this out. I was at this bar the other night and I met this really cool girl and we hit it off so she offered to buy me a drink. So I agreed and we walked over to the bar and I told her since she's buying, she has to choose the drink. She gave like this evil smile that made me worried, kind of like your smile, and she ordered something I can’t even pronounce from the bartender. Then the bartender started smiling and I was like, hooooolly $#&#. This cannot be good. So the bartender mixed a bunch of stuff up and put it together and then I swear, he lit it on fire, and while it’s still on fire this girl tells me to down it! So we both downed it and I felt fine - till like 30 seconds later - I don’t think I've ever been that drunk from one drink in my entire life! A great night though!
If the girl hasn't broken a bottle over your head (and used the serrated edge to slit her own throat), then you should say to her, "I doubt if when you buy me a drink it'll be that exciting but I'm sure that with a little creativity we can think of something..." Author/douche points out that "if you look closely" you will see how this statement makes assumptions that the girl has already agreed to buy you a drink. It also makes an assumption that if she doesn't, she sucks. And that even if she does buy you one, it can't possibly top fake girl's drink-purchasing. Genius. Here would be my question, if that girl was so cool, why isn't he with her now?
The article goes on to dispense other tactics, including magic tricks and number games which sound suspiciously (exactly) like Mystery's tactics in The Game, which would, no doubt, convince a woman to choke herself rather than shell out $8+ for some guy.
The only good part of this article was the "warning" at the bottom, which read: "Women who roll their eyes and don't display a sense of humor in response to your antics aren't worth your time. Move on." Right. I get that the advice is lighthearted and all but the author/douche assumes women are stupid. And that we should humor some stupid guy who we don't even know and probably didn't want to talk to in the first place. And then we should spent money on him.
Luckily, in the wake of my utter disappointment in WikiHow, I found solace in T-Pain's enduring classic, "Buy U A Drank," which can be viewed here.
Bender to Remember
Since turning in my thesis on July 23, 2009, I have done nothing. Okay, that's a lie. I have been drinking. A lot.
In college, I wasn't what one would call a "partier." I went out. I threw up in some guy's bed one time. I made an ass of myself continually. But any kind of that-girl behavior lasted maybe, maybe, a semester. So I decided I should make up for that by celebrating my Master-dom via alcohol.
I've been drinking on the beach, with friends, with my parents, with Julie's parents, by myself while cooking dinner, at happy hour, at baseball games, in dive bars, in Georgia, while singing karaoke, while watching the movie Ski School, from the bottle, in a glass, in a red plastic cup, just drinking, drinking, and, yes, drinking. I mean, I've been going out approximately four times a week. Which feels like always. Which makes my liver feel like giving up.
With the start of the fall semester just two days away, I find myself literally unable to wait. Which is why I am concurrently writing about this anticipation to get back to work as well as making a to-do list of all the tasks I must complete on Monday to ready myself for 15 weeks of hardcore teaching. (Photocopies! Setting up my gradebook! Editing my syllabus!) Perhaps I am super-excited partly because I am also super-hungover. And I know that, at this time next week, that will not be the case.
It's been fun guys, my new crew of Blue Moon, Amstel, various Cabernets, and that weird champagne drink at Anisette, but our time is almost up. And I am glad for it. This sense of relief may or may not have something to do with the fact that, last night, I fell on a public sidewalk and lost a shoe. And was very much that-girl. Plus I kinda have a beer belly. Which I know is super hot and everything but it kinda makes wearing my jeans difficult. Don't even get me started on actually putting them on.
My bender is scheduled to commence tomorrow at midnight, when I am likely to be even more looking forward to not feeling like I'm going to die when I wake up in the morning. But a commitment is a commitment. So, for the next 24 hours: bottoms up.
In college, I wasn't what one would call a "partier." I went out. I threw up in some guy's bed one time. I made an ass of myself continually. But any kind of that-girl behavior lasted maybe, maybe, a semester. So I decided I should make up for that by celebrating my Master-dom via alcohol.
I've been drinking on the beach, with friends, with my parents, with Julie's parents, by myself while cooking dinner, at happy hour, at baseball games, in dive bars, in Georgia, while singing karaoke, while watching the movie Ski School, from the bottle, in a glass, in a red plastic cup, just drinking, drinking, and, yes, drinking. I mean, I've been going out approximately four times a week. Which feels like always. Which makes my liver feel like giving up.
With the start of the fall semester just two days away, I find myself literally unable to wait. Which is why I am concurrently writing about this anticipation to get back to work as well as making a to-do list of all the tasks I must complete on Monday to ready myself for 15 weeks of hardcore teaching. (Photocopies! Setting up my gradebook! Editing my syllabus!) Perhaps I am super-excited partly because I am also super-hungover. And I know that, at this time next week, that will not be the case.
It's been fun guys, my new crew of Blue Moon, Amstel, various Cabernets, and that weird champagne drink at Anisette, but our time is almost up. And I am glad for it. This sense of relief may or may not have something to do with the fact that, last night, I fell on a public sidewalk and lost a shoe. And was very much that-girl. Plus I kinda have a beer belly. Which I know is super hot and everything but it kinda makes wearing my jeans difficult. Don't even get me started on actually putting them on.
My bender is scheduled to commence tomorrow at midnight, when I am likely to be even more looking forward to not feeling like I'm going to die when I wake up in the morning. But a commitment is a commitment. So, for the next 24 hours: bottoms up.
Starting with the Woman in the Mirror
I'm starting with the man in the mirror/I'm asking him to change his ways./And no message could have been any clearer/If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.
Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" has become my anthem for 2009. I rediscovered the song after he died, and the lyrics made a lot of sense to me, likely because one theme, or repeated action, I should say, in my book (the thesis--but I'm going to call it a "book" to hopefully manifest its publication) is looking at myself in the mirror.
As an only child growing up, I learned to rely on myself in many ways. I became very independent, but more so, I was able to just enjoy my own company, a trait which carried over into adulthood. I started doing this weird thing as a kid: If I was by myself and something happened, maybe I tripped over my own feet or saw a person I knew from school while out shopping, or whatever really, I would find some kind of reflective surface and catch my own eye. It was like there was always someone there to share the moment with.
And maybe it's embarrassing to admit, but I still do this all the time, without even thinking about it. Perhaps it's comforting to know that the girl looking back at me isn't going anywhere, that she'll always respond with a quick smile, a brow-raised glance, or that eye-roll of which we are both so fond.
Anyway. A lot has changed for me in this past year, aside from moving into my own place and finishing grad school. It's more of an attitude-adjustment. (And not the kind my mom warned me I needed when I was being snotty as a kid.) For a long time, I'd forgotten about my "woman in the mirror." Holy Jesus that sounds cheesy, and I do apologize, but it's true. I was so concerned with pleasing other people, of ensuring that those people liked me, that I was being the type of girl I thought other people wanted me to be. I didn't just aim to please my long-term boyfriend, but my parents, friends, anyone, really. But who wasn't I pleasing? Ah, yes, myself. Bad idea.
Well, that's changed. Of course I still want people to like me, so please do continue to do so, but I realized that if I wished for things to change in my life, I needed to start with me. There's a principle called the Markov property, which states that future outcomes only depend on the present, not on the past. While it's a scary mathematical process, I've found this property to be applicable to life. Here's how it was posed to me: If you flip a coin a hundred times and it always lands on heads, what's the probability that it will land on heads the 101st flip? Fifty-fifty.
So, no matter what my part behavior has been, no matter if I've been neglecting that chick in the mirror, I always have a chance to make that change. I can go either way, fifty-fifty. And it's somewhat terrifying for me to make the choice to not act in ways that I think will convince people to like me or to keep liking me. Especially because I have always been that pleaser who tries to ensure that they do and will.
Right now there is one person I want to please, who I can no longer disappoint. She's staring right back at me in the mirror. And just rolled her eyes a little bit because that sounded really corny. But hey, if you wanna make the world a better place, you gotta take a look at yourself and make that change...
***Note: I do realize that what MJ is talking about in the song is making the world at large a better place, helping the homeless, etc. I'm just narcissistic-ly applying it to my own little world, okay? Okay.
Michael Jackson's "Man in the Mirror" has become my anthem for 2009. I rediscovered the song after he died, and the lyrics made a lot of sense to me, likely because one theme, or repeated action, I should say, in my book (the thesis--but I'm going to call it a "book" to hopefully manifest its publication) is looking at myself in the mirror.
As an only child growing up, I learned to rely on myself in many ways. I became very independent, but more so, I was able to just enjoy my own company, a trait which carried over into adulthood. I started doing this weird thing as a kid: If I was by myself and something happened, maybe I tripped over my own feet or saw a person I knew from school while out shopping, or whatever really, I would find some kind of reflective surface and catch my own eye. It was like there was always someone there to share the moment with.
And maybe it's embarrassing to admit, but I still do this all the time, without even thinking about it. Perhaps it's comforting to know that the girl looking back at me isn't going anywhere, that she'll always respond with a quick smile, a brow-raised glance, or that eye-roll of which we are both so fond.
Anyway. A lot has changed for me in this past year, aside from moving into my own place and finishing grad school. It's more of an attitude-adjustment. (And not the kind my mom warned me I needed when I was being snotty as a kid.) For a long time, I'd forgotten about my "woman in the mirror." Holy Jesus that sounds cheesy, and I do apologize, but it's true. I was so concerned with pleasing other people, of ensuring that those people liked me, that I was being the type of girl I thought other people wanted me to be. I didn't just aim to please my long-term boyfriend, but my parents, friends, anyone, really. But who wasn't I pleasing? Ah, yes, myself. Bad idea.
Well, that's changed. Of course I still want people to like me, so please do continue to do so, but I realized that if I wished for things to change in my life, I needed to start with me. There's a principle called the Markov property, which states that future outcomes only depend on the present, not on the past. While it's a scary mathematical process, I've found this property to be applicable to life. Here's how it was posed to me: If you flip a coin a hundred times and it always lands on heads, what's the probability that it will land on heads the 101st flip? Fifty-fifty.
So, no matter what my part behavior has been, no matter if I've been neglecting that chick in the mirror, I always have a chance to make that change. I can go either way, fifty-fifty. And it's somewhat terrifying for me to make the choice to not act in ways that I think will convince people to like me or to keep liking me. Especially because I have always been that pleaser who tries to ensure that they do and will.
Right now there is one person I want to please, who I can no longer disappoint. She's staring right back at me in the mirror. And just rolled her eyes a little bit because that sounded really corny. But hey, if you wanna make the world a better place, you gotta take a look at yourself and make that change...
***Note: I do realize that what MJ is talking about in the song is making the world at large a better place, helping the homeless, etc. I'm just narcissistic-ly applying it to my own little world, okay? Okay.
Okay I Lied.
About two months ago, I proclaimed that I hadn't been single in ten years. This is not true.
At the time I wrote said statement I wholeheartedly believed it. After all, in the past ten years I've been involved with guys pretty much fluidly, in that one flowed right into the other. The part that's a stretch was my state-of-singledom.
Single to me months ago meant "un-occupied." (Now, it means, more correctly, "without boyfriend.") Sure, I've been "occupied" for the past ten years. I always had some kind of crush (or, let's be honest, obsession). But does that mean I wasn't single? Surely not. Does the idea of not being single for ten years sound like an interesting narrative to tell about myself? Of course.
One of Julie's friends came to L.A. a couple weeks ago and taught me something I will never forget. She said that I can change my narrative after the fact. That sometimes, when someone asks her about an ex (or just a guy she dated), she will downplay the whole thing if that guy wasn't someone she was exactly proud to have spent so much time with.
So, while I've just confessed to stretching the truth, I'm going to also confess in advance that I am (from now on) going to shrink it instead. I suppose it's not really lying, it's more being honest about what really was instead of trying to have a good story to tell.
Here's the new narrative: In the past ten years I've had two boyfriends. One in high school. One in college. The other guys were just lapses in judgment along the way. They certainly weren't partners. Nor boyfriends. Merely the tangible signs of my insecurity and immaturity. Discounting them, I've been single for four and a half out of ten years.
However, and this may seem odd considering how ecstatic I've been about being single (and for the first time ever!), I am single no more. In the sense of my more recent definition of the word. They say that when you aren't looking someone amazing comes along and, well, he has. Perhaps he is partly to blame for my new outlook on the guys with whom I formerly occupied myself. Because, in comparison, they totally suck balls.
At the time I wrote said statement I wholeheartedly believed it. After all, in the past ten years I've been involved with guys pretty much fluidly, in that one flowed right into the other. The part that's a stretch was my state-of-singledom.
Single to me months ago meant "un-occupied." (Now, it means, more correctly, "without boyfriend.") Sure, I've been "occupied" for the past ten years. I always had some kind of crush (or, let's be honest, obsession). But does that mean I wasn't single? Surely not. Does the idea of not being single for ten years sound like an interesting narrative to tell about myself? Of course.
One of Julie's friends came to L.A. a couple weeks ago and taught me something I will never forget. She said that I can change my narrative after the fact. That sometimes, when someone asks her about an ex (or just a guy she dated), she will downplay the whole thing if that guy wasn't someone she was exactly proud to have spent so much time with.
So, while I've just confessed to stretching the truth, I'm going to also confess in advance that I am (from now on) going to shrink it instead. I suppose it's not really lying, it's more being honest about what really was instead of trying to have a good story to tell.
Here's the new narrative: In the past ten years I've had two boyfriends. One in high school. One in college. The other guys were just lapses in judgment along the way. They certainly weren't partners. Nor boyfriends. Merely the tangible signs of my insecurity and immaturity. Discounting them, I've been single for four and a half out of ten years.
However, and this may seem odd considering how ecstatic I've been about being single (and for the first time ever!), I am single no more. In the sense of my more recent definition of the word. They say that when you aren't looking someone amazing comes along and, well, he has. Perhaps he is partly to blame for my new outlook on the guys with whom I formerly occupied myself. Because, in comparison, they totally suck balls.
Maybe it's just me...
...but watching Sex and the City makes me hate men. A little. Not actually hate but strongly dislike. And distrust.
I was watching the episode where Carrie catches Big on a date with another woman (she thought they were dating exclusively...she thought wrong). After that happens, they go to a party together and one of his friends calls Carrie the wrong name--one which belongs to another woman Big's been dating (no, not the one she saw him on a date with, a different one). So she gets all pissed and ends up hanging out with another guy instead and then pathetically calls Big and pretty much begs him to meet her at 3 a.m. in a park.
No one wants to date that guy. And no one wants to be that girl because of him.
Of course, I don't know if Carrie and Big had had "the talk" at that point in the show. For the record, I hate "the talk." I hate wondering when "the talk" might occur. I hate the fact that I am (as the woman) not supposed to initiate "the talk," however the guy typically won't do so unless he is pressed into it, which puts me in a really bad spot because, and I hate this too, "the talk" is necessary for my mental sanity and relationship-self-esteem.
Anyway. Big sucks. I think I must have been the only girl on earth not happy watching the SATC series finale. Aiden was a much, much better choice.
I was watching the episode where Carrie catches Big on a date with another woman (she thought they were dating exclusively...she thought wrong). After that happens, they go to a party together and one of his friends calls Carrie the wrong name--one which belongs to another woman Big's been dating (no, not the one she saw him on a date with, a different one). So she gets all pissed and ends up hanging out with another guy instead and then pathetically calls Big and pretty much begs him to meet her at 3 a.m. in a park.
No one wants to date that guy. And no one wants to be that girl because of him.
Of course, I don't know if Carrie and Big had had "the talk" at that point in the show. For the record, I hate "the talk." I hate wondering when "the talk" might occur. I hate the fact that I am (as the woman) not supposed to initiate "the talk," however the guy typically won't do so unless he is pressed into it, which puts me in a really bad spot because, and I hate this too, "the talk" is necessary for my mental sanity and relationship-self-esteem.
Anyway. Big sucks. I think I must have been the only girl on earth not happy watching the SATC series finale. Aiden was a much, much better choice.
Good Morning
I had a fleeting memory the other day of someone, I presumed an ex-boyfriend, who once told me that I look cute in the morning. (For the record, I do not look cute in the morning. It takes a good hour for my eyes to fully open, I usually have pillow indentations etching my cheeks, and don't even get me started on the typically-ridiculous state of my hair.)
Anyway, the point of me writing about this is because I could not for the life of me remember which guy had said this to me (a comment which stuck because it made me feel far less self-conscious about looking like an unlovable goon when I wake up). And then I realized, it wasn't a guy at all.
It was my roommate, Meagan.
I know I said I had a point here, and truth be told, I am not quite sure what it is exactly--if there is anything significant in thinking such a memorable compliment came from a guy I was sleeping with when it was in fact bestowed by my female partner-in-crime. I guess, for someone like me who runs on male attention, there is something valuable and different in relishing positive reinforcement from Meagan. Especially because now when I wake up in the morning, I do feel a little cuter, thanks to her.
Kate Plus Eight Minus Jerk-Off Husband
I haven't really been following this whole Jon and Kate Plus Eight thing, but I bought an issue of OK! for my flight to Georgia and got myself caught up. Frankly, I'm horrified.
Here's what I don't understand: When did fatherhood become optional?
As a young woman, who plans to get married and have children one day, I am somewhat terrified of the idea that my future husband might one day decide, oh, sorry, being in this family isn't for me anymore. Of course, I don't know the whole story and just read one little article about the situation, and really don't care about Jon or Kate or why they have a bajillion kids, but seriously, what the fuck?
A couple weeks ago, I picked up an issue of Time while in a waiting room and came across an article about the state of marriage in America today. There was a quote from writer Leonard Michaels which knocked the wind out of me: "Adultery is not about sex or romance. Ultimately, it is about how little we mean to one another." What's scarier to me than ending up a single mom, and alone, is this idea that someone you thought loved you can so quickly decide he doesn't.
I think about relationships I have had, how they all start out exciting and happy, and have, so far, ended much less so. While I try to not be a pessimist, I can't help but worry now when I see Kate on the cover of various tabloids, how the life she thought was secure melted away because her husband decided he wanted to screw women ten years her junior. I'm sure they started out excited and happy, and in love, just like the rest of us.
Here's what I don't understand: When did fatherhood become optional?
As a young woman, who plans to get married and have children one day, I am somewhat terrified of the idea that my future husband might one day decide, oh, sorry, being in this family isn't for me anymore. Of course, I don't know the whole story and just read one little article about the situation, and really don't care about Jon or Kate or why they have a bajillion kids, but seriously, what the fuck?
A couple weeks ago, I picked up an issue of Time while in a waiting room and came across an article about the state of marriage in America today. There was a quote from writer Leonard Michaels which knocked the wind out of me: "Adultery is not about sex or romance. Ultimately, it is about how little we mean to one another." What's scarier to me than ending up a single mom, and alone, is this idea that someone you thought loved you can so quickly decide he doesn't.
I think about relationships I have had, how they all start out exciting and happy, and have, so far, ended much less so. While I try to not be a pessimist, I can't help but worry now when I see Kate on the cover of various tabloids, how the life she thought was secure melted away because her husband decided he wanted to screw women ten years her junior. I'm sure they started out excited and happy, and in love, just like the rest of us.
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