The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

The Creepiest Sweater Ever?

This is an actual sweater for sale in a store. I don’t really know what the creature woven into the front of it is supposed to be. It looks like a bunch of different weird things, including a flasher, a cockroach, and a cockroach flasher. My boyfriend thinks it looks like an omen in a scary Japanese movie that would pop out from behind trees and shit to remind you of your mortality. Whatever it is, its red eyes and the fact that it looks like it’s fleeing from a predator seriously give me the heebie-jeebies.

Damnit, Cupid, So NOT OKAY: The OkCupid Trials, Date 2

Another guy that I met on OkCupid looked very promising from his online dating profile. It said that he was from Louisiana, he was a graphic designer, and he was tall and wore glasses. I was convinced that this was the guy for me. Then I met him.

In real life, he was gangly and awkward, like a male version of Olive Oyl, and his glasses were crooked. He was also, hands-down, the MOST BORING PERSON I’VE EVER MET. He was so boring that I briefly contemplated pretending to pass out/slide off of the banquette we were sitting on just so I could get taken away in an ambulance and not have to talk to him anymore.

Here’s a little anecdote from the hour-long date that really drives home how awful he was. At one point, over our ONE BEER, he asked me if I’d ever seen the movie “The Cove.” I hadn’t, simply because a movie about the systematic slaughter of adorable, innocent dolphins doesn’t appeal to me. I feel like I’ve seen it NOW, though, because when I told him I hadn’t seen it, he proceeded to give me a full recap of its plot that felt like it lasted roughly four times as long as the movie itself. I don’t know why he thought this was good date chat. I’m pretty sure that there isn’t a woman in the world who would find hearing about defenseless, majestic sea beasts being harpooned in the head to be a turn-on (okay, maybe Karla Homolka, but that’s it). Then again, he WAS on a dating website, so I don’t really know why I was so shocked by his social ineptitude.   

Towards the forty minute mark, I remember saying to him, “Well, I’m finished with my beer, so maybe we should wrap this up.” His response? “Well, I still have half of my beer to go.” I should’ve looked him dead in the eye right then and said, “You’re the most boring person I’ve ever met and speaking with you is less fun than having my toe chewed on by a wild rat,” but instead, I just weakly said, “Okay,” and sat there like a lump until he finally finished his beer.

After awkwardly waving goodbye to him the minute we set foot outside the bar, I speed-walked away and never looked back. He must have gotten the hint from my dead-eyed, forty-yard stare, because we never spoke again. Thankfully.

My New Friend, Miss Flourence!

I don’t have very many girlfriends at all, and most of the ones I *do* have don’t live in NYC (I’m talking to you, Samalie). The thing is, I can’t for the life of me figure out how to meet new girls. It’s not like I can go to a bar and pick up a friend there. That would be totally weird and like the beginning of a Lifetime movie in which I eventually end up wearing my new friend’s face and driving off of a cliff with her mom in my trunk or something.

Anyway, it’s because of my lack of girlfriends that I was super enthused when I received the following e-mail today (punctuation and capitalization intact):

Hello

I’m miss Flourence, interested in you and i wish to have you as my friend, for a friend is all about Respect, Admiration, love and passion. Also friendship is consist of sharing of ideas and planing together, i intend to send you my picture for you, if you reply me.

Thanks from Flourence.

I mean, how serendipitous is that? Miss Flourence intends to send me her picture for me if I reply her! This is huge! My only concern is that she and I disagree about whether or not a friend is all about passion. To me, that seems kind of like a sex thing, but maybe I just don’t know much about ladies. Also, I’m confused about the definition of ‘planing.’ I’m scared to death of heights, so if that’s Bratislavian code for ‘hang gliding,’ I’m not down. Fingers crossed, guys – fingers crossed.

 

 

Now THIS is a Subway Nut I could get DOWN With.

This. Video. Is. ABSURD. I’ve never seen such an over-the-top response to a simple foot stomp. Honestly, subway foot stomps happen ALL THE TIME. Part of the fun of taking the subway is finding out how many of your toes aren’t broken at the end of the ride. The only instance in which this might be an appropriate response to the situation at hand would be if this woman had guessed Rumpelstiltskin’s name and he STILL insisted on spiriting away with her baby.

Café con Lechery

An old friend reminded me tonight of a rather disturbing thing that happened to me in a Starbucks when I was a teenager. I had been waiting innocently at the bar for my coffee, and I’d asked the barista for whipped cream on top of my drink. Overhearing my request, an older man who was also waiting for his drink leaned over to me and said, with a lecherous arch of his eyebrow and a twinkle in his eye, “So, you like your fat whipped?”

That’s right: he was trying to confirm whether or not I did, indeed, “like my fat whipped.” I’m pretty sure that the reason I had blocked this memory out until tonight was because WHAT WHO SAYS THAT. I mean, think about it. In one measly little sentence, this peculiar creep managed to be sexually inappropriate, socially inappropriate AND to make a reference to my FAT, for Christ’s sake! I’m pretty sure the words, “Well, I never!” came out of my mouth in response, mostly because I talk like an old-timey schoolmarm when I feel threatened.

Retrospectively, though? Thanks for the laugh, you greasy pervert, you. Thanks for the laugh.

On Courtney Stodden and her Grey-Faced Husband

On Courtney Stodden and her Grey-Faced Husband

Courtney Stodden, the 18-year-old child bride of some old dude who was apparently on Lost or something, has become a fixture on the gossip blogs for her undeniably classy wardrobe of gold lame, 7″ lucite stripper heels, and a chest that Tori Spelling would kill a man for. She claims to be ‘the real deal,’ completely devoid of any surgical enhancement, but on a scale of ‘Normal Human to Amanda Lepore,’ Stoddard comes in at a solid ‘Jackie Stallone.’ Most recently, she attended some event for the King of Thailand (seriously WTF), and here in the above link are some photos of how subdued and subtly chic she looked that night. What I really can’t get over is the fact that her husband (HUSBAND!) is straight up GREY. His pigeon-colored teeth match his ash-colored face, and the overall effect is that he looks like a gargoyle in an ill-fitting satin shirt and Steve Madden platform shoes. Imagine having to get in bed next to that every night! Actually, he probably sleeps in a coffin, so I bet Courtney gets the whole bed to herself. It’s the little things, I guess.

A Hair’s Tale

When I was 16, I had my hair chemically straightened for the first time by a surly gentleman in a hair salon in Koreatown. It was a surreal experience; the whole process took – I kid you not – 8 hours, and I was left with a lasting memory when the guy BURNT MY SCALP so badly that the hairs on that patch of head don’t grow right anymore.

Anyway, since then, I’ve been on a quest to find my holy grail of hair conditioners. When I saw that Ulta was selling something online called a ‘Macadamia Natural Oil Deep Repair Masque,’ I knew I had to have it. It seemed so exotic – and people said it magically transformed their hair from dry, straw-like birds’ nests into silky, touchable Mermaid hair. I bought it.

The little brown package finally arrived in the mail a few weeks later. As I was opening the wrapping, I could hear a chorus of angels softly humming a Take 6 song. I felt like King Arthur. And when I finally untwisted the top of the jar and smelled the glory of the Macadamia nut? Well, hey, I’ll admit it – I cried a little bit.

I decided the best way to make use of this ‘masque’ would be to leave it on overnight. That way, it would have time to work into my poor, dry hair, and in the morning, I would look like Alessandra Ambrosio. When I finally rinsed it out, I decided not to put anything else in my hair, to just let it dry naturally. You know, mermaid hair, a chorus of angels, etc., etc. And so I let it dry.

It was like a scene out of a horror movie when, a few hours later, I finally looked in the mirror and saw a member of the Westboro Baptist Church staring back at me.