It's Not You, It's My Chemical Imbalance (Part 3 of a Series)

Where did we leave off? It’s been kind of awhile. I blame the whirlwind of holiday parties and holiday shopping and  holiday family fun-time I’ve enviously been watching other people indulge in and pretending like I don’t care about that kind of stuff (but more on that in my next post).  Back to the matter at hand: crazy bitches and why we’re all so crazy.

To recap: ...When the crazy bug bites, pull out the laminated print-out of this multi-part post that you always keep handy and consult and send me a signed blank check for graciously bestowing my considerable knowledge upon all you damsels in dementia out there:

P.S. I am offering a $1gazillion reward to anyone who can teach me to follow my own advice.

-It’s Not You, It’s My Chemical Imbalance. Well, this one is going to make me sound like a huuuuge hypocrite, but...oversharing is NOT caring, and showing a guy you’ve been seeing for 2 weeks your Eli Lilly-sustaining stash of psychosomatic prescriptions in order to insure yourself against being grouped in with all those other ‘crazy girls who are just crazy’ because you have a  LEGITIMATE MENTAL DISORDER is not a good move, and although Natalie Portman rocked a helmet in Garden State as evidence that she was ‘damaged-and-vulnerable-but-worth-it-because-Zach-Braff-loved-seeing-the-world-through-her-kaleidoscopic-freak-colored-glasses’, few things are scarier to anyone than real-life crazies, and you are not as cute as Natalie Portman and therefore the helmet would just look stupid on you, anyway.
And while we’re on the subject of medical excuses, stop vilifying the period. “I only called you 36 times in half an hour because I’m PMS-ing right now and I’m all bloated and hormonal” is not an exonerative declaration, and Aunt Flo shouldn’t have to come to your aid.  
Even if you really ARE certifiable, and even if you really DO turn into a Gorgon the week before you menstruate, there’s actually no such thing as a “good excuse” for any of the maniacal chicanery with which we continue to afflict ourselves. So stop looking for one.

-WWCBD? (What Would Carrie Bradshaw Do?) Oh, Carrie! Champion of the Single Girls Everywhere, always impeccably dressed (cute ballgown you're wearing at THIS OUTDOOR ARABIAN SPICE MARKET), so quirky and adorable and, yay!, she landed her man after chasing him desperately around New York City (and once on a train to San Francisco) for over a fucking decade, displaying all sorts of erratic behavior (poor Aidan probably got it the worst - she didn't even want to wear his ENGAGEMENT ring around her finger) that lots of unsuspecting and very handsome men found charming and sexy along the way...
Wait. Stop. Most of us aren't obscenely rich, self-obsessed cunts, and life is not an HBO sitcom.  So next time you think some guy is going to find it endearing that you MADE UP A FAKE BOOK IDEA IN ORDER TO MEET HIS PUBLISHER/EX-WIFE AND ENDED UP BEFRIENDING HER, realize that just because HBO is not TV, that doesn't make it reality, either.

So, where’s the life lesson in all of this?

Kind of.

Our ill-conceived incongruities are really just the petulant offspring of Helplessness and Desperation. We act crazy because we don’t know what else to do or how else to act, and even though it isn’t the right thing to do, it happens sometimes, but a case of the crazies is easily treated with a stern admonishing and a little compassion. I’m not saying that we should have carte blanche to behave like completely demented head cases every time some poor schmuck doesn’t notice our new highlights or fails to return a missed call within 30 fucking seconds (OR ELSE ALL HELL WILL BREAK LOOSE), but cut us some fucking slack sometimes, ok?

And, ladies, if all else fails, and your demented high jinks get you eighty-sixed AGAIN, hold your heads up high, pop a benzo, and warble in your best breathy, sleepy, Nembutol-induced Marilyn,

“If you can’t handle me at my worst, then you don’t deserve me at my best.”

Then march your ass home, put on a slutty outfit, and find a Karaoke bar. Chances are they have that ubiquitous Gloria Gaynor girl power tune cued up and waiting for you.

It's Not You, It's My Chemical Imbalance (part 2 of a series)

Apologies for the 2-day delay. You know how things get after a[n] (8-month-long) holiday weekend/employment "sabbatical", as I've been calling it to assuage the internal pain and shame.

Any-hoo, happy Thanksgiving. As thankful as I am for you, my ardent fans, I would be even more thankful if you guys would evangelize the shit out of Insert Clever Pun Here; but not because I asked you to - because you want to (and I know you do).

Previously, on Insert Clever Pun Here... When the crazy bug bites, pull out the laminated print-out of this multi-part post that you always keep handy and consult and send me a signed blank check for graciously bestowing my considerable knowledge upon all you damsels in dementia out there:

P.S. I am offering a $1gazillion reward to anyone who can teach me to follow my own advice.

I have chosen this song for the opening credits:

-What to Expect When You're Expecting. Harboring expectations is a surefire way to incite the crazy mob to start rioting in your brain.  For instance, I hate shaving my legs.  It is time consuming, it gives me dry skin, and I have to change my blade more frequently (and that shit gets expensive).  This gripe applies only to my legs and NO OTHER body parts.  Anyway, I think that the amount of mental frustration I've overcome in order to drag a dulling Venus blade across BOTH of my legs while the hot water runs out because of the extra time I have to spend in the damn shower should be rewarded with appropriate praise from the person who benefits from my silky smooth-ness: "Oh wow, thank YOU so MUCH for shaving your legs tonight, they feel great! You're. The. Best. EVER!"  Obviously this is not an appropriate thought to entertain, and I know this, but I have it, nevertheless, every single time I go compliment-less after I shave my legs, and I am left feeling empty and frustrated.  This is a psychological theory called Cognitive dissonance, and basically it explains the mental discomfort that we feel when our expectations conflict with our experiences.
So, take your stupid expectations and throw them away, in the putrid grease disposal bin in your alley where they belong, and console yourself with the new, comforting fact that it doesn't matter that you've been dating for 11 years and he still hasn't introduced you to any of his friends or family, and that you've never been out anywhere together in public, because you are one of those super-cool girls who just goes with the flow.  This go-with-the-flow-iness will save you from ever crazily demanding why you have to leave his apartment at 5am on Sunday mornings (because you don't EXPECT to be allowed to stay later than that, anyway).

-Shut the FUCK up! When your feeble attempt at not expecting jack shit inevitably fails, you will want to Talk About It, and how it made you feel (brazenly desperate and depressed), and why the fuck he doesn’t feel like that, too, and why doesn’t he even WANT to feel like that, anyway, because all you want is for him to want you to be happy, right? RIGHT? Before you launch into a screeching diatribe, be it in person, over the telephone, or, in most cases, with a relentless and unending parade of text messages brightly hued in a gorgeous rainbow of expressions (unbridled rage, self-pitying apologies, pathetic guilt-tripping tactics, rhetorical ultimatums, and faux-self-assured sayonaras), remind yourself that guys don’t like Talking About It, because they don’t have feelings.  It’s not called “bitching” arbitrarily, so get out that industrial-strength needle and thread to sew your yap shut and throw your cell phone and computer down a well, because Silence is Golden.

-Mum’s not ALWAYS the word... If you keep your insipid weaker-sex anathemas to yourself all the time, you WILL spontaneously combust, spewing an avalanche of vile verbal excrement all over the poor shmuck who left the toilet seat up FOR THE LAST FUCKING TIME, buddy.  And you will subsequently be exiled to Elba, the island where all neurotic, conflict-crazed bedlamites go for their time-outs.  Pick your battles, and pick them wisely, because you can’t blame anyone else for driving yourself insane.

To be continued ... Visit me next week for more tips from the embodiment of a Cautionary Tale.

I have chosen this song for the closing credits:

It's Not You, It's My Chemical Imbalance (Part 1 of a series)

Readers, friends, readers who are friends, I would like to sincerely apologize for the lengthy delay.  I had slightly less to complain about than usual, having taken a brief foray into "normalcy", maybe even “happiness” (getting laid on the reg by the same person and generally having more spring in my step), and normal, happy people lack the wherewithall to pound out bitter tirades against the unfairness of life and publish them to the Internets (which is probably why, according to a 2006 study conducted at my alma mater Indiana University, “Diary writing has traditionally been associated with females, and politics and external events, the mainstays of filter blogs, have traditionally been masculine topics. Furthermore, previous research shows that females write more diary blogs, and males write a disproportionate number of filter blogs”).

Why do guys insist on holding us to higher standards of sanity when we spend a nearly quarter of our lives BLEEDING OUT OF OUR VAGINAS?  Please, please, PLEASE don’t misinterpret this as any sort of pro-feminist sentiment; most of the time I like being a girl, but we don’t get to pee standing up, or become President, and a pubic 5 o’clock shadow doesn’t have anywhere close to the sexy-scruffy allure that the one on your chin has.  If boys spent ½ the amount of time we did holding in all outbound colonic movement, they’d go fucking insane, too.

That said, I know that the entire male species isn’t just going to shout “Eureka! This girl is SO right and pretty and smart!” and start making decisions with anyone in mind but themselves (which is just one of those frustrating turn-ons that gets me all hot and bothered, anyway), and actually become COMPASSIONATE and SENSITIVE (which would also make them a bunch of sissypants ‘nice guys’ - and nice guys finish dead last), and throw us a goddamn bone for once, and stop seductively inducing the maniacal antics out of us whenever they possibly can (thereby absolving themselves of any culpability for what went wrong). It would be nice, though. A utopian paradise where men are kind and it is an accepted truth that bitches be cray cray.

Because it is an empirical fact that all girls are crazy. Even you. And you. And you, over there, shaking your head judgmentally and thinking smugly that you're sooo above drama. You're not.  However, many of you are at least less masochistic enough to extricate yourselves from an histrionic-episode-inducing situation before you lob a cinder block through dude's windshield ("It was sitting right next to your parking space, begging me to throw it, and you're the one who had some skank answer your phone and tell me you were too busy with 'Jessica' to answer my call.").

Anyhow, enough sharing.  Besides, that was YEARS ago; I've come a long way since then and restraining orders don't last forever.  When the crazy bug bites, pull out the laminated print-out of this  multi-part post that you always keep handy and consult and send me a signed blank check for graciously bestowing my considerable knowledge upon all you damsels in dementia out there:

P.S. I am offering a $1gazillion reward to anyone who can teach me to follow my own advice.

Aaand scene! Come back on Monday or I will call/text/e-mail you inexorably AND break into your apartment.

It's [not] a Date!

Hello, friends, family, stumblers, and strangers I've drunkenly handed my card to at a bar ("I write my own blog!").  It's been awhile.  I've been experiencing some blockage of the writing constitution, but 3 economy-sized tubs of Metamucil later, I'm back.  Oh, I'm back.

While picking out a job-interview-friendly outfit this morning (you know, one that says, I may have gotten fired for blogging about the evils of office smalltalk, but HIRE ME, for the love of God), I noticed that the "date clothes" section of my closet was quagmired in dust and cobwebs, and carefully cordoned off with yellow CRIME SCENE! DO NOT CROSS! tape.  Utilizing the forensic skills gleaned from 5 months of CSI reruns (and the interrogation tactics I picked up from 5 months of The Closer reruns - I'd consider crossing over to lesbianism for Kyra Sedgwick), I delved deep into the seedy, torrid underbelly of post-dating-era-Chicago(when you're me).  Here's what my investigation turned up:

1.  There is no seedy-torrid underbelly of post-dating-era-Chicago.  Dating, in the conventional sense of the word, is alive, well, thriving even.  Our country may be on the verge of a debt crisis the likes of which we've never seen, but the market for "intimate, small-plates restaurants that encourage sharing (and alcohol-induced easy conversation - but only with small-batch, artisanally-sourced craft cocktails, duh)" is in excellent health - not so much as a benign, microscopic breast lump to be had. 

2.  I set the bar low for what it takes to get me to like you. Like one of my friends said, "You're too easy going and easy to talk to".  I'm sure it's refreshing for some of you to hang out with a girl who doesn't demand the 14-courser (with wine pairings) at Alinea in order to get in some face time.  But just because I suggested a public pool for our first date doesn't mean you can suggest Blue-Box and a Netflixed 30-Rock marathon for our second.  I didn't comment on your shrinkage.  Reward me with a pat on the head and a nice meal.

3.  I'm so fucking cool it's easy to forget that I am [in some ways] just like every other girl. As in, there's supposed to be some anticipation when it comes to picking out an outfit for a date.  I LIKE standing in front of my mirror with different shoes on each foot deciding which one makes my calves look thinner.  I don't mind letting you see me without my makeup on (and not in the "we've just had a drunken one-night stand and I accidentally drooled on your now-mascara-smeared pillow" way) or in flip-flops and cut-offs, but I would also like to at least attempt to earn one of those wide-eyed, totally mesmerized ogles a la the movies when I descend my stairs fully decked out.

4.  This is the part of my investigation where I discovered that number of dates spent sexually withholding have a fairly direct correlation to the number of stars Zagat gave the restaurant you go to.  Moving on ...

4.5  Not ready to move on yet.  This is heinously unfair.  I shouldn't be penalized for having a libido (and being attracted to you) by having to shove down the $15 3-course seafood feast at Red fucking Lobster on our 3rd date (unless you are taking me there ironically in which case I actually do really like the cheddar bay biscuits).

5.  Please stop trying to be chivalrous by asking me where I want to go.  I am sympathetic to the state of our nation's finances, and yours, too; and painfully self-aware of my own.  When I say, "oh, I don't care, you pick," it means, "I really want to check out the place I read about on Grubstreet a week ago but I feel guilty speaking up because I am broke and therefore would only insincerely be offering to pay when the check came so I'm just going to hope that you read my mind and pick somewhere interesting".  I overdrew my checking account springing for a round on $1 domestic night at Kendall's, ok?  Call me old fashioned, but you're the guy here.  Hold the fucking door open and TELL ME where we are going for dinner.  I'll usually make it worth your while.

In closing, I discovered that the real culprit is me.  I guess I will just become an aloof, prude bitch like all those girls I see smugly enjoying their pan roasted halibut at Girl & the Goat while I'm lugging homemade [serrano & manchego] sandwiches and a bottle of Cava I purchased to watch a *free* movie in the park.  I hope my never-worn black halo dress makes someone at the Salvation Army very happy.

A Social [Media] Commentary

Not to get all nostalgic, but sometimes I wish we could harken back to the PFB era (that's Pre-Facebook).  I'd say, "those were simpler times", but they really weren't.
Facebook has robbed us of one of the most joyful and complex aspects of the human condition: face to face interaction.  Now, you naysayers can say "nay, Facebook facilitates interaction by bringing people together - in fact, I found my pre-school crush on the book the other day and now we chat all the time and one day we are going to get coffee," and then, "we got engaged - and I posted a photo of the ring on my profile," and then "I used a Facebook invite to throw my engagement party" (cheapskate - spring for printed invites), and the-en "I uploaded all of my wedding photos into 17 different albums so my single friends can look at the pictures and get increasingly depressed about the fact that they're all going to die alone while I ride off into the sunset with my pre-school crush... who I met ON FACEBOOK."  We get it, ok?  Without Zuck, love can't happen in the 21st Century.

I know that I shouldn't fight technology.  Rather, I should embrace it (you are, in fact, currently reading my BLOG, derived from the words Web Log, which I advertise on Facebook), and I am grateful to social media for quite a bit, but it's a reluctant gratitude.  Here's why:
1. Because it's not SUPPOSED to be easy. Life and love and relationships are hard.  They're the reason why some people kill themselves.  Remember in 3rd grade, when you had those stupid Valentine's Day mailboxes and you could send people cards without fear of rejection?  Yeah, Facebook is kind of like that.  Click a button to "Add as Friend".  Wait for the person to accept your "Friendship".  Fire off a carefully crafted to sound as though you don't give a shit message inviting your new friend to grab a drink sometime - be sure to include a "How do you know Harold Greenfield?" (you don't even know Harold Greenfield, but you are Facebook friends with him, so it's fair game).  If he never answers, it doesn't hurt - you tried, right?  Wrong. You didn't try.  You didn't weigh the embarrassment and extra visits to your therapist if he said no IN PERSON, or OVER THE PHONE (remember phone conversations?  None of my friends do.  Actually, 2 of them IN THE SAME DAY asked me "Why do you call people instead of texting?") if he said no versus the sheer elation you would feel if he gave you a real, genuine YES.  I understand that self-protection is paramount when it comes to our fragile human egos.  But I also believe that without ever having to experience thesting of rejection, the sheer elation of acceptance just doesn't have the same shiny-new-penny-ness to it.

2. Because people don't care [about you].  If they did, they would ask.  But Facebook never gives them the chance to ask about your dinner (you posted pics of it, as you do with your Lean Cuisine every night), what music you've been listening to/books you've been reading (those lists are easily accessible on your profile), or who you voted for in the Alderman election (duh.. you already answered a Question with your chosen candidate).  Remember when you were going away to college and your mother warned you that no one would buy the cow if you were giving away the milk for free?  Facebook is not a Wisconsin Dairy Farm, people. Lock it up.
Oh, and by the way, to all you newly single/have a new crush that you want to notice you users out there:  your ex/new crush doesn't NEED to know or WANT to know what you are doing/where you are/who you're with every goddamn nanosecond.  If he likes you, he'll like you.  If you feel the need to remind cyberspace how popular, well-liked, and generally fabulous you are (or when you just got a bikini wax), he won't like you.  So next time your fingers are itching to write "Riding around in R. Kelly's limo while he pees on my best friend and I as we drink Cristal" as your status so that your ex will be jealous of how amazing your life is after him, do yourself a favor and refrain.

3. Because chatting 24/7 isn't natural. If you say EVERYTHING to EVERYONE all the time, it cheapens your statements that actually carry weight and meaning.  Just saying.

4. Because 2 hours is not a long time [to go without human contact].  I long for a return to the days when it didn't matter if I didn't talk to someone for a couple of days, weeks, months.  When I had time to wonder what someone was doing, if he was thinking about me and going to show up unannounced at my apartment with some fun activity, or if his head was sandwiched between a coworker's thighs in the coat room at work, fucking bastard... I digress. The point is,  constant communication shouldn't be the norm. The expectation of instant gratification has made us all into whiners.  And wimps. With no willpower.  Who can't entertain ourselves without a MacBook Pro and some internet bandwidth.  I can't do it; I don't remember how to enjoy my own company.  Unless I'm updating my profile, "Liking" various pages (John Cullerton Bringing You Sandwiches shout-out), and waiting for someone, anyone, to sign on and talk to me.

5. Because humans should be tactile beings.  I'll never get a Kindle - there's something so rewarding about turning a page in a real-life book. It used to be a treat to get together with your pals, to talk to them, to hold their photo albums in your hand, to pass notes in class.  What better feelings are there than a first kiss, two hands intertwined, getting your cranium pounded against a headboard?  I challenge you to find a virtual alternative. And no, Skype-fucking is NEVER a legitimate substitute for the real thing. Ever.

6. Because having 1200 "friends" isn't normal. Friendships are SPECIAL and UNIQUE!  And as much of a rush that you got when EVERYONE in your class signed your yearbook, does "Have a nice summer!"  REALLY ever compare to a 1/2 page note from your best friend filled with inside jokes and memories? 

7. Because you're SUPPOSED to miss out on some stuff (and so are other people).  If you do EVERYTHING, see EVERYTHING, know EVERYONE, etc, life loses its allure, its panache, its je ne sais quois.

By the way, this is coming from someone who is currently logged into 2 chat programs and has a stream-of-consciousness blog. 

Give Me Your Friends Or I'll Shoot

I have never really wanted to pick my friends' noses.  I sometimes enjoy picking my own, though.  One thing I do, often to my detriment, for my friends, is introduce them to my other friends.   You all know me as self-deprecating, but even I have to admit that I have a lot of friends and acquaintances.  This is not by accident.  I appreciate all of the friendships I have.  I work hard to maintain my relationships with other people, and I value my friends immensely.  Which is why it really fucking pisses me off when I introduce friends of mine to other friends and they think it's OK and ACCEPTABLE to just hijack my friends and treat them as their own.  They aren't your friends, ok?  They're MY friends that I was kind enough to let you meet.  Perhaps that sounds harsh, even scary, but think about it:
You introduce friend A to group B of your friends.  She immediately fucks 2 of them and then starts calling them ALL to make plans without your knowledge, even going so far as to lie about it and hide it from you.  How the hell would you feel?

My friends are my Kool-Ade. So get the fuck off my Kool-Ade.

The E.M.I.L.Y. System

Chances are you've blown it with your share of potential suitors.  Wouldn't it be nice if there was a treasure map of sorts to lead you from "Hey, I'm a nice, innocent guy who needs a beer pong partner and you caught my eye earlier," to "Hey, I'm a nice, innocent guy and I'm taking you home to my parents' house for Thanksgiving this year because I want them to meet my new and very favoritest girlfriend"?
You're in luck.  Go with the foolproof, easy (and fun!) to use E.M.I.L.Y. System:

Exposing secrets:  Relationships are built on a solid foundation of honesty and trust.  So divulge everything, preferably on the first date, if not sooner.  Tales of boyfriends past, your struggle with meth addiction, the time you got chlamydia after a run-of-the-mill gang-bang; it's all fair game.  He's going to find out eventually, right?  "Remaining mysterious" is an antiquated practice; this is the era of Facebook and Twitter and sharing EVERYTHING.  He'll respect your openness SO MUCH MORE if you tell him about the time you got dumped for getting thrown out of Lollapalooza after you *ever-so-innocently* punched a girl in the face because she asked your then-boyfriend if he was "In line for the bathroom" (stupid slut) in the beginning instead of getting to know each other first.
Mass texting:  Duh.  What else are relationships built on besides honesty and trust?  Communication, of course.  So keep it up on your end.  Don't. Stop. Texting. Ever.  Even when you can't think of anything to say, even when you have nothing to say, and especially when he tells you in advance that he'll be busy.  Guys absolutely love being digitally stalked.  If you've gone over your monthly limit on texts, e-mail him.  Write on his Facebook wall.  This step is exceptionally effective if performed when you are intoxicated late at night.  Nothing says, "I'm normal, date me" like 14 incoherent (and unanswered) text messages and 3 e-mails asking your new beau about his sister's wedding, telling him how much you miss him, and subsequently berating him for not being kind and considerate enough to reply to you at 4:30am on a Tuesday.
Insanely apologize:  Ooops. He ended up getting a little peeved about your influx of "communication".  So apologize.  Beg for forgiveness, attempt to elicit sympathy by blaming extenuating circumstances for your behavior "my cat died, I put a red sock in with my whites, AND I cut my knee while shaving... ", and tell him how much of a connection you felt even though it's only been two weeks.  Guys will respect you so much more if you don't respect yourself, so get down on your hands and knees, and beseech him not to "walk out on you like everyone else always does". 
Lead with your vagina:  He may not be buying the bit about your dead cat (shouldn't have posted that photo of Blinky taking his first bath 2 days after he supposedly perished in a freak accident involving a Glade air freshener and your sinister roommate).  So lower yourself down a few more levels.  Waggling your vagina at this dude is a surefire way to win back his affection, respect, and admiration. Send him some dirty yet tasteful photos with captions like, "C'mon, baby, don't you at least wanna come fuck me?" or "I can't go on living without sucking your big dick at least once more."  Trust me.  It won't make him start using you primarily for sex after he's been out with his boys and couldn't find anyone else to take home.  So harness that indomitable sexual power you know you possess deep inside you and reel that boy back in.  Your relationship will be back to normal in no time at all - probably better than ever!
Yeah ... he gone:  Oh, wait.  Wait just a second here.  This guy has already realized that you are a schizoid whore with no self-respect, and, according to too many of your "getting-to-know-me" stories, a drinking problem, an angry streak, and a propensity for late-night binge eating.  He's had one foot out the door for awhile.  After using you as an all-else-failed, last-option, go-to glory hole a few times, he'll move on.

Must Love Blogs

The influx of fellow class of 2002 Ignatius grads whose statuses change from "In a Relationship and posting annoying couples photos constantly" to "Engaged and posting statuses about how difficult planning a wedding is" got me thinking.  Why am I single and jobless?  Perhaps I just haven't met the right guy.  So, a classified ad for all you potential suitors out there.

I am:
Cute-pretty, not hot-pretty, with a great sense of humor, a slight tendency towards unnecessarily crazy shenanigans (READ: don't blow me off or I will commit the deadly sin of over-texting); I possess an enyclopaedic knowledge of seemingly useless facts that will lead our team to victory at any Bar Trivia Night.  I am an excellent cook and a nurturer; want a back massage, a new toothbrush, or some other favor done for you?  I once obtained clean piss for an ex who needed it to pass a drug test in order to secure his job (true story).  I like to communicate a lot, but I generally have interesting things to say.  I need to be told things - I'm not good at taking a hint.  I have a decent-sized stash of role-playing costumes (nothing too racy, standard slutty cop type stuff).  In short, I am the over-excited puppy in the window - always taken out and played with, but never bought.  And I'm a good deal, too.

You are:
Cute but not too hot, have a prominent nose, preferably brown hair and blue eyes, in decent enough shape to throw a football around, approximately 6'1", listens to electronic and indie music and enjoys live shows, is HILARIOUSLY funny, intelligent, likes sports (and doesn't mind educating me about them - I like learning), not a picky eater, possesses a tolerance for borderline crazy antics, above average sized penis, has steady employment, looooooves dogs (especially mine), last name sounds good with Emily.

Any questions?

Megan Levant, a Primer: Charlie Sheen’s “3rd Goddess” is about more than just porn and vodka

The secret’s out, I guess.  My twin sister does indeed enjoy smutty films and distilled grain alcohol.  Don’t we all (I’m watching Sex Spa 2 right now)?  Yeah, she dresses provocatively and frequents the LA club scene.  Oh, no!  What an anomaly.  A twenty-something girl wears short skirts, high heels, and likes to dance on the stage at Voyeur!  Maybe all you uncreative defamers quoted her Twitter About Me (out of context, I might add) while you were waiting on the OTHER side of the velvet rope. 
I hope she isn’t pissed off when she reads this post.  It isn’t fun to watch your sister dragged through the mud by a bunch of “reporters” (and I use that term loosely – whatever happened to journalistic integrity?  Celebuzzcrap.com must have omitted that portion from their employee handbook…) who have never met Miss Megan and honestly think that she would call herself a “dog in need of rescue” (or not honestly, but for the sake of sensationalism, whatever).  No.  That’s not the case.  After two-plus decades of having the world’s greatest bodyguard and protector, I just think it’s time to reimburse my sister for everything she’s done for me.

Always there for me to lean on.

I know Megan better than anyone else.  I’ve literally known her since before we were born. I can tell you, for instance, that she doesn’t like to share straws with people (in drinks, you idiots), and that when we were little she would rather starve than let any of her food touch each other on her plate.  I can tell you that, although she is a far superior swimmer than I am, I did in fact beat her in a 50m freestyle race at Monarch Day Camp – she claimed it was because her goggles fell off.

Now, follow me on a journey into the soul of Megan Levant:

-She’s more loyal than a German Shepherd.  Perhaps that’s why the press didn’t have more “insider” knowledge of her “mystery relationship” with the world’s most tiger-blooded individual – because she had the courtesy not to blab about it- its not her style, unlike other paramours past, who exploited their Sheen-flings for their own personal gain.  As someone who grew up with a major crush on Charlie (and Emilio, too – Gordon Bombay still makes me feel all twitterpated), it sucks to watch a Post-Empire (Bret Easton Ellis on the Sheenonemenon) slandered by a bunch of girls in need of a quick buck.  I saw the show in Chicago and went backstage.  He’s a good guy, scratch that- a GREAT guy, a funny guy, all in all a really, really nice guy. (Aside to reporters:  one loyal act begets another and I will not respond to your relentless pleas for dirt on the situation.  To riff on Warren G, “Go aks the [other] twin, motherfuckers”.)  I could say here, she’s his goddess, or his girlfriend, or his friend, or a business associate, or his reflexologist, but you’ll all think whatever you want, anyway.
-She likes to party. She likes, she likes to party. (Remember the Venga Boys?  I miss them sometimes.)  She always has.  But not in the Boogie Nights-Eyes Wide Shut way that all you sick fucks out there associate with the phrase “party girl”.  I prefer the term social butterfly.  Because she is.  Going out with Megan is really fun.  She’s really outgoing.  She’s really pretty. She likes to dance (I don’t think particularly skillfully, but we’re all entitled to our own opinions, right?). Guys like to flirt with her and buy her drinks, and, once I win them over with my sparkling personality, buy me drinks, too.  I don’t think I’ve ever paid for anything on a night spent with my sissy.  She’s like Nightclub Moses: seas of people waiting on line just part.  For the record, I know for a fact that she’s never touched an illicit drug.  Ever.  She likes to drink, but has never gotten behind the wheel afterwards.  She likes to dress a little on the racy side, but it’s really more of a tease than anything else.  Timbaland and Nelly Furtado didn’t have her in mind when they wrote “Promiscuous Girl”.

Princess Megan on the right. You're just jealous that you don't get to hang out at the Mansion.

-Yeah, we’re 2 Jews who attended Catholic school.  All that meant was that we didn’t get up to receive Communion…I don’t know where people thought the shock value came from on that one.  To burst your bubble eversoslightly more, I’ll tell you that Megan Levant was a well-rounded student and athlete.  Ran varsity track, competed nationally in lifeguard events, always had a summer job (and a much better attendance record than me), and kept her nose clean – literally and figuratively.  Graduated from high school with honors, attended UW-Madison and maintained a high GPA, and even lead our intramural flag football team to victory – I still have the T-shirt. In the little spare time she had left, she was voted “Person You’d Want to be Stranded on a Deserted Island With”, “Miss Popular” (a record held continuously for all of her 20 something years of life) and of course “Sexy Princess Megan” (I’ll never understand sorority life).

Intramural Flag Football Champ!

-She’s a big softie.  You morons who misinterpreted the rescue dog line on her Twitter accounts should have your IQs checked immediately…because she was really talking about rescue dogs. Canines.  She brakes for animals.  She gives too much money to PETA and the ASPCA (when she should be giving it to her unemployed sister).  She adopted a satanic pitbull-rottweiler-other large intimidating breed dog named Odin because no one else would and he was headed for the needle.  She encouraged me to adopt a shelter dog, and pretends not to be jealous that he is cuter and well-behaved than her dog.  She used to eat lunch with this kid from our high school who had garlicky-smelling B.O. and an Orion’s Belt of whiteheads across his forehead because no one else would sit with him.  She cannot pass by a homeless person or other derelict without opening her wallet – StreetWise should put her on the Board of Directors.  You know the tired argument that homeless guys spend all their alms on booze?  Her reponse: “Well, I’m gonna spend it on booze, too.  Might as well let them have some fun.” 

Megan and I with the loves of our lives.

Party Down

We've all either attended or hosted our share of less-than-stellar soirees, and they've all sucked in their own unique and special ways.  The trick is knowing your guests (read: inviting your new boyfriend and his buddies over to play Rummikub and drink wine coolers with your grandma's knitting circle will not make for a Page-Six-worthy event; it will make him dump you, publicly, and mock you relentlessly in a Facebook note).  Here, some tips on convincing people that you are more popular, cooler, and better-liked than you really are (at least when it comes to throwing a party).

1.  Calling it a "get-together" eases the embarrassment of having no one show up except your best friend and 16 year old brother with 3 members of his posse, who are in fact only there because their fake IDs didn't work at Irish Eyes earlier.

2.  Serving too much complicated food will give your guests the impression that you thought a lot more of them would be coming.  Nothing screams "obscure loser who put way too much time and effort into a sparsely attended event" than a tableful of congealing artichoke dip and limp endive cups with crab salad (does anyone remember Martha Plimpton's failed NYE bash in 200 Cigarettes, or am I the only person who ever saw that movie?).  If you must serve food at all, stick to cheap, easy staples like chips & salsa; perhaps, if you're feeling very generous, some bagel dogs.  You won't feel as guilty when you end up throwing it all away at the end of the night.

3.  Always provide your guests with a nice, quiet, secluded place, outfitted with plenty of flat, even surfaces, to pack their noses with cocaine.  They'll appreciate your hospitality even more.

4. Dress appropriately, as in, the same as your guests.  It is uncool to wear a giant party dress and get your hair done unless the party theme is "80s Prom" or something lame like that.

5. Speaking of getting your hair done, perhaps invest in a bikini wax.  You'll never have this many guys in close proximity to your bed ever again, so be prepared.

6. On the subject of theme parties, anything too obscure or highbrow will deter less intelligent (and therefore better looking and more popular) guests from attending.  Be seasonally appropriate (an "Anything But Clothes" party in February will not inspire guests to get decked out; stick to elementary (read: recycled from college frat parties) themes.  Chances are that not too many people have an appropriate costume for an "Industrial Revolution" party laying around.

7. Quarters is a fun party game that gets people drunk quickly.  Parcheesi is not.

8. Demanding money from your guests will quickly alienate them and give you the appearance of a Scrooge-like miser.  Donation bowls are less invasive.

9.  If your apartment has a super-cool chalkboard wall in the kitchen, let your guests embrace their creative sides by providing chalk.  Remember to erase the 5,000 drawings of stick figures fornicating before your landlord/parents drop in the following week.

10.  Try to relax without getting sloppy, falling down drunk and forcing your guests to hold your hair back while you spew jungle juice into your kitchen sink.  Xanax is much more effective.

11.  Do your best to maintain a fairly even guy:girl ratio. 

12.  Don't invite ugly people. Ew.

13.  Invite me.  I'm suuuuper fun.

Anonymously Yours

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "The Smalltalk Epidemic": 

You are a spoiled and disgusting piece of trash. And your twin with Charlie Sheen, completes the picture 


Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "The Smalltalk Epidemic":

This would be a nice blog entry if it was actually funny 


Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Basketball Diaries" : 


What a dumb article


Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "The Smalltalk Epidemic": 


if you have anxiety that they are snickering at you behind your back, its probably because they are


I didn't initially publish these because I find people who post as "Anonymous" to be complete and total fucking cowards.  Here's your chance to identify yourselves.  In the meantime, fuck off.

Yeah, Megan Levant is my sister

Younger Men Are the New Black

(As Older Guys Increasingly Become Orange Mock Turtlenecks)

Look into any girl's closet.  Although we may have some crazily printed tops, maybe a gold lame bodysuit from American Apparel, and the inevitable pair of summer-white skinny jeans, there are undoubtedly a few staples that can get us through any outfit-dilemma-inducing panic attack situation: the LBD, the perfectly-fitting black T, the not-too-high-heeled black leather boots, and my abso-favorite-go-to black jeans.  Black goes with everything.  Black makes you feel sexy and svelte when you wear it.  Black is always in style.

Call it the Cougar Effect.  Call it Robbing the Cradle.  Call it whatever the hell you want.  In a world where it's hard out there for a pimp-ette, us girls gotta think outside the Streeterville-1-bedroom-Boring-Financial-Job box and get creative.  My solution:  hit up the young'ins.  And don't judge me because I do.

Here's why:

1.  Oh, wait.  They're interested in you. You don't have to pretend like you're not, either.
Remember how agonizing it is to play the ridiculous and nearly impossible cat-and-mouse, you-like-me-but-I'm-doing-you-a-favor-by-going-out-with-you game with a guy your age or older?  Wait 4 hours to text back.  Keep him in a holding pattern of stupid 1st, 2nd, and 3rd "interview" dates until he gets to take you to poundtown.  Don't friend him on the Book - let him friend you. Don't, and I mean DON'T, ever, under any circumstances, be yourself. (These may not even be the correct rules; this ain't my rodeo, I just went along for the ride a few times - and failed. Miserably.)
During the Age of Innocent Guys, you don't HAVE to play games.  It's a nice change of pace.

2. They're nice. Like, really nice! They have good manners!  And they're eager to please (but not in a pathetic way - more like a "oh, you don't have to give me a bj, I'll just go down on you for 3 hours" way.)  They haven't lived out of Parental Guidance Land for long enough to forget to mind their P's & Q's, remembering important date staples like "you look very pretty" and "oh, I'll get the bill" (or maybe I've just dated too many cheap assholes who don't find me attractive).
They will also happily walk your dog for you.

3.  They like to spoon.

4.  Since you are older and more worldly than they are, they actually (and this is a big one) listen when you talk, instead of just [sometimes, but often not] politely waiting their turn to speak.  Is there a better feeling than looking across the table at someone maintaining eye contact steadily and hanging on to every word you are saying? (Ok, maybe getting gone down on for 3 hours.)  But, honestly, nothing is more annoying than suffering through a date with a One-Upping-"Well, I'-er (a close relative of the I-Was-Never-Actually-Listening-In-The-First-Place-"Wait, what?"-er) and having to endure inane stories about their glory days at the University of Douchiness or the all the times they un-ironically attended Jimmy Buffet concerts and smuggled booze into Wrigley Field.

The younger-man je ne sais quoi is as intoxicating as Creed Aventus - it smells like slightly-post-Teen-spirit.  (Or did that joke date me?  It's a famous Nirvana song from the early 90s for all you adorable juvies out there.)  So go put some on.

The Smalltalk Epidemic

And how you can vaccinate yourself


There are more than a few reasons why I enjoy working from home, and not just because of the proximity to my bed.  There's no commute, which means I don't have to suffer bodily injury and panic attacks while sandwiched uncomfortably between a religious zealot who doesn't believe in showers, Old Country Buffet's Customer of the Century, and Fortysomething-Guy-Who-Still-Overstuffs-His-Jansport.  There's my departmental assistant, who clears his throat and goes "AAHHHHH!!!!" every time he takes a sip of whatever beverage is handy, constantly interrupts his superiors to spout nonsensical bullshit, and is a specific breed of schmoozy, tampon-stuck-up-his-ass douchebag that thinks a jazzy dance accompanied by a thumbs-up validates his "friendship" with everyone else in my office.  There's the guy next to me who is definitely hard of hearing in at least one of his ears and speaks about 15 decibels louder than what's generally considered to be audible.  There's the gossipy office manager who looks like Luis Guzman and truly believes he is privy to everyone else's goings-on, public or not.  There is, of course, my phobia of eavesdroppers when I talk to anyone on the phone, personal or business-related, and my anxiety that they are silently snickering at me from their adjacent cubicles.  There's the fact that I simply happen to be more productive when I'm in an environment in which I feel comfortable.

All of these rationales aside, which may seem like deterrents enough, the number-one reason I prefer to shorten my commute from Lincoln Park-Loop to Bedroom-Living Room, and it's not the 3:30 airing of Jeopardy!, although that's close to the top; the primary impetus for avoiding at all costs the offices of Nameless Corporation, is this:

I FUCKING HATE SMALLTALK!

I think it's really unfair that just because I am thirsty and a slave to caffeine, just because my glass of water is empty, that I have to sit there with some asshole with whom I'd never interact outside the confines of this glass prison and pontificate about the finer points of Trader Joe's hummus versus Whole Foods hummus.  I don't like your hideous sweater.  In fact, I hate your hideous appliqued sweater.  And I know you don't like my boots (even though they're awesome).  So why are we exchanging pleasantries outside the door while fumbling for our keycards (for the record, it would be a lot easier to find the damn thing if I didn't have to glance bashfully down at my [awesome] boots and force out, "Oh, thanks, I got them at the Nordstrom Semi-Annual Sale! On SALE!").  When weighing the options over for attending the company holiday party, I constructed a traditional pro/con list as follows:

PROS:

-Free Food

-Free Booze

-Possibility of making some work friends/casual sex with one of 3 decent looking coworkers

CONS:

-Gabbing/chitchatting/shooting the shit about the weather/sports/"what your holiday traditions are"/favorite moronic cupcakery in the city with a gaggle of tools. On a trolley.

Enough said.  I RSVP'ed with my regrets, saying that I had a root canal, a colonoscopy, and my grandmother's corns to massage that night instead.

For instance, at this very moment I'm listening to 2 coworkers small-talking about basketball.  One of them is clearly both passionate and knowledgeable about the sport, both college and pro, and is enjoying flexing his considerable breadth of expertise.  The other one knows absolutely nothing about either, and is nodding and blinking like a slackjawed, slightly retarded basset hound, occasionally chiming in his assent with an "uh-huh" or a "definitely", or even an "I know, man! It's amazing."  He clearly could not care less.

Unfortunately for that guy, he doesn't possess the mental acuity I do when it comes to avoiding small talk.  Here, a couple of tips for the less erudite:

1. Keep your head down and stay out of sight.  If no one can see you, then no one will talk to you.

2. When forced to engage in small talk, use monosyllabic answers, shrug nonchalantly, giggle awkwardly, and turn your back.

3. Keep your headphones on AT ALL TIMES.

4. Swear.  It makes people uncomfortable and they will want to speak to you less.

5. If all else fails and you can't avoid having a pointless conversation about cashmere socks, just suck it up, tell them you like the ones from Neiman's the best, and go about your day.  Because like a yeast infection, smalltalk is awkward, uncomfortable, and distasteful, but it won't actually kill you.

Basketball Diaries

You can get a Triple Double in real life, too! Here's how:

1. Points:  The amount of times you score.  Does this mean sexual partners, meaningful relationships, dates, etc? Whatever constitutes a field goal for you, think about the following:
  -What's your percentage of completion?  How many times do you try to score and actually make it?  Are you shooting wildly, blindly, and just hoping it goes in or are you making a few calculated and usually successful attempts?  Be like Mike.  Think before you shoot.
  - What is your degree of difficulty? Are these 3-point shots, lay-ups, dunks, or undefended free throws?  The analogy speaks for itself here and shouldn't require any further explanation, but for all you dolts out there, think of it this way:  would you rather have a meaningless one night stand with the stand-in from Eric Stoltz's acclaimed film Mask or a few fun dates with the Josh Duhamel look-alike from the bowling alley?  I leave it to you.

2. Rebounds:  We take a quick departure from the more literal "Points" section above to tackle the tricky issue of the rebound.  A rebound is what/who you do after the end of a relationship.  Less of an actual skill in the game of life and love, rebounding is more like an arcade pinball game than the calculated sport of basketball, although it's usually marked by some pretty aggressive behavior in the paint - people on the rebound are definitely out for the win.  We've all been there: feeling rejected and scorned, we're thrown off the bench and into a tough matchup with an impressive and completely foreign opponent: singledom.  We barely know the rules, let alone possess the skills needed to come out victorious.  If you're anything like me, there are going to be a few errors before your efforts will be rewarded with some points.  You may commit a few minor technical fouls, such as over-texting or drunk dialing; you may even rack up some more serious personal fouls (sleeping with this new prospect too soon, divulging too much info about your failed relationship, or projecting a massive future onto this relative stranger and scaring him or her into total oblivion), but fear not.  Reacquaint yourself with the rules, and always remember to practice, practice, practice. Surround yourself with a patient coaching staff and supportive teammates. You'll be a pro in no time (fingers crossed).

3. Assists: Are you more Steve Nash or Lebron James?  As in, are you a team player?  How effective of a wingman/woman are you?  Life isn't all about the breakaway dunks; sometimes there's as much pleasure to be had getting your point guard some glory.  And remember this: if you help out your teammates, they'll feel more compelled to return the favor and get you to the basket.

This may not even come close to the "One Inch" speech in Any Given Sunday (I know, that's football, not basketball, but it's my favorite sports movie lockerroom scene), but I hope I've inspired some of you to suit up and get in the game.

Table For One

(And Other Reasons Why I Rule)

by Emily Levant

Dining out alone -

Thoughts? Apprehensions?  Reservations (for one)?

First of all, let's break down the thought process:
1. What will I do whilst waiting for my food?
2. What will the other diners think?
3. What will I think of myself?
4. What happens when I poop my pants because I'm so embarrassed to be eating out alone?
5. Does this place do half orders?

And a response:
1. Eavesdrop, people watch, text, reflect on the awesomeness of your life.
2. If you order the bone marrow (which I did), they will think you're awesome, and want to talk to you, and buy your dinner, and ask you questions about your life.  They will be impressed by your gumption, your chutzpah, your moxie, and your ability to discover a neighborhood foodie gem like Seven Hills when you are staying in a Joe's Crab Shack-laden tourist trap like Fisherman's Wharf.
3. Once the maitre'd tells you that you have pretty eyes and sends you a gratis glass of wine, that he swears he "couldn't see you NOT order with your entree but isn't available by the glass", and the woman in the trio next to you starts up with her boyfriend/husband for paying too much attention to you, and the food is so delicious that you'd RATHER be alone, you honestly will not give a flying fuck that there isn't some douchebag sitting across from you making polite/grating conversation about how Jay Cutler doesn't deserve all the flack he is getting on Facebook.
I may be getting slightly ahead of myself here (although this all really did happen and I am on kind of a contact self-esteem high right now), but, fair reader(s), dining out alone, whether it be Friday's or French Laundry, is tantamount to riding a roller coaster: scare the shit out of yourself while standing in line, and then subsequently enjoy yourself immensely.
4. If you do in fact poop your pants, let it be because you ordered an extra side of prune sauce, and not out of nervousness. That's all I have to say about that (although prune sauce was not an option tonight and my La Perlas are spick'n'span),
5. Who the fuck cares about half orders?  Indulge. Let loose. Walk home (up and down the relentless Stairmaster that is San Francisco) with your fly undone.  You're all alone - which, let's look at the bright side here, means no one to answer to when you let Beethoven's 9th Belch loose over the bay.

From Applebee's to Alinea, let solo ring.

Things To Do When You're Single on Valentine's Day*

I've got a lot of experience with this one.  Here are some of my favorite V-Day pastimes:

10. Make homemade Valentine's for your exes' new significant others with graphic sexual descriptions of your past rendezvous.

9. Secure restaurant reservations for 2 at as many romantic restaurants as you can think of.  Don't show up to any of them.

8. Pick up a decent-looking guy/girl at your local watering hole.  Invite him/her back to your place, which will be decorated with candles, rose petals, champagne, and a sensual bubble bath.  Say, "I know we're going to remember this Valentine's Day celebration for the rest of our lives together."  Watch the ensuing retreat.

7. Get embarrassingly drunk on red wine, watch Love Actually alone, and sob uncontrollably.

6. Booty call your opposite-sex best friend and have awkward sex. Never speak of it again.

5. Masturbate until you lose feeling in your sexual organs and have to wear an anti-arthritic wrist guard.

4. Plan a "single gals [or guys] night out" and pretend like you are enjoying yourself.

3. A little friendly advice: EVERYTHING is more fun with copious amounts of drugs.

2. Parade around outside of Tiffany & Co./Victoria's Secret/your local florist with a large sign that says "Cupid is Dead" and an accompanying photo of a late-term aborted fetus.

1. Go to work, walk your dog, and pretend like it is any other day.

*use your heads people.  I would never actually endorse this kind of behavior.