Facing down 32, and it’s on!

I’m going to be 32 in February. Thirty-two. Yikes. To paraphrase the great oracle Jessica Simpson, 32 is almost 33, which is almost 35, which is almost mid-thirties. Hell, in my calculations, it’s pretty much almost 50!

It’s time to take control and be a grown-up, so I’ve made a life decision—you know, like grown-ups do. Here it is: I will become engaged while I am 32. There. It’s out there! It’s happening. Now, let’s get busy making it so.

I’ve written about various plans and schemes I’ve concocted to attract worthy suitors, but those were so ideas for my twenties. It’s serious now! This is for real. It’s time to pull out the big guns! So… Now, we just have to identify what those big guns might be…

I enlisted my friends to help. And, within a minute of announcing my big resolution for my impending nuptials, they all swore their assistance and then decided I will write a book and go on a big book tour. I think that plan has some kinks to work out; for instance, what the heck would I write a book about? And, of course anything I would possibly write would be completely nonsensical and fall into the broad category of chick lit.

Now, I haven’t actually been to a whole lot of book signings for chick lit books, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t swarming with eligible bachelors. Thanks, girls, but while that might be a fun idea, let’s focus on the task at hand!

Putting a pin in the book tour, I’ve instead made several happy hour plans—you know, at bars, where guys are proven to gather in hordes. I’m also building my events calendar for the year, trying to attend every interesting gala (I know what you’re thinking, but really, isn’t the guy I’m going to end up with also going to like dressing up and going to big, fancy events? I sure hope so.), all sorts of sporting events and any number of other fun gatherings. By the time I’m 33, I’m going to be either engaged or bankrupt, come hell or high water!

Stay tuned for updates on how this endeavor goes. We’ve got 13½ months to lock in a ring. Game on.

A double date without the double?

I dated this guy for a while once who really enjoyed cooking. I can’t relate. I can’t even really understand, but I did enjoy reaping the benefits of having someone in my life that had a particular culinary acumen. So, I was delighted that he enjoyed cooking for other people—even if it wasn’t to be reciprocated! That is, I was delighted until it became evident that when he considered people for whom he liked to cook, I didn’t seem to register when provided the option of other people. Come on! I am an excellent eater!

We were out one night with a bunch of his friends when the conversation turned to various cooking techniques. Obviously I had to tap out of being an active participant pretty early on, when discussion moved beyond the cooking technique I’ve most mastered: microwaving.

Somehow the chat moved towards “braising.” (I know. Who are these people with these strange discussion topics?!)

Me, to myself: “Braising?! I don’t know how that even happens, but it’s definitely something that occurs only at restaurants and is delicious—at the restaurants, where all sorts of magic food preparation transpire.”

My boyfriend to his friends: “Yeah, I’ve wanted to experiment with braising myself.”

Me, again to myself: “Wait, what?! ‘Experiment with braising’ yourself?! Is that even safe?! Can you just do that in a home kitchen? There must be special equipment involved, right? Or skill? It seems hard. He’s bluffing.”

Boyfriend, to friends: “In fact, I’m having a few people over for dinner day after tomorrow. I’m going to make short ribs, and I think I’ll braise them.”

Me to myself: “I guess he’s not bluffing! And wait, he’s having a dinner party?”

Me to boyfriend after we had left the group: “So, you’re having a dinner party?”

Boyfriend: “Yes, I’m having Mr. and Mrs. Dinner-Party over on Sunday.”
Editor’s note: Of course, he used their first names, but I feel it’s important to highlight that they’re a married couple, that he was having a couple over for a dinner party with himself.

Me: “So, you’re having a dinner party, some might even call it a date, with a couple, just by yourself. You know you’re in a couple, right?”

He tried to back-peddle, telling me that he invited me (nope.) and then that he was going to invite me but it had just been arranged, and he hadn’t had a chance to mention it to me yet (in the four hours we had been hanging out before he found time to mention it to a bunch of other people who were also not invited). He really tried to cover himself when he let it slip that he had bought three short ribs that he was going to serve at the dinner by saying that he had been planning on making the short ribs for us and having extra left over. Suuuure…

So, while he went to the store to buy another short rib for me, his unexpected dinner guest, I tried hard not to think too much about why he didn’t seem to want me to meet particular friends of his (was he hiding something from me or hiding me from them?) and what it meant that he had forgotten he was in a relationship while making arrangements to do one of the most couply things there is with another couple. That’s like being a third wheel because you’ve slashed the remaining tire yourself!

I certainly appreciate more than many that people in relationships should enjoy time doing their own things, cultivating their own independent interests. Everyone needs time with the girls or time with the boys or time doing something the other has no interest in if it's something they, themselves, like. But, isn’t one of the beautiful things about being in a relationship the fact that you don’t have to be the only single person in the room anymore? That you can do couple-centric things and be included in the couple-centricity of them, revel in it, even? There was, unfortunately, very little couple-centricity in this particular relationship, except for the few times he “sacrificed” and went to something he was clear was for my benefit.

In the end, I did score an invite into the double-date dinner party, and boy did I learn some important lessons. As it turned out, the wife didn’t end up making it to dinner after all. We found out that night that she was pregnant and was in the pretty queasy stage. I had made such a stink about being included that I couldn’t then sit it out, of course (crow should probably have been on the menu!), so I went to dinner since the boyfriend had already told The Couple that I was coming. In deference to the evening being no longer about hanging out as couples but rather about the boys catching up, I turned off the sparkly, center-of-attention, bubbly-conversation-driving part of my personality—if you can imagine that—and let it be all about them.

And, here are the lessons I learned from the evening:

1. Careful what you throw a fit to be a part of. (And, maybe date people who want you to actually be a part of things!)
2. Boys are not the engaging conversationalists that women are when they get together! Did you know that when boys get together, sometimes there’s SILENCE between them?! There are so many strange, strange differences between men and women. I mean, silence! Times when no one is talking! If I hadn’t seen it for myself I’d never know that kind of thing happened!

Next on the reading list, Goodnight Moon?

I finished the Hunger Games series last night, reading the entire trilogy in about 3 days. This makes me nervous. Very nervous.

I couldn't put the books down. They were so captivatingly haunting. (I did not like the ending, if anyone’s interested.) I do have a tendency to get very involved in books I'm reading and even particular movies (let's be real, I also think I pretty much am Lorelei Gilmore), and this book pulled me in to the point, even, of making me afraid to go to sleep myself, in danger of slipping into the same nightmares that tortured the main characters. Of course, they were remembering the horrific deaths of their friends and the devastating roles they played in someone else's manipulation. I'm not really sure what types of tragedies I'm afraid of recalling from my own life—earlier in the day, they didn't have brown rice when I went to Chipotle?

I had a similarly enraptured experience in reading the Harry Potter series, I'm embarrassed to admit. It was a begrudging rapture, but enrapt I did become.

It all started when the fifth book came out. I lived with two very intelligent, well read and mature young women when the fifth book in the Harry Potter series was published. They each had pre-ordered their copy as soon as they could and were on pins and needles waiting for the day to come when the books would arrive. When that day finally came, they were beside themselves with giddiness. None of us could leave the apartment in fear that we’d miss the delivery. I was sent down to the lobby of the building several times throughout the day to check to see if the FedEx man had come and had just not buzzed up. In fact, that day FedEx was very busy. I saw three different FedEx men make trips to our building, each with a truckload of the specially marked Harry Potter boxes from Amazon. They told me it was a crazy, crazy day for them.

Now, until this day, I had made fun of all the Potterheads. I mean, seriously, these are children’s books that people were getting wild about! But, it started to gnaw on me, watching two of my best friends and some of the smartest people I know bouncing around our apartment in anticipation and excitement like I’d never seen out of them, that maybe there really was something to the books, so I picked them up and was instantly hooked. I would even ditch out of happy hours early to go home and read Harry Potter. Ditching happy hour! Me!! That’s how you know things have just gotten serious!

So, as you can see, I have a very severe problem on my hands. My enjoyment of these young adult series has been insatiable. I liked reading them more than any adult series besides Philippa Gregory’s historical fiction books about King Henry VIII's court.

This can only be the beginning of a slippery, slippery slope. It’s a matter of time before I'm reading nothing but choose-your-own-adventure books and then dissolving into a reading list devoid of anything but pop-up books!

I need to get my hands on a very intellectual, non-fiction book, post-haste!

One small speech can become very big—just wait

I’ve been invited to present a social media training at a conference this week in Puerto Rico. Obviously, I’m a pretty big deal.

I’d like to say that the conference organizers heard about this blog and were in awe of my social media prowess demonstrated by my engrossing blogging and tweeting, but alas, I do this social media stuff for a living. So, it was through my use of social media and my counseling of others in using social media to accomplish public policy goals that I was invited. Oh, and someone else canceled.

Nonetheless, I’ve spent hours developing the most kick-ass “How to do social media, and how to do it to advance advocacy efforts” presentation that these people will have ever seen! It’s going to be brilliant. It really is only a matter of time before I become a regular on the conference circuit. Maybe I should start developing what I would say in a keynote address, since we’re probably minutes from when those invitations start piling up. Move over Carly Fiorina with your household name and inspiring stories of climbing to the top of a business empire. Kristin Brown’s here, and she writes a nonsensical, irreverent (and mostly irrelevant) blog that a handful of people read.

Hmm… So, what will I say in my keynote? What are some of my more inspirational stories to constitute my speech?

Perhaps I could talk about important life lessons I’ve learned: cool it on weird ways to ingest caffeine. Don’t be surprised when you pick up a guy at the theater and find that he may be closeted gay. Looks don’t matter. Or, maybe I could anchor the speech on the times I’ve been shamed into learning to cook for myself.

Of course, part of the speech will have to center on the ever-important characteristic of resourcefulness in achieving great personal success. I could provide sage advice: don’t be afraid to create cockamamie schemes to get what you want; sometimes genius isn’t realized immediately. Let people call you crazy along your path to fulfilling your own destiny (especially if you thoroughly amuse yourself). Surround yourself with smart people. Bring anyone along on the ride who wants to go! Aspire to greatness. Dream big. Don't sweat the small stuff. Let yourself explore. Have a plan. Fight against obstacles.

I’ve obviously got the elements of a really fantastic, inspiring speech ready to go. Let the invitations start rolling in! But, send them to the lazy river or swim-up bar at this Puerto Rican resort. That’s where I’ll be “networking” between conference sessions.

I’m famous, of sorts

I am a known celebrity. I don’t know if you knew that. Sure, I’ve got blog readers and followers that span from Alaska to Brazil to Russia and surprisingly far beyond my immediate circle of family. (Thank you to all of you loyal readers!!) But, that doesn’t even cover the half of it. I am famous in the most valuable of realms.

Mexican restaurants.

Seriously. There isn’t a Mexican restaurant in the DC area that I can’t walk into and have someone come over and say hi. I even get hugs sometimes and sour cream hearts drawn onto my food. Can you feel the love?! There have been a couple times when I’ve thought maybe it’s a bit too much and I’m a bit too familiar to the servers, but I just can’t help it.

It all started in college when at any excuse I’d orchestrate a celebration for something at Guapo’s near campus. A birthday! End of finals! Sorority rush! A study break! A Sunday afternoon! That annoying paper cut has gone away! I had many friends who also loved Guapo’s, so I was never wanting for people to go with me. On any nice, spring day, I could inevitably find someone to talk into skipping class to sit on the Guapo’s patio with a swirly margarita and a plate of nachos.

Then, I graduated from college (no credit to the many margarita-filled class skippings!) and moved an inconvenient distance away from college Guapo’s. To my delight and the relief of the withdrawal shakes I had developed, five years later, a new Guapo’s popped up in a neighborhood where some of my friends lived! So, of course, I made people go. Many times. Wouldn’t you know that one of the waiters from my original Guapo’s was the manager at this Guapo’s?! And, even five years after the last time he had seen me, he recognized me. We even had a large group and were put straight to the front of the line for a table, on a Saturday night!

About eight years after I had graduated, I stumbled upon another delicious Mexican restaurant in a different neighborhood (I’ve thought about doing a taco tour of DC, but haven’t steeled my stomach for that kind of one-day taco intake. Let’s say I’m in training). And, again! I walked in, and there were a couple of my old friends from college Guapo’s greeting customers! No one else got the enthusiastic bear hug of a reception that I got, which was probably for the best, considering how startling it was for the friends I was with. Apparently they didn’t know just how well known I am in certain circles. I guess there’s no Page Six for the Mexican restaurant set.

Once, I thought I was falling from grace and needed to start plotting my Britney Spears-style comeback when I walked into a particularly favorite restaurant and the hostess asked while she was seating us, “Have you been here before?”

What?! At this point they should be throwing open the doors for me and chanting my name as they see me approaching! “Have you been here before?!?!?!” What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t the staff t-shirts have my face on them by now?

Boy was I relieved when the waiter came over to the table and said, “Oh! Hi! Wow, twice this week, huh?” Maybe I was relieved and perhaps a little sheepish, actually. He hadn’t even been the one to serve me the previous time!

At first, I thought all this was embarrassing. Obviously, I probably indulge in a few too many tacos a little too often. But then I thought about it. I mean, sure, it’s prestigious to be popular among the ritzy society glitterati or to be so well known that people camp out in front of a hotel you’re staying in just to catch a glimpse of you. But, when’s the last time one of their admirers offered a member of the royal family free queso?! For me, it was yesterday.

So, if a girl’s going to strive for notoriety, my particular brand of fame sure seems to taste the best!

A foray into a different land

I went to Kansas City once.

That may have been enough. It’s weird out there! Everyone’s nice. Like really nice. Unnervingly nice. It’s peculiar. I don’t know if I like it.

I was there with two coworkers for a business meeting. One of the coworkers grew up in Missouri so understood the whole strange sweetness in the people. It wasn’t unusual to her, so she didn’t think to warn the rest of us East Coasters. I wish she had. I was unprepared.

When I started telling people I was venturing into the Great Midwest, people told me about the barbecue. Oh, did they tell me about the barbecue. There were apparently two real choices for good barbecue and everyone had an opinion on which was better. Was it the BBQ place inside the gas station or was it the place at which they yelled at you when you walked in?

The Midwesterner coworker was really pulling hard for Gates, the place where they were promised to yell at us. Yell at us? Huh? She conspired with our driver, who agreed. (The driver, by the way, was a woman! I don’t know what’s happening in the Midwest, but girl power is alive and well!! No job is just for men! Get it, Midwestern ladies!) Gates it was! All the way from the meeting to this supposed Mecca of meat, the coworker and our driver made a very special point of preparing us for what we were about to walk into.

Apparently, as soon as we stepped into the line we would be screamed at for our orders. The warning was to be prepared. Look at the menu before you got in line. Be resolute in your order before you made it to the counter. Don’t look back. Don’t look the servers in the eye. Don’t blink! Don’t panic!!

So, of course, when we got to Gates, we made careful business about the menu board before the line, expecting the Soup Nazi of barbecue to own us if we made a mistake or stuttered in the least. It was nerve wracking. I was anxious, but I was ready. Pulled pork. Potato salad. Let’s do it.

Then the yelling started.

“Hey honey!! You ready, sugar?! What can I get you?! What you want today?!”

Wait. That’s the screaming barbecue version of the Soup Nazi? I. Don’t. Understand. They were niiiice. They were loud, but they were very gracious, sweet and patient.

Naturally, we became fast friends as I chatted over what the best sides were and what I should order. Midwesterners are crazy for being intimidated by these glorious women! And boy was the barbecue delicious!! My boss can’t stop talking about how awesome his burnt ends sandwich was. To this day, I still hear about it regularly. He’s right, though. I’d go back there again to visit my meat-slinging friends.

Full and happy, the driver drove us back to airport, and then she did the most bizarre thing. Dropping us off, she hugged us, each of us. HUGGED us. Our driver HUGGED us! Hugs! Hugs all around! Her arms, my body. HUGGING.

I got on that plane back to DC and respectable, polite distance and familiar hostility between people, clicking my heels and saying, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

When “men’s” fashion fights back

Now, I appreciate a guy who is aware of his image. I mean, I’m in PR and I’m also obsessed with make-up and beauty treatments, so image is something I’m acutely tuned into myself. Sometimes, though, a guy can get a bit carried away.

I dated a guy who turned to GQ as if it were his personal style advisor. This might be a triumph for many guys, and I certainly enjoyed his attention to current trends and fashion. When we’d find ourselves having endless conversations about whether he could pull off particular looks or when, for weeks after a new GQ came out, I could count on having pages laid out for me that we’d then dissect at great length, it became more than amusing.

Some of our most frequent conversations:

“What do you think of that guy in that cardigan? Do you think I could pull off a cardigan? No, only hipster or gay guys can wear cardigans, right? Well, maybe I could wear a cardigan. No, I can’t do the cardigan look. I’d be too Mr. Rodgers. Yeah, I think that cardigan is cool, too, but I couldn’t wear that. Could I wear that? No. Cardigans wouldn’t work on me. Cardigans?”

“I think only girls and a very particular type of guy can get away with a vest.” Of course, then, at least three times a month, we’d revisit what sorts of guys actually fell into that “particular type” and whether he was one of them. Really, at least three times a month.

There were also some notable style mishaps.

One time he came over to my house after an evening out with the guys. My first reaction when I saw him was, “Whoa! Was this a theme night? Are you dressed as a homosexual gas station attendant?!?!”

His response? “This shirt is cool! Why has everyone made fun of me for it tonight?!”

Eventually, I had to admit that it was a good top. “No, you’re right, babe. This is a nice shirt. See, it looks great on me! Can I have it?”

And then there were the jeans he wore to my birthday party that have become famous. They had studs on the pockets and pink trim. Theories abound about whether they actually may be women’s jeans. He insists that they’re just especially trendy men’s jeans. Since they’re Rock & Republic jeans and were very expensive, he may be right—except that R&R also makes women’s jeans, so your guess is as good as mine!

Apparently, he ordered them online and didn’t take a look at the rear view of them on the website before he clicked “Buy.” Then, he got them, liked the way they fit and couldn’t decide whether the sparkles on the butt were a deal breaker. I’ve got several friends who still, many, many months later maintain they were.

Knowing the way he thinks—especially about himself—I know that he just really, really enjoyed how they showed off his assets, and he probably, not so secretly, really appreciated how the sparkles drew more attention to his butt. I’d agree that they did fit him well and weren't so bad, especially paired with a sequin and feather, Las Vegas-style headdress to complete the look!

Sometimes we all make style mistakes that we can appreciate as pushing boundaries or attempts at trend setting. The important thing is to have a good attitude about them and be able to laugh at yourself. Thankfully, this guy usually did. I wonder, though, after all the teasing he got that night, whether he’s ever worn the pants again—or the top I was forced to give back to him. God be with him if he has!

Work sparks

There’s a guy whose company shares office space with my company, and he is not ugly. So, obviously, I’ve zeroed in on him as the next potential Mr. Kristin Brown target.

Our interactions are those that will fill romance novels one day: I say something witty and brilliant; he looks overwhelmed, laughs, says something less than witty and borderline boring and goes on his way. Can you feel the excitement of burgeoning love?!

Like in high school when a crush would find excuses to just happen to be near your locker, the frequency with which he passes by or lingers near my office has definitely increased. I think we can all agree that clearly all this Kristin is working for him!

I’m pretty sure that I’m going to find that he’s less than smart if we ever eventually go out, and then I’ll be stuck with him at work. He seems nice, though, and has a good, professional job. And, at this point, that seems like just about enough!

The anticipation must be killing you! An update.

The date with the 24 year-old wasn’t so bad! He turned out to be smarter and more mature than many of the 30-somethings I’ve gone out with! The biggest 24-years-wise attribute he had was his assumption that we’d just jump right into bed. Oh, boys… Don’t worry; I set the kid straight with all the grace of a lady.

Major red flag (and isn’t there always something?): the young man doesn’t own a TV!!! I’ve been out with a different guy before who also didn’t own a TV but, instead, had a telescope. In an apartment building, on a crowded street, in downtown DC. That guy seemed a touch creepy. At least the 24 year-old wasn’t that unnerving!

Considering I count TiVo as my most prized possession, just ahead of the jewelry my dad has given me for milestone birthdays and my popcorn maker, I can’t imagine what he does at night in his tiny, tiny, studio apartment without TV. I can tell you he’s not exercising in there. He’d put a hand through the window with one jumping jack! What does he do during drinking-wine-on-the-couch time without TV?!

So, obviously, I’m not sure there’s a lot of synergy there. I will, however, entertain another date, should he ask. Hell, I’m not doing a whole lot else (except catching the new seasons of so many great TV shows)!

Not quite a cougar

I have a date tomorrow. With a 24 year old. Yes, I know that puts me ALMOST at cougar status. Shut up! It is still far from being a cougar!

I realized in meeting him that there are some almost-significant differences between 24 and 31. (Seriously, isn't 7 years difference still grounds for "kitten," or at the very most, "puma"?) For instance, some big differences are

• I found myself making out with him outside of a bar in the middle of a very busy stretch of sidewalk. At 31, not a completely shining moment. At 24, maybe I'd tell all my friends. (I mean, please. I still did tell all my friends. Come on, I was making out, in public, with a really, really cute guy still in his physical prime! Shouldn’t everyone know?!)
• When he asked me out, he suggested a college bar at which I might need to put something down on the bar stool before I sat. I gently persuaded him to go to a place that was a little more interesting--and well, hygienic, maybe a bit more grown up. 
• In getting ready for the date, at 24, I'd fall out of bed after a nap, slap on some lip gloss and mascara and be ready to roll! At 31, I'm searching frantically for my favorite wrinkle filler cream, and there's a tiny gray hair sticking up on the top of my head I can't quite grab, taunting me. Either way, you can count on the fact that I’ve got a glass of wine in hand!
• If the date goes well, we might want to extend the evening. If we go back to his 24 year-old's place, it might mean cheap beer out of his roommates' kegerator, sitting around a sticky beer pong table. At my house, we'd drink nice wine over a pile of financial statements on my lovely, clean coffee table. Oh, who are we kidding? I don't have "investments," well, beyond the 4 different 401(k)s I still haven't gotten around to rolling into one at my current job.
• At 24 to prepare for the potential “night cap” at my place, I might shove all the clothes from the floor into the closet and shut the door. At 31, I contemplate taking down from my refrigerator the numerous birth announcements and 1st birthday party invitations with smiley, happy babies staring off of them. Potentially intimidating for a young man?

So, I’m going to go out with this young buck, spend most of the evening having a smashing good time and a tiny bit of the evening wondering how old I’m actually going to allude to being. Maybe I have a slight age complex?

I’ll keep you posted!

Another Hollywood Life Lesson

Ok. Let's get a reality check here.

If we have learned anything from TV and movies—and let's face it, we have learned a lot—in order to find real love I need to encounter some seemingly tragic-in-the-moment turn of fate that sends me reluctantly into a tiny, tiny town in the deep south or in Alaska. That's it. That's what it's going to take.

If I'm going to be serious about finding love, I need to get out from behind the computer, put my wine glass down on the bar and stop following cute stranger to see where it is guys like them are hanging out in the evenings. (That only happened once. How many times have I considered it, though? I reserve the right not to answer…) There are far fewer movies and TV shows about people who met online or in a bar than there are about people from big cities moving to tiny towns, being taken out of their elements, getting “rescued” by hot townies and realizing that, while seemingly miserable at first, the move was the best thing that ever happened to them.

So yeah, reality check: that’s what I need to do.

It happened for Sandra Bullock in Hope Floats, Anne Heche in the TV show Men in Trees, Nicole Kidman in Australia, Renee Zellweger in New in Town and for countless actresses in too-many-to-name teen movies. Hell, it even worked for Michael J. Fox in Doc Hollywood, Kevin Bacon in Footloose and Richard Gere in Runaway Bride!

So, obviously I’m looking forward to the new CW show Hart of Dixie, in which Rachel Bilson is forced to move to a small, southern town in which alligators cross streets (that’s in the previews for the show). You’ll find me every week during the season watching the show and taking furious notes!

Let’s talk about it, though. How is it that there’s one hot guy in town, and he inevitably falls for the out-of-place, seemingly obnoxious, new girl? Doesn’t that piss off the other girls in town? Wouldn’t that make them hate her? So, she gets the guy, but what about friends?! These movies seem to leave a lot of important stuff out…

I suppose the question in this Hollywood life lesson is, “Do I want friends or do I want love?” I have to say, if the objet d’ amour is someone like Harry Connick, Jr., James Tupper or Hugh Jackman, it might not be a fair choice!

Wait, WHO do I look like?!

You can find anything on the internet. For instance, have you ever wondered what celebrity you most resemble? There’s a website for that, probably a few. Warning: the results could be startling.

A little while ago, when I was younger—fewer wrinkles, less affected by gravity, as yet oblivious to the shock of finding a gray hair, so, you know, probably like a year or so ago (how dramatic is the change from 29 to 30 and then to 31?!?! SHEESH!)—I put my picture into one of those websites. Now, of course I had some expectations for what I’d get back. Obviously, I look a lot like Eva Longoria.

When one embarks on such an endeavor as associating her appearance with a celebrity, one aims high. I was hoping for, perhaps, a Kate Beckinsdale, Demi Moore post-surgery, maybe Megan Fox. No? You don’t think I could look like Megan Fox?

People have told me before that I looked like Mini Driver. That seems like a compliment when you picture her in some of her more recent stuff or during her Will & Grace period, even in Good Will Hunting. I’m pretty sure, though, that they were referring to her slightly-less-svelte, Circle of Friends days. I know. I have dark hair, freckles and chipmunk cheeks, but that just seems less than flattering!

This website I’ve purposely blocked from any ability to remember did not pick any of those lovely ladies as my luminary counterpart. Not even Mini Driver at any point in her history. Apparently, I look like none other than Hilary Clinton.

Hilary Clinton! Hilary! Clinton!! Regardless of your political feelings about her, there are several qualities a young woman can admire in Hilary Clinton: her strength, her power, her political acumen, her success… Her looks, and the only relevant characteristic here, are not among her attributes I aspire to! Who sits around and says, “Mmm… That Hilary Clinton is HOT,” or “Hilary is my beauty icon!”

So, naturally, I went out, bought a TON of make-up and other beauty products, amped up my beauty routine and got to work transforming myself. I’m pretty sure I’m almost there. Kate Beckinsdale, here I come!

It’s college football season!!!

Wait, whose blog is this??

Yeah, I’m not what one might call a “football fan.” I am a fan of fun, eligible guys, though, and as it turns out they are fans of college football! I smell a dating scheme coming on!

I decided I would find a college football team to support, get an adorable shirt for the team, go to bars on game days and flirt with the sports fans! This worked on many levels—provided I studied up on the team:

1. I could flirt knowledgeably with alumni or fans of “my team” during the game; they’d be impressed with my fandom and ask me out.
2. I could teasingly flirt with guys supporting the opposing team by trash talking—in a coy, yet knowledgeable way—they’d be impressed and ask me out.
3. I could flirt with boys at bars outside of game days, asking where they were planning on watching “the game;” then, of course, they’d be so charmed they’d ask me out.
4. I could spout off football facts in general conversation with boys in bars; they’d be impressed, ask me which “my team” was, we’d spar if there was a rivalry, and then they’d ask me out.

This seemed like a perfect plan. And! My guy friends were entirely on board with the plan! Now, they’ve laughed off many a scheme I’ve concocted, so their support meant this was a real gem and was going to work! Or, they just wanted someone to go to sports bars and watch games with them…

The first order of business was selecting a team for my undying loyalty. Since boys were involved, or perhaps because these boys were involved, a spreadsheet had to be created. With two separate tabs. Quite a bit of analysis and research went into this decision, and while options were narrowed down by “scientific” means, a true winner had to take into consideration a few more subjective inputs.

Important qualifications for The School:

• Cute guys
• Fun guys
• Smart guys
• High earning potential for graduates

(Notice none of the characteristics have anything to do with actual playing ability or on-field record. Those got cut from the boys’ requirements list pretty early!)

The spreadsheet indicated that the schools with the most fun guys, shockingly, didn’t have the highest earning potential! How were we to find The School with The Team?! One of my guy friends invested in this project decided we should ditch the smarts to go for a guy who likes to have a good time—or else I should just hope our other guy friend invested in the project, a rare Harvard graduate who likes to party, had some friends from school to go after. Please. We can all assume I exhausted the gravy train of friends of friends long ago.

We came out with the following lists.

Fun schools:

• Penn State University – These guys seem like jerks, don’t they?


• University of Mississippi – Really? Do I strike you as a Southern Belle that these guys would be attracted to?
• University of Georgia – See entry above.
• West Virginia University – So many reasons for no.
• University of Texas – I’m so not into cowboy boots or hats. Oh, and I’ve dated a couple Texans. No thanks.

We eventually knocked out the party schools because if the guys are at a bar and having fun, that’s pretty self selecting. They didn’t have to go to a fun school to be a fun guy! Back to the potential earners or otherwise nice guys!

Most well-rounded guys, according to the spreadsheet:

• Texas A&M – See Texas above.
• University of Arizona – As a sister of two Arizona State University graduates, I think I’d be run out of the family.

As scientific as we could get cross-referencing several different college rankings:

1. UT Austin: #2 football ranking, #7 party school, respectable average SAT score of 1240
2. California (Berkeley): #10 football ranking, has a sister school with a party ranking of #10, #21 SAT (1337), #21 Salary ($112k mid career)
3. Notre Dame (#18 football ranking, #9 Salary, #20 SAT)

The winner ended up being Ohio State. What can I say? We went to a bar one day, there was a cute guy wearing an Ohio State jersey, and a team allegiance was born! Spreadsheets be damned! This might be one of the many reasons girls make guys crazy.

A perfect storm of knowledge and hypochondria

I may be kiiiiiiiiiind of a hypochondriac. I also know a LOT about heart disease—the number one killer of women. This is a treacherous combination, as it turns out.

One day, I was sitting at work, minding my own business, when my chest started to feel like an elephant was sitting on it and my left hand started tingling. Now, maybe I have allergies and maybe, as it turns out, they make my chest feel a little congested sometimes, and maybe I had been on conference calls all day and hadn’t had enough water to drink. Did you know that a symptom of not drinking enough fluids is tingly fingers and hands? And then maybe I started freaking out, which might have induced panic-attack lightheadedness…

Now, I’ve been to a lot of Red Dress Fashion Shows for women’s heart health during NY Fashion Weeks over the years. I’ve never been to a fashion show raising awareness about allergies or dehydration. And, what can I say? I’m very susceptible to fashion’s influence.

So, obviously, the only logical conclusion to my symptoms is that I was having a heart attack.

Of course, I immediately made the obligatory phone call to my mom:

“MOM!!!!!! Do you think I’m having a heart attack?!?! I think I may be having a heart attack!! What should I do? Shouldn’t I take aspirin?! I don’t have any aspirin!! I should start carrying around aspirin!!”

“Well, no, I wasn’t exercising. I was sitting at my desk on a conference call. Oh, you think a heart attack is more likely during physical assertion than sitting at my desk? Right, right, that is why so many movies feature politicians having heart attacks in shady hotel rooms with prostitutes, I suppose?”

“Yeah, I think I’m still going to the Urgent Care. I’m pretty sure I have heart disease. I know you are a nurse and everything, but have you been to any Red Dress fashion shows? I’m not sure you fully appreciate the significance of my symptoms.”

So, after a call to my boss:

“Hey, Peter, I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack so I’m going to run to the Urgent Care quickly. No, no, I’ll be back in time for the next conference call in about an hour or so—unless I don't come back. Ok, I’ll let you know!”

I went to the most legit Urgent Care I’ve ever been in (and, it should be no surprise that I’ve been in quite a few!), where the receptionist greeted me by asking what they could do for me. “Hello. I am having a heart attack.” With a quizzical look, she said, “Uh, ok. Have a seat and fill out these forms.” “Ok! Thanks!”

When I got back to the exam room, a helpful, cheery nurse did some preliminary evaluations and went to get the doctor. All the while I’m making jokes and live-tweeting my experience. After all, I have to keep my tweeps up to speed on the major events of my life—especially the potentially life threatening.

The doctor came in within a respectable amount of time, and I greeted her cheerfully and bubbly, putting my phone away. She started asking me the regular doctor exam questions:

“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Do you drink?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sometimes have more than 3 drinks in a night?”
“Yes, I’m trying to find a husband.”
“Well... I found my husband at a bar, so I can’t really judge that!”

Then she went on, “Well, I have to say, you are fine.”

Incredulously, I responded, “Are you sure I don’t have heart disease and am not having a heart attack?!? I mean, I’ve been to the fashion shows!” She didn’t get that reference, having not been to the shows herself, but we eventually got back on track.

“If you were having a heart attack, you would not be smiling and making jokes or on your phone. You would be in quite a bit of pain, doubled over even. Plus, the EKG we just did," YES! They have an EKG machine! Best. Urgent. Care. Ever! “…Was completely normal. Do you maybe have a tendency to overreact??”

Me??? Overreact?!? NEVER!



**Public service announcement: check out The Heart Truth. While heart disease didn’t do me in—yet—it really is the number one killer of women. Know the symptoms! But, use them for good, not for evil, as I seem to use “symptoms!”**

Strategic Mating

I have a beautiful friend named Daisy*. While Daisy has the loveliest blonde hair, blue eyes and peaches and cream complexion, she does acknowledge the limitations of her complexion.

If we’re outside, she’s found the tiniest sliver of shade and is huddled under it in a contorted position that ensures maximum shady coverage of her body. She’ll say she can think about the sunshine and get sunburned. I’ve been to the pool with her before, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t until after 5:00pm. She’d call her coloring “translucent.” I’ve known her to even dye her eyebrows because otherwise they’re seemingly nonexistent. (Sorry, Daisy! I couldn’t resist putting that in—you know, really paint the picture!) It all works very well together, though, and Daisy really is dazzling.

Always the strategic-minded planner, Daisy approached dating with a purpose. She knew one day she’d want kids, and she didn’t want her progeny and light of her life to be so, well, light. If children are built in the image of their parents, Daisy needed to hedge her kids’ bets. So, she set out to date dark. Give the kids a fighting chance!

In all my time of knowing Daisy, and it’s been a long time, she’s had relationships and casual dates, and none of them were Caucasian. She dated an Indian guy for a while, but even his delectably dark skin couldn’t make up for his simple mind and inability to pronounce V’s. (One time while they dated, he took a vacation to “Las Wegas.”) One Moroccan guy lasted quite a while, and Daisy reveled in his café au lait complexion. Unfortunately, some of his other characteristics ended up being catastrophic deal breakers, be damned their attractive baby potential!

As life has a way of working itself out, Daisy found the love of her life, perfect-for-her man. Wouldn’t you know, he’s a good looking guy with dark hair and creamy, ivory skin! And, she’s never been happier, and I’ve never been happier for her.

When Daisy got pregnant, we all held our breath for nine long months. Their daughter is precious! But, while she does have beautiful, dark hair, I fear there’s little hope in that little one ever tanning!

It just goes to show you, as so many things do, you can spend your whole life planning, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and there’s no way around that! Inevitably, one often ends up marrying someone unlike anyone she’s ever dated before. Therefore, I’ve started keeping my own eye out for cute guys with arms full of tattoos! I’ll let you know how that works out.


*Name changed to protect the innocent, and guilty.

Come on Irene

In case you live under a rock or on the West Coast, the entire East Coast was “hit” by a hurricane this weekend. Also in the not-a-surprise category, I am a bit of an alarmist (ok, and probably this one, too). The last time a hurricane-type storm hit the DC area was quite a scene, so this year I was going to be prepared!

Last time, during Isabelle, at a ripe old age 23, my friends/colleagues and I made vigorous preparations: we stocked up on booze, went over to some friends’ house and partied our way through the storm. When our boss called to tell us the office would be closed the next day, she called one of our cell phones. In ending the call, she said, “Ok, I have to go call Kristin now.” The friend said, “Oh, no bother! Here she is!” and handed the phone to me. After we had talked, she said, “Ok, off to call Jessica.” “Oh, here you go! She’s right next to me.” Next: “Calling Lindsay next.” “No need, here she is,” and on it went until one phone call connected with all 8 of us. I think we were busted.

Now, that last storm had been categorized as a lesser danger than this weekend’s Irene, in my recollection. Still, it knocked power out at my apartment for a full WEEK! During that time, there was an epic, flashlight-illuminated Monopoly game that lasted so long there were two Monopoly casualties (I think they may have PTSD and have never played the game again) and new money had to be minted. So, this year, I knew what to expect and was ready. Bring it on, Irene.

I hit the grocery store before the storm was expected to land and bought things under the guideline that if it’s not in the store’s refrigerator section, it probably will last outside of mine if needed. And wine. I bought plenty of wine. Then, I went into preparation mode:

1. Found all the flashlights I have. All are about 2 inches long and were received in Christmas stockings over the years from my dad. I think one also operates as a flare for emergencies. That could come in really handy.


2. Laid out entertainment so I wouldn’t have to go searching through dark drawers when I needed them: playing cards, books, nail polish, the basket I need to paint, paper and pens to draft blog posts the old fashioned way…


3. Prepared a cooler, complete with a bag of ice for drinks.


4. Made a bunch of sandwiches for the cooler. One couldn’t be too sure about how long eating out of the cooler would be necessary. Backed up the sandwiches with bread, peanut butter, granola bars, fruit, veggies… It was a veritable feast, ready for feeding myself for days!


5. Watched NBC all day long, where the anchors were on the air so long they were getting punch drunk and hysterical.


6. Turned the air conditioner up full blast so that when the power went out it would take longer to get hot in the apartment. I. Am. Such. A. Genius!!


7. Put on a sweatshirt. And sweatpants. And a blanket…

I was ready for an apocalypse in which I wouldn’t be able to leave the house for who knew how long!

Then I got bored. And cold.

I went over to some friends’ house, who made me dinner, and we drank beer and played card games all night long waiting for things to fly past the window and trees to crash into the house that never came. Eventually, they drove me home when we were worn out from monitoring the weather—it really takes it out of a girl! I don’t know how Al Roker does it.

Wouldn’t you know the power didn’t go out except for maybe a few hours in the wee hours of the morning while I was asleep? But, boy was it cold when I got back home. I had to sleep in flannel pajamas, fuzzy socks, a hat and scarf. In August.

In conclusion, the storm was a bit disappointing after all the hype. I’m glad everyone’s safe and that I’ve got full power. But now, I’ll be eating sandwiches for months. Come over if you get hungry!

How did Prince Charming Communicate?

Don’t guys understand that girls just want to be made to feel special? Don’t they watch romantic comedies?! Oh, wait… So, they don’t? Well, that explains the missing magic!

I’d like to submit into evidence some of my recently received texts for your consideration. Please, if you feel beloved or otherwise special in reading any of them and I’m missing something, let me know!

A Thursday, late afternoon:

I’ll be in the neighborhood with the usual suspects tonight. Catch up with us if ur out. :-)

This was from a guy recently met. I don’t know who the “usual suspects” are. I’m also not convinced I was the only person to have received this message. Oh! Oh! So, you’ll be in my neighborhood with people I don’t know?! I’ll rush right out!

I’m also pretty sure “catch up with us if ur out” is not akin to “I really enjoyed meeting you and want to get to know you better. Let’s get together so I can treasure your company and devote my full attention to you and whether we might enjoy each other.”


A Wednesday, about 6:00 before a date:

Hope you remembered to wear your drinking pants!!

Why?! Are we going to play quarters on this date? At your fraternity house?


A Saturday night, approximately 1:30/2:00am from an ex-boyfriend:

I’m sorry I was such a d-bag. You’re a great woman.

Oh yeah, I know I am. If you had realized that much earlier on, you could have saved us both a lot of trouble and probably wouldn’t have behaved so disrespectfully. Still, this doesn’t feel like a proclamation of regret or redemption in the early morning hours after, I’m sure, many manhattans.


Another Saturday night a few weeks later, about 1:15am from the same ex-boyfriend:

KBizzle!!!!!!!!

Translation: “Are you out? Can I come over? I miss getting regular action, and since I’m not getting any anywhere else, I’m going try and weasel my way back in here.”

Really? Remember when you said you could picture your life without me in it? This is what that looks like. Not what you imagined??


Wednesday, about 12:15pm (not from ex-boyfriend):

Hey friend. What’d you think of the earthquake? Pretty wild, huh? Don’t be a stranger if you’re out in the hood. We are always out having a good time…

I’ve met you once. We actually are essentially strangers. If you really want us to not be strangers, there is a way to accomplish that: make plans! With all the effort you’re putting into casually running into me sometime, you could just arrange a low-intensity, couple drinks date, you know.

----------

So, sorry, boys. I’m 31 now. I’ve learned the lessons of my early twenties and don’t need to go back. Late-night “reconciliations” and happenstance run-ins do not loving relationships make—typically. I’m smarter than that and worth much more. Why don’t you try to communicate with me as if you were more mature than a 22 year-old yourself?

What happened to the good, old days of phone calls to request nice dates, complete with a suggestion for time/place/activity? I’m starting to think they’ve gone the way of beautifully scripted letters and wax seals. At least I don’t have to wear bloomers under my dresses in this day and age! But really, which is worse? I’m not entirely sure.

Babies. Yikes!

I was fortunate enough to spend the weekend with one of my best friends from college, her husband and their precious little 14-or-so month old (from what I understand, that’s how people count kids’ ages, by month, until they’re—I don’t know—teenagers?). I love my time with one of my favorite, little families and seeing the remarkable growth the little one makes between each trip. I spent this weekend largely monopolized by trying to teach her to say my name, “Biz!!” with jazz hands! Classic KB. And utterly unsuccessful.

I’ve said since I was 5 years old (or 60 months) that I wasn’t going to have any kids. In fact, my sister and I have told my mom on many occasions that it’s a good thing she’s a labor and delivery nurse because that’s her best shot at spending quality time with babies. However, with many of my friends popping out little bundles of love, I’ve gotten in some quality baby time, and it doesn’t seem so scary. Maybe I could even do it! Well, wait. Let me rephrase that. It didn’t seem so scary.

All weekend, my friends' kid was the essence of adorable. Really, she is among the cutest kids I’ve ever met. She just learned how to say “thank you” (and she can’t pop out a “Biz”!?), so any time she gave any of us anything—her toys, hugs, precious kisses, her lunch, our cell phones that had previously been hidden—she would say, “thank you!” in the cutest little voice I’ve ever heard. (She also did it more appropriately when we’d give her things, but that wasn’t as funny.) We went to get ice cream, she chased around a poodle in such a state of toddler glee, and I almost melted!

And then it all came crashing down. While we were finishing up a gorgeously scenic cliff walk in Newport, RI, and waiting for Dad to go get the car, the tot went into full-on meltdown mode. I’ve never seen anything like it! It was behavior like I had previously thought one sees only on TV or in movies. My friend, and the kid’s mom, also said she had never seen anything like it, but I have a strong feeling parents outright lie to the childless. It can be the only explanation for humanity’s continued procreation.

The previously baby-food-commercial-worthy adorable toddler was thrashing around on the ground emitting screams that could have justified an exorcism. We’d try and pick her up, and she’d plant her feet on our bodies and push her entire weight against our arms trying to free herself from such unjustified repression. Dad finally showed up with the car, and the screaming continued. On our way out of town, the ear-splitting screaming continued. I helpfully pointed out buildings I thought might be orphanages or at least day cares, but there were no takers. Almost, but not quite.

Half an hour into the hour-long ride, she abruptly stopped crying and started singing and joyfully cooing. What?!?! Excuse me?! That’s it? It just stops?? No explanation, no apology, just suddenly a complete transformation?! I couldn’t help it, but I found myself angry that her crazy, unexplained outburst could so easily be forgotten in that little mind!

She did go on to win me back. How could anyone be anything but completely in love with that tiny strawberry-blonde head and kissable cheeks?! I mean, don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I’m back firmly in the “this womb will bear no fruit” camp. Being a mom is a LOT of work! Sure, it seems rewarding, but I just don’t think I’m cut out for it. Of course, one “Biz” and a jazz hand or two, and I could, maybe, be back on the fence!

Oh, c’mon. There are still gentlemen! Somewhere?

I can't believe my friends convinced me to post this story. If you want to know what it's like to be a single girl looking for her prince charming, this is a pretty classic anecdote, I suppose, in all it's vulgarity...

I had a date a week or so ago with a guy who was confused and had trouble distinguishing me from one of his crude, back-slapping drinking buddies and the tequileria we were in from a hole-in-the-wall, light-beer-slinging, peanuts-on-the-floor crap shack. It’s the only excuse for his language in the presence of such an elegant lady!

In our various pre-date correspondences, I had alluded to the accumulation of entertaining bad date stories I’d been collecting. So, he tried to compete. This blog is a small taste of the ammunition I’m packing when it comes to bad date comparisons, so you, my loyal readers, know that one needs to come big if he’s going to try to one-up me on dating stories. He had one story in particular that could have made it, but presentation is everything. And in that, he failed big time.

On a second date with a girl he met online, this guy was taking her hiking. I admired his effort to make it an interesting date. On the drive over to the trail, his date said to him, “I like you and could see this going somewhere maybe, so I should tell you something.” That seems presumptuous on a second date, but maybe I could learn something from being a little more forthcoming on a date. Or maybe not…

She continued with, “I just got out of a relationship.” My date then said that he had said to her, “That’s cool, so did I.” That wasn’t the end, though. She had apparently just gotten out of a long-term relationship with a woman.

Now, I saw that ending to the story coming a mile before we got there, but this guy wasn’t finished with the seemingly obvious proclamations. In case I wasn’t sure by virtue of his asking me out, he went on to say, and I repeat this verbatim, “I mean, I’m cool with whatever people may be into, gay, lesbian, straight, whatever. But, I like P**SY!!”

Are you freaking kidding me?! Where do I find these people? Thanks, “sir.” That was completely unnecessary and, oh yeah, even irrelevant to the story! So, there you go, buddy. You and your date had something in common. Please don’t ever call me again.

There have to be some genuinely nice, appropriate, good guys out there somewhere, right? Right?

I'm baaaaaack!

Have you missed me?

I’ve been out, going on dates, dating someone who epitomizes the word “jerk” (and so many other words that would not be ladylike to type), watching all my friends settle down and all the while accumulating stories. I’m back, though! I’d like to tell you that I’m picking the blog back up because I’ve got a burning desire to regale you with my stories or because I feel I’ve let you down with this gap in mindlessly entertaining life drama. However, I have to share that I’m taking to the web again for a no less worthy cause than to fulfill my destiny!

In addition to being prone towards the dramatic, I’m very lucky to have especially wise friends—when their wisdom is in my best interest or I agree with them. Otherwise, of course, they’re just regular friends. Wait, considering the only real readers of my blog are my friends, maybe I should suck up a little more; after all, I can’t risk alienating my base, as they say in politics! Let’s try this again.

I’ve got gorgeous, intelligent, skinny, magical friends who are full of the most profound wisdom, and I’m more than lucky to have them in my life.

The most recent piece of astuteness to come from my great gaggle of girlfriends was a little insight into my life’s purpose—see? They are wise to have ascertained my life’s purpose! The universe, apparently, has big plans for me. As my friend said, (and who am I to argue with flattery?! A lady, especially one more than slightly self-absorbed, never turns down a compliment!) I have been blessed with a gift for writing. (Her words, so don’t take it up with me if you disagree—oh, and if that’s the case, you’re welcome to STOP READING! Jerk.) So, God/the universe/whoever maps out people’s fate has delivered to me a string of bad or otherwise humorous dates so that I may extricate the good stories from the pain and amuse people with them! According to my friend, I will not find the love of my life until I’ve written a book or gone viral online with my “special gift.”

Never one to tempt fate, I am rising to my destiny and will recommit myself to keeping the steady stream of stories coming—and boy do I have content to share! Get ready.

Who are you?

I had a date last night. It was at a restaurant that was fancy and a little uppity with a guy that was not all that fancy but a touch uppity. The date ended early.

As what I’m sure was cosmic punishment for deciding I don’t really like this guy after he spent a ton of money on dinner, I realized in the morning that I had lost my metro card. In the course of tracing my steps of the day before, I called the restaurant to try to find my card.

The first question from the hostess, “What was the reservation under? I’ll ask your server if he found anything.”

Me: “Oh, well, I’m not sure what it might have been under.”

Hostess: “Was it under your name maybe?”

Me: “Um, no. I don’t think it was under my name. I was on a date.”

Hostess: “Ok, so under your date’s name! What was his name?”

Me: “Uh… That’s the thing. I’m not entirely sure what he would have put it under.”

Hostess: “Well, was it Franklin?”

Me: “No…”

Hostess: “Mitchell?”

Me: “Maybe?”

Hostess: “How about a first name instead?”

Me: “Oh ok! I’ve got that! Mike!”

Hostess: “Hmm… No… Jack? Kevin?”

Me: “Oh!! Kevin! That’s his first name!”

Hostess: “??”

Me: “No! No! Really, that’s him! But, you’re right! I-don’t-actually-know-what-his-last-name-is!!!!!!” (As if I said it really fast, she might not hear me…)

There are few things that make you reexamine your life a little like having someone spend a lot of money on you without actually knowing his last name and being a little unsure of his first. Oh, I can think of one thing: having to own up to it!! Embarrassing! And, oh the shame!

I am online dating.

I know! Get. Out!

It’s really fun, though! I can’t believe I resisted this for so long. I’ve been in the online datisphere for 24 hours, and I’ve been “winked” at (whatever that is) like, 400 times*, and I’m on the cusp of at least two dates! In just one day! As it turns out, I am adorable online!

Online dating combines two of my favorite things: online shopping and FLIRTING!! It’s pretty awesome. It’s all the glory of cruising the bar scene without the treacherous beer goggles (unless you log in when you get home from the bars, which could take the whole thing to an entirely different level)! Think about it. Online dating is like shopping a website for that perfect top. It may finally be delivered and not fit, but throughout the whole process, it’s building you up, telling you how fun you are and reinforcing how attractive it thinks you are. I’ve never had a top do that much for me!

Now, all we can hope is that the actual dates don’t get in the way of all the fun, right?!

The whole thing is wildly funny! The particular service I’m using, which is not the one that asks 1,000 questions to confirm your compatibility with someone—that seemed intense—sends you a few “matches” every day. The things it matches you on are hysterical. “You both enjoy wine!” “He is also a non-smoker!” “You share a birth month!” as if these are things on which an entire relationship can be built. Can you imagine walking up to someone in a bar and saying something like, “I see you’re drinking wine. I like wine. Oh! And you don’t smoke?! We should go out! You’re exactly who I want to marry one day!”

The flirting is the best, though. I enjoy any opportunity to flex my wit, and if someone can keep up with me, or at least appreciate my humor and bat a few jokes back at me, what fun! I had one guy burst out laughing so hard at one of my emails that his coworkers had to know what was wrong with him. My effect makes guys their office spectacle, and I LOVE it! Such power!

One guy told me that because of my love of baseball and Mexican food, I was perfect! Don’t worry; I was quick to agree with him! I’ve even already been offered to go to a concert in Chile! (I’m pretty sure I will NOT be doing that. Let’s remember my fear of being stolen. Going to a foreign country with a stranger seems like a good recipe for not coming home.)

In sum, this whole online dating thing is a lot of fun. Let’s remember, though, that I have not yet been on any of the actual dates. This whole thing may eventually come down to some more great bad date stories for this blog, and if that’s the case, I will live it up so I have something with which to entertain you, my loyal readers! Regardless, it’s going to be good, whether it ends in a fruitful, loving relationship or a crazy-successful, overflowing-with-content blog!


* - Ok, a slight exaggeration. It’s more like 120.

Can you calculate “Foot in mouth?”

On a break from dating my adorable manfriend several months ago (you might remember this not-so-made-in-Hollywood girls’ trip), I found myself out at a bar. I know. Quite the shocking turn of events.

My mom happened to also be in town this particular weekend, and we were enjoying standing around catching up with the girls when two bold young men approached the group. As only moms typically pick up on, these boys seemed to have bee-lined over to us as soon as they walked in the door—forsaking the 12 other people they had come in with—to talk to us. Obviously, the only conclusion here is that we were looking SUPER hot. Duh.

The boys were good sports, taking quite a bit of good-natured ribbing from our feisty bunch—much of which focused on one of the guys' calculator watch. Yes. He was wearing a calculator watch. Like from the ‘80’s. We made quite a few jokes about when a calculator on one’s arm might come in handy. Calculating tips. Spelling BOOBLESS… Calculating when two trains might meet in the middle of the country if one left San Francisco travelling at 68 mph and one left New York City travelling at 95 mph…

At some point during the course of the night, the one guy was looking at me and said, “I like your necklace. It’s very… Umm… Colorful.”

Now, I’ve worn this necklace a thousand times. And, I do get numerous compliments on it. It’s several strands of colorful, wooden beads. Often people ask if I got it on vacation in Mexico or tell me it looks very exotic, interesting, fun.

So, I said to the guy, “You just thought about that for a good thirty seconds, and all you could come up with was ‘colorful?!’ That was some deep thinking! Very creative.”

When all the girls pitched in on the taunting, he started laughing and said, “Ok fine! I was staring at your boobs and thought I had just been caught looking, so I had to come up with something!”

The whole group burst out laughing then, and it continued when my friend Amy said, “I love that! I love it for so many reasons. First of all, I appreciate you noticing them. They are pretty fantastic, aren’t they?!” (I swear she really said that!) “Second, I love that you just admitted to it. And third, I love that you admitted to checking out KB’s boobs in front of her mom!”



And, after all that, later in the night he still asked me out. My coworkers really wanted me to go on the date and bring back the calculator watch as a trophy, much like a hunter would return from a big hunt with the head of a lion he had just killed.