NYE 2012

Can we all just agree that this movie/these types of movies is/are terrible and stop producing them?

It's that time of year again when we mumble along to an inexplicable Scottish song and feel compelled to kiss a complete stranger. (When I started writing this blog I thought Auld Lang Syne was in German. EMbarrassing. How could I have not caught on to the slight linguistic differences?) If you haven't been preparing for this moment for 47 years like Harry and Sally, you're probably screwed. They probably had a LOT of crappy New Year's Eve's before that, though, if it makes you feel better.

As a side note, I have to mention something that bothers me about that movie. It's that moment at the friends' wedding toast when they thank Harry and Sally, because if they had found either of them 'even remotely attractive' they'd never have ended up together. Now, I understand that less funny people have to use deprecating humor to be funny in speeches. Sure. But it's ludicrous that this actress, Linda something (I'm guessing purely based on her haircut), and that guy with the unnecessarily large mustache would be more attractive than Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan. Anyway. Big chip on my shoulder, obviously. I love that movie.

This blog isn't for cynics. It's more of a warning, like that 'expiration' date they put on food. Really it's up to you if you choose to abide. You COULD end up getting an extra week out of that loaf of bread. I don't think I need to mention the alternative. What I'm really addressing is that elusive night we chase every year: the ultimate New Year's Eve. (Or as some clubs I would never attend are now snappily dubbing it, NYE.) (Clearly the name of this blog is ironic.)

So what constitutes the perfect night? As my favorite movie (no, not in an ironic way) The Holiday would have you believe, finding the love of your life and/or flying to England are necessary ingredients. Seeing as how we can only find the love of our life once, this necessarily rules out 74 years, assuming we all live to the average 75. (I'm giving all you people on that paleo diet until 70, because there's no WAY eating bacon all the time will pay off in the end.) Flying to England IS an option, apparently, seeing as how five out of 10 of the most recent Facebook posts on my newsfeed have been from abroad. When did all my friends become jet-setters??? Unfortunately, England is gray and dull unless you have Jude Law to entertain you. And seeing as how he has lots of nannies to entertain, he probably doesn't have time to see you. Zing! (Jude, if you ever see this, I don't hold it against you. I have 51 New Year's Eve's left to share if you're interested…) Also, though England is possible, nobody wants to make that flight every year. So, sure, we're down to 73.

72: Aretha Franklin. 

Since this is the sixth paragraph, I'm gonna throw something out there now that will cover probably 71 more holidays: family and friends. Now, don't sell this one short. They're like the flour. They hold everything else in your life together, but they're often overlooked. (If anybody feels the need to correct me about what really holds baked goods together, please refrain.) Nobody wants flour by itself; it has a semi-burnt flavor and it's really dry. AND that's the end of this analogy. Let's agree that we have the best time with the people we love when our expectations aren't higher than the Empire State Building. And when we don't think someone will kiss us at midnight on the Empire State Building. This group of people can include the love of your life too, just not on the year you meet--that year's already covered, and it's a completely different category. Get it together. Now this whole paragraph has me worried that I'm getting old, and I'm moving on.

So this year, you'll enter that 'perfect' party you've been planning on. Your expectations will be high and so will your hair. A tuxedo-clad waiter will hand you a sparkling glass of champagne as you survey the room, then descend the staircase (there WILL be a staircase) as a spotlight perfectly illuminates your twinkling silver gown. You handpicked that gunmetal silver like your life depended on it. You cross the room and spot your friends, and begin to make your way to them, but you are stopped by a gentle brush on your arm. It's a sharply dressed gentleman, black shirt and white tie sharply off-setting the Australian tan and baby blue eyes. You lock eyes and your heart drops. This is it. He says, in that glorious accent, "I'm sorry mate, but you've left the tag on there." You look down in horror to see that your tag is exposed, revealing not only your carelessness but the fact that you shop at Forever 21. But perhaps this was just a reason to talk to you? A meet-cute? You lift your eyes from the tag to say thank you but he has moved on, arm in arm with a brunette who is of course his girlfriend.

Oh, how quickly you've forgotten my warning.

Texting Protocol

Texting fail. Source: damnyouautocorrect.com

Lately I’ve noticed that so many different styles of texting have emerged that I often have no idea what kind of subliminal messages I’m sending people. This has made me very anxious. I’ve spent several minutes at times debating whether or not to add a period at the end of my sentence because it just seems so final. In my head, a sentence with no period is breezy. And you’ve left room for a potential dialogue. (Whereas a period feels like the equivalent of Hitler slamming his hands down on the table and yelling, “Nein! No more conversation for the Jews!” Is that racist? Oh no, one more thing to worry about.)

…Let’s just bring it back to the question this blog is addressing before anyone gets angry. Is there a correct, uniform style?

I think I need to break this down into people groups.

1.     The Eager Texter: This is the person who sends you five texts immediately in a row instead of using up the extra space we know they had in their first message. They get you excited because you think some mysterious new person has just texted you—until you see their name followed by ‘5 new messages.’ This brave soldier also isn’t afraid to send another text if you haven’t responded in an appropriate amount of time. You know, something cool like “Are you there? Hello?” Oh, the dreaded double text. I think in dating relationships the double text is practically tantamount to saying I love you. Eager Texters are usually either your friends or those with no game.

2.     The Lazy Texter: This person frustratingly can’t seem to text back within less than 3.5 hours. Their lives are SO BUSY that they just barely had time to check their Blackberry after a quick bite at their desk. Who are these corporate execs that I’m friends with?? Either that, or they leave their phone somewhere not on their body and only check it periodically, like it’s email or something. What?!!!! (Okay, okay, I’m guilty of this.) Lazy Texters are likely one of three: 1. People who want to seem cool and stressed, 2. People who are just not that into you, or 3. People who genuinely don’t care about communication and need to get their lives together.

3.     The Abbreviator: This specimen is either longing for AIM to be cool again or has read some handbook on texting featuring all the most-used abbrevs. (See what I did there?) You know, like what parents think we say. “TTFN, BFF! ROFLMAO about those pix.” I think the iPhone has caused a resurgence of Abbreviators because people don’t have that handy T9 anymore. (Okay fine I never figured it out, but people said it was fast!) Autocorrect seems to be lacking at best, judging from the amount of hate sites formed specifically for this cell phone function. The Abbreviator is probably either your dad or some friend who has not yet caught on. No, I don’t want 2 go 2 bch w u. But I would love to go to the beach; it’s a lovely day!

4.     The Wild Card: Who needs consistency, anyway? I can only assume these people are going on weeklong safaris with no cell service, only to return to the States where they become desperate for human interaction and text everyone incessantly. Seriously, either find a plan with no dead zones or lose the phone entirely. I need some stability in my life. The Wild Card may be your ex or an old friend who you sometimes hang out with all the time and sometimes don’t see for a year.

I could go on, but I’d rather just end this right now. None of these styles is appropriate. I hate them all with a passion that burns like hot embers. (Is it sad that when I typed embers, the first thing I thought of was Pokemon? Ember was something, right?) ANYway, if I ran the world this is how it would go down:

Interested male, 5:23 p.m.: “Hey Katie, I had a lot of fun with you last night. We should take that hike this week.”

Katie, 5:30 p.m.: “Hi Evan! Me too. J Oh yeah, I remember you mentioning a trail in Temescal Canyon.”

Evan, 5:35 p.m.: “Exactly. It’s a great hike, really awesome views. You’ll like it. How does Wednesday sound?”

Katie, 5:39 p.m.: “Perfect! Just let me know what time.”

Evan, 5:44 p.m.: “How about I come by your place around 9:30 a.m.? We can get breakfast and head out.”

Katie, 5:46 p.m.: “Sounds great, see you then.”

Note: This conversation took no longer than 30 minutes, because that would be ridiculous. Both parties were upfront and did not beat around the bush. (They used proper grammar!) Evan was a man; he got to the point immediately and established exact details so Katie would not have to worry about vague plans. The time between texts did not get longer, but shorter. Plus, a unique activity was suggested and a meal was added on top of that. He lets her know he will pick her up. This Evan sounds like a classy guy, right? Exactly. And that’s how it should go down. Who run the world? ME.

Unspoken Rules

The skort, aka the mullet of the garment world. Also, hilariously, this picture is from that company that created our textbooks. That says enough in itself.   Source: Google Images

An important part of a young adult’s education is the education that is not mentioned. This is what you learn when you show up to a party on time, when you show interest in a friend’s ex-boyfriend, or when you wear a skort. These are things you don’t learn when you are homeschooled, or just antisocial in general. If you haven’t caught on by the time you’ve reached your twenties—or if you have no idea what I’m talking about right now and think skorts are a great way to be feminine and yet, active—there is some bumpy road ahead of you, my friend. (Let’s be clear, though—we’re not friends. I have a reputation to maintain.)

Just for funsies though, let’s take a look: is it possible to avoid the unspoken rules and maintain a normal life?

Location, location, location. In my experience, Southern California preteens—and teens, and the hipsters living on their own in L.A., especially—are ruthless. Judging from Gossip Girl, New York City kids have the same attitude. (What? It’s a more credible source than Wikipedia.) I’m not sure I personally would survive the embarrassment of my arch-nemesis dumping yogurt on my uniform in front of the entire school. Also, I can’t remember if that is an actual plot line or if I just made it up. CW, I want the credit if I invented that! Anyway, somehow I think the kids in Kansas aren’t draining the brake fluid from each other’s cars. Yep, that’s real.

As far as dating goes, everyone knows we abide by rules.* The dating game isn’t fun, but everyone plays.** Have you never waited to text someone back until it had been as long or longer than the time it took them to reply to you? Have you not fiddled around on Words With Friends, even though every game open said ‘Their Move,’ contemplating whether you should start one with the computer, just so you wouldn’t text back on a time that ended with an increment of 5? (E.g., 5:30=desperate; 5:32=cool and casual.) And the three-day rule is standard procedure, of course. Who possibly has time within the next two days to make a phone call?! That’s ludicrous.

But. Yes, there is a significant but. (Jennifer Lopez might make it into this blog yet. Is that good enough, Jenny?! Stop hounding me, I mentioned you. Gosh, she’s so desperate since she got on American Idol.) A good friend of mine started dating a guy from out of state not too long ago, and I was astonished to hear the rules were tossed out the window like Will Ferrell’s discarded burrito in Anchorman. (Shout out, M&M. Haha.) Texting galore, complete openness, consecutive hangouts! Consecutive hangouts! You can ask her, my mind was blown. In what kind of world do we allow these things to happen?!

Don’t worry, though, the rest of us can go back to our corner bar and flirt with the same guy/girl we’ve been flirting with for the past two months just so it can end in another two. But only if they approach us first. And only if we’ve had a drink. And we are not going to respond to their text if we see them talking to someone else before us. (Okay, probably.) So breathe a sigh of relief, guys. The world is still in order.

*Disclaimer: see homeschooled/antisocial note above.

**Again.

The Mean Reds

Audrey with her cure.     Source: Google Images

 

Some of you might see the subject of this blog and think it refers to that cute little ailment (or severe depression?) Audrey Hepburn coined in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Some may think it refers to that time of the month—which, come to think of it, makes a lot of sense. Okay, I’ll give you that one. But this blog is about that relationship-killing, general-discomfort-giving feeling one gets at uncertain times. Or, as Audrey describes it, “suddenly you’re afraid, but you’re not sure what you’re afraid of.” It’s not medical enough to be serious, and it’s not casual enough to be dismissed. It’s just in-between, and it’s there.

Phew! That was a dark, stormy rain cloud of an opener. Trust me, though, it will pour forth a torrent of glorious blog. This is about that beginning phase of relationships, a time when your status is unclear, you constantly debate if the other person is into you and it seems any one piece of straw will break the camel’s back. (Or at least the beginning phase of relationships for OCD-prone people. Ahem.)

So the question of the week, courtesy of BJ (whose name I will perpetually allude to in abbreviated form just for the giggles), is how do you cure the Mean Reds?

Careless, extravagant Holly Golightly (seriously, if you’re not getting the references by now I can’t help you) went to Tiffany’s. Seriously though, those of us (all of us) not fortunate enough to attend Tiffany’s on a regular basis will require an alternative antidote.

Soapbox aside to my target audience: Yes, there are those of us who shop at Tiffany’s. Those who request minor little baubles from our BFs, who buy ourselves the tiniest of tiny diamond earrings or thinnest of silver chains just to say they are from Tiffany’s. (For the record, I am not alluding to myself; those who know me can vouch that I prefer gaudy, brummagem jewelry. BOOM! Word of the day.) Let me tell you something—nobody your age can tell if those diamonds are real, and nobody cares that they are from Tiffany’s. Word out.

On the real (I think I’ve been watching too much Sh*t White Girls Say to Black Girls), I have given this a lot of thought and the answer, I believe, is communication. This is not easy for blossoming relationships, when you want to seem cool and detached, like you always have a 3 p.m. meeting to run off to or a call you HAVE to take. Nobody wants to be the one who dives in the pool first and splashes the person just testing the water with their toe (ugh, so annoying), but everyone wants to know what the other person is thinking.

How about, instead of playing it cool and letting anxiety consume you, you tell the other person how you feel? Trust me, this is an ego-driven society; nobody will be upset to hear that someone likes them. If they don’t like you back it may be uncomfortable, but it would never have worked anyway. Plus, it’s a lot more comfortable than the Mean Reds, which is what that unhindered anxiety will lead to.

As further proof of this theory, take a closer look at the Mean Reds: they truly are the antithesis of communication. You can’t communicate to yourself how you feel, you’re unsure of what others around you are thinking but you can’t ask, and you don’t know what you want. (I mean, these are the basic tenets of being a girl, but that’s a subject for another blog.) Quod erat demonstrandum—the cure for anti-communication is communication.

I referred to the ‘Reds as relationship killers because they are. To conclude, a little flow chart action, if you will. (I’d prefer a little Venn diagram action as I’ve been really into them lately, but I certainly do not know how to html that ish.) 

Flirting → call → date → call back → date → a couple days → call back → a couple more days → call back → a week → anxiety → ‘should I call?’ → more anxiety → ‘I’ll just call’ → date → ‘does he/she really like me?’ → even more anxiety → THE MEAN REDS. 

(Feel free to use my flow chart or Venn diagram ideas to diagram your feelings for your significant other—doesn’t get much clearer than this. It’s all science! You can’t stop it.)

Grow Up

Hef/confused old man    Source: Google Images

It astounds me as of late how the physical and mental ages of people (read: guys) around me don’t add up. Trying to crunch the numbers is futile. Toilet humor + bad table manners + phrase T-shirts + no money = 22 years old? More like 14. Or how about noncommittal + partier + the Fade Out = 33?! I could go on. Please don’t make me.

In ancient times (and modern day places—really anywhere but Southern California), the tribes would be furious. How will the race continue if the men don’t recognize their role as the provider and choose a mate? This is troubling for those of us who would like to marry before the ripe ol’ age of 50 (which is when, it seems, the men folk have decided to settle down). We won’t look good then, guys! Even with Botox. (I should say even without Botox. Who’re you fooling, Steven Tyler? And yes, I’m grouping him with the women.)

So how did we go from hunter-gatherer single-family units to open relationships, life-long bachelors and sister-wives? 

Personally, I would like to blame Adult Swim. Not only does every show SUCK except for Family Guy (clearly that show promotes old school family values like communicating with your children, even your baby, and maintains that marriage is important in a culture that says otherwise), but it has officially sanctioned adult men to watch cartoons. Just because they’re edgy and late night doesn’t mean they’re cool, guys! You don’t see people watching that Ferguson guy. What’s his name? Craig? I’ve lost interest.

Let’s take a look at the CDC's stats on the matter. In the most recent data (2009), 2,077,000 people married. Approximately 10 years ago (1991) 2,371,000 married. 10 years before that (1981), 2,438,000 married. For the most part, marriages generally increased year over year until the 90s. Yes, people. OUR generation. I mean, is it really surprising? The clothing of the 90s was so androgynous nobody could tell who was a man or a woman. Hey, you in the flannel shirt and baggy jeans! OH. Hey, Jessica. (In case anyone was wondering, Jessica was the number one baby name of the 80s.)

Yes, these stats don’t specify men or women, but there is only one gender that looks at wedding magazines, picks out dresses early on and likes interior decorating. Christopher Lowell aside, it’s the girls who appear to be more marriage-oriented. The men are coming up in here with their cartoons and their bachelorhood and stomping all over our biological clocks. Ouch, men. Ouch.

Whoa…okay, this blog got away from me for a minute. Let me state a few facts for the record. I, blogger extraordinaire, do not think all men act like children. I am also not ready for marriage at age 23. However, I do believe that we are letting the appropriate settling-down age slip further and further through our hands, and an unwillingness to grow up is spurring this on.

So let’s say we all just say whatevs and live for today, settling down be damned. Aside from the cease of procreation and the end of the human race (barely worth acknowledging), or a human race comprised of single-parent, only-child children (NO thanks—social awkwardness would run rampant), we’d all have one thing to look forward to. HEF. Yes, Hugh Hefner. (What’s that you say? He did marry? OH yes, I’m sure his secretary wife enjoyed her tax breaks while Hef was out with other women.) I’m sure in today’s world some people think his life is pretty great, but I think I’ll pass on the limp, overcooked gray slab of mystery meat. I mean, please. No amount of money. If he was a grandpa like he should be, he could be cute and drooly, but as it stands he is gross. Gross, gross, grosss. 

And there you have it, the future of promiscuity as it is today. Crumpled Kleenexes and baby oil. (Sorry, Gawker forced me to read this quote from Holly Madison and I couldn’t be the only one. Just be glad I didn’t link it.) SAVE YOURSELF WHILE YOU STILL CAN.

Quirkland

Source: Google Images

 

Everyone has their cute little quirks. You know, like needing to sleep on your stomach or pronouncing a word wrong or reading the last chapter of a book first. Maybe you feel the need to wear socks at all times, or shoes, or you correct others’ grammar. (Okay, okay, the grammar thing isn’t cute. I’ll stop lying to myself.) Totally normal, harmless behavior, right? This lasts until about date three or four. That’s when you start to catch a glimpse of the freak flag.

Trouble is, how do you decide which of these traits are harmless and which are, well, freaky?

I think we’ve all experienced that moment when you realize there’s something a little off. It’s inevitable. Unless you’re the most boring, ordinary person on the face of the earth, you have something unique about you. (Unique, of course, being the nicest possible way to state it. Weird would be more accurate.)

This isn’t necessarily bad, though. I mean, Alec Baldwin’s character on 30 Rock is arguably one of the coolest guys, like, ever, and even he had an unusually large collection of cookie jars. Plus, one day someone will think these quirks are cute and you will feel more secure about yourself and the two of you can fly away to magic happy Quirkland^tm together. But until this totally likely event happens, let’s establish a few guidelines for weeding through the freaks and finding somebody acceptable to date in the meantime.

1. The quirk is not actually harmful to you. For example, wearing shoes in the house = not a big deal. (As long as they’re not tracking mud all over your clean floors!) Wearing shoes in the house because they have a contagious fungus = big deal.
2. The level of annoyance is proportionate to the level of happiness you experience around this person. Does the fact that they sing along to literally every song on the radio make you want to punch them in the throat? Or is it only mildly irritating, and greatly outweighed by their angelic voice? 
3. The level of annoyance is proportionate to the level of attractiveness of this person. I mean, let’s just be real. I could put up with a LOT if I were dating Bryan Greenberg. “What, Bryan? You want me to cut your meat for you like your mother used to?” Fine by me. 
4. On a scale of 1 to crazy, the quirk doesn’t go above a solid six. Sure, this will vary from person to person, so decide on your own rules. I mean, for me, toe-sucking or any kind of foot fetish is at least a 15 and unacceptable. But I guess some of you weirdoes ARE those people. (Believe it or not, that is the correct spelling of weirdoes. Oh gosh, now I’m correcting myself.)

I think that’s enough. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good quirk. This is by no means a cease and desist letter. They really make things fun. And I’m definitely not telling you to terminate a relationship the minute one surfaces. I’m just saying, be prepared. Don’t be surprised when you offer him a Listerine strip on the fourth date and he declines because it will ‘burn his cankers.’ (Okay, that one MIGHT be a deal-breaker. Not the cankers, the fact that he brought them up.)

BTW, I bet you’re reading this blog thinking, “I have noticed that about other people.” Well, guess what. You’re a weirdo, too. Remember that time you found yourself standing on your head in that person’s bedroom (in a NON-sexual way, dirty minds), and then you realized that was slightly abnormal behavior? And then you realized it wasn’t the first time that had happened? Yeah…

Initial Contact

First contact. Source: Google Images

 

There is nothing more precarious than the premier étage of dating. The solid connection forged in person can collapse as quickly as a poorly made soufflé if the ingredients aren’t integrated perfectly. And we ALL know what a bummer it is when your soufflé collapses. (OKAY fine I don’t, but one of these days I will fulfill that dream.) Actually, a fallen soufflé would probably be more disappointing then a missed connection with the lackadaisical way dating is approached nowadays.

Pardon my stream-of-consciousness blogging style, but can we pause and discuss the missed connections section of Craig’s List? Depressing and unlikely. 24-year-old MFW, do you really think the blond girl in jeans you shook hands with at a bar last Tuesday will remember that? How does that description even identify anyone? That could be me, for all I know. OMG how many connections have I missed?! I think that page is supposed to inspire hope, but really it just reminds me how little confidence people have. Man up and talk to her at the bar, MFW! This ‘speechless’, butterflies-in-one’s-stomach excuse is not believable and NOT hot.

That said, the key to initial contact is, crazily enough, establishing contact! (And not in a way that involves throwing a first move out into the ‘cosmos’ in hopes that said person will respond.) But just what is the best way to contact your new flame?

Scenario. Late one Sunday night, a connection is made between two consenting parties. Beer → conversation → karaoke → phone number. (That’s the typical progression, correct?) So now Journey is sitting there with Bonnie Raitt’s phone number burning a hole in his pocket. He has several options.
 

a)      Rip up the number and throw it away. Sure, she was great, but her vocal skills were akin to Cameron Diaz’ in My Best Friend’s Wedding, and he’s not trying to get with that. Also, the dramatic ripping-up gesture was very satisfying.

b)      Abide the three-day rule and text her at a time when it appears nonchalant, e.g., 4:57 p.m. Obviously NOT 5:00 p.m., because it will then seem too carefully orchestrated. Plus, this will deepen Bonnie’s interest as she nervously awaits his call. (Or, more likely, it will give her time to forget him or move on. Obviously I’m not a fan of this rule.) 

c)       Text her back immediately and/or the next day with a witty comment/inside joke. Caution: with this approach, the guy should not expect the girl to follow up since she now has his number, and that had better be one hilarious comment. Otherwise this option can come across as needy. 

d)      Call her (gasp) within the next few days with a pleasantry about the other night and an invitation to dinner, or coffee if the situation seems sketchy. I get it guys; nobody wants to spend that much money on someone who could just up and start planning your wedding on the first date. Or worse, is a vegetarian. 

All of these options are a plausible means of getting the girl (or guy..woo feminism). Well, except the first. I guess the first could work if you immediately regret ripping up the number (because she is a girl, there’s that) (or boy) and post your MFW/WFM on missed connections. Then the cosmos can bring you together just in time for the holidays, a festivus miracle!

OR you can choose one of the latter three, more sane options. Unfortunately there is not really any good standard, because typically if someone likes you they will like your approach. Feel it out, though; if she (…/he?) seems shy, maybe a sooner call-back to inspire confidence is in order. A younger girl will probably expect a text as opposed to a call, as she only uses that aspect of her Smartphone for her parents, and vice versa for an older girl. Although that extra initiative is always appreciated. A confident, independent girl may be turned off by a quick reply, as the chase is a necessary evil.

Most importantly, if you text, DON’T start a boring conversation. And don’t make the person you’re texting start it (i.e., “what’s up girl” is unacceptable). Do yourself a favor and think of something interesting. Because if we resort to talking about Wheel of Fortune immediately, so help me, that’s it. I’m not trying to fast-forward to our conversations 40 years from now. (You know Pat and Vanna will still be alive and running the millionth season.)

Hopefully with some basic steps to follow we can make this process feel easier and slightly less foreign than alien contact. (I’ve never seen E.T., but I think “E.T. phone home” was probably established because he wanted to call up a chick.) Next time you find yourself wearing a foil helmet, surrounded by glasses of water and a baseball bat, staring at the phone…Who am I kidding, if it gets that far, you’re way beyond me. Joaquin Phoenix, I’m looking at you.