Maybe it's just me, but why is it a million times more difficult to buy a man you're involved with a birthday present? Women are far simpler in at least this one respect. If you've been romantically involved for a long time, you're always safe with diamond earrings. If it's a relatively new relationship or she's a good friend you're hoping for more with, you can always order flowers or some gift basket of lotion and body products. Everywhere practically online delivers these things (in most cases, you can even pay extra if you wait until the actual day you need it). It requires no effort other than having an internet connection and a credit card number.
But not so much for men. Today I'm struggling because every single factor that could come into play to make gift-giving difficult has arisen. I know everyone is beyond excited for me to list all these factors, so please wait no more and allow me.
1. Confusing Ambiguous Relationship Status
I am sure at some point you've attempted to buy a gift for a person you're kinda sorta seeing but is definitely not your boyfriend/girlfriend but has seen you naked and still talks to you so you're not off the hook. Is that sentence confusing? Good, because that embodies exactly how confusing it is to buy this person something. You can't go overboard with the gift because then you look like you're reading more into things than are actually there. But if you're totally thoughtless, you may give off the vibe that you don't care. Fantastic. Does anyone know a website for thoughtful yet nonchalant and breezy gifts?
2. For The Guy/Gal Who Has Everything
It's been said time and again, but truly, what in the holy balls do you buy someone who has everything? Back in the day, it was always relatively simple to buy my broke ass part-time waiter college boyfriend something. There was always some video game or random item he desperately wanted but was too busy spending his 4 dollar paycheck on beer to buy. Not exactly romantic but always much appreciated when I picked it up for him. But as you get older and you start to date not-pothead-waiters, it's much more difficult. If you land yourself a good dude with a great job, you may have hit the life jackpot, but it's the whammy of gift giving - especially if you're anything like me and a good chunk of the American population and are broke as hell. I can see it now. "Hey rich boy, I reached into the depths of my brain and bank account and pulled out this Barnes and Noble gift card for $18.34. No need to thank me, you enjoying 2 and a half magazines is all the thanks I need." Ugh.
3. Not Knowing Someone Quite Well Enough
This actually is only a minor issue, but an issue none the less. Not knowing someone well enough eliminates gag gifts (who knows how they will react?) and tiny gifts that, while inexpensive, are something so perfect for the person that the cost is a non-issue.
4. Birthday On A Sunday
This really sets me off. Inevitably, when you wait until the last minute, you can still have something delivered. Unless, of course, the gift receiver in question's birthday lands on a Sunday. In that case, you're screwed. Nothing says "hey I hope maybe you and I turn into the real deal" better than a box of Snookie's Cookies that arrives a day too late. Outstanding, so now not only does my gift suck but it sucks belatedly.
Well, I should perhaps leave you all with that last one. It is Sunday, after all, and I still haven't bought a gift.
-stars
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
4.19.2009
2.17.2009
raging out at... unexpected marriages
This affliction is a particularly nasty one. I myself experienced it about a year ago, but in light of it affecting 3 of my friends in the past few months (2 in the last 24 hours!), I feel compelled to speak out against it.
There are a few different things I will categorize as unexpected marriages and different degrees to which they cause pain. I'd like to present mine and my beautiful (and all single) ladies' dealings to show you all the four different types. All names and identities have been altered to protect the heartbroken.
Code Green: The Loss of a Killer Fuck Buddy
Code Green is the demon that I had to face. You may remember a gentleman from "raging out at... inappropriate ways of finding out information," the man who was a random guest speaker in the class I TAed. We will call him the Sexual Predator, or SP for short.
SP and I had a relationship of sorts over the course of a few years. I could always count on him to hook me up with tickets, be around when I was single and lonely or angry and wanting revenge on a cheating boyfriend, and to basically traumatize me in the best way possible with his complete and utter sexual deviance. (Or perhaps he traumatized me in the worst way possible, as all subsequent boyfriends have looked upon ME as the deviant. C'est la vie.)
Regardless of the fact that I never had any real feelings towards SP other than gratitude and horror, when I found out he had gotten married, it stung. And the worst part of it was the news was delivered by a particular cheating ex-boyfriend whom I had needed SP to work through. Double goddamn whammy and a loss that left a gaping hole in my need to be absolutely vile in the boudoir.
Code Orange: The Loss of Your First Time
One of my favorite ladies, Vanessa, lost her virginity a little later in life than most of my other slutty friends. She finally gave it up to a British man named Thomas. Tommy and V were never officially a couple but they carried on their affair on the regular for over a year. Then one day Tommy met Pigerella (her real name- Scout's honor!) and it was a wrap for V and Tommy. V, like your pal Stars, never had any kind of deep-rooted feelings for Tommy so she plowed past that one pretty quickly. Frankly, I think if Thomas hadn't been her first, it may not have affected her at all. But he was and so it did.
And so yesterday she gets a phone call from a friend who works in Tommy's office, telling her that the rumor around the water cooler is that Tommy and V are in Hawaii and he's planning to propose on Valentine's Day. As if Valentine's Day isn't crummy enough, did V need to deal with that? And to add insult to injury, this tattletale friend of hers isn't exactly her favorite person on Earth and the kinda friend who likes to think that every single person is jealous of her relationship. Awesome times.
Code Red: The Ex-Boyfriend Who Marries Someone New 2 Weeks After Breakup
This is where we start to get into some really hairy territory. My gal Lauren suffered one of those particularly devastating heartbreaks recently. She and Alex hadn't dated for a very long time, but it was one of those intense relationships that moves fast and furious. It ended far before Lauren was ready for it to be over. When the news of his marriage broke, she was still in the crying and screaming and plotting to get him back stage of the breakup.
And what was truly rubbing salt in the wound of this catastrophe (as if doing it a mere 14 days post breakup wasn't bad enough!) was that he married a brand new girl... not an old friend or a rekindled ex. A BRAND NEW GIRL.
And how, you might ask, did Lauren find out about the nuptials? Via the internet. Via the goddamn internet. I would certainly hope if I were going to do something like that to that unbelievably recent of an ex, I would have the balls to let them know and not let them find out in some roundabout way. 'Though I suppose if you are classless enough to pull a stunt like that, the proper social etiquettes are probably far beyond your realm of understanding anyway.
Code Blue: Loss of the Man You Dated For 9 Years
And this one may sting worst of all. I think at this point, we can all agree that the news of a former flame getting married is never a pleasant experience. Sure, sometimes it's more annoying than painful, but it is never fabulous news to hear, especially when you have not yet taken the plunge. And sometimes it is just the worst news of all.
My friend Violet dated Andrew for 9 long years. Their relationship was one of the most tumultuous I have ever witnessed (albeit second hand), but they loved each other. Andrew was the kind of guy who would buy Violet dresses for their unborn (and not even yet conceived) daughter. They had a tendency to make up and break up a lot, but Violet always assumed that when she one day walked down the aisle, it would be Andrew waiting for her at the other end.
When Violet found out the news, she and Andrew had been apart for about a year and a half. Long enough for her to have moved on and found a new boyfriend, but Violet, being the old romantic that she is, had still never fully given up hope on Andrew. Maybe that's her fault, but that's just who she is.
In a play from the Stars playbook, Violet stumbled across their wedding website while Googling Andrew's name. On top of the news, she was also subjected to photos, the proposal story and a million other details no one should ever have to live with. I think we all hate the internet.
The point is, this sucks. People get married and people move on from their past relationships. If we never moved on, I would still be pining over a dude who is now a semi-professional wrestler with GREEN HAIR. (Man, I have dated some real gems.) So we will all take the bad of this and hope that someday, we do the same to crappy exes of ours. Moral of the story here is perhaps a little courtesy would be nice. If we broke up two weeks ago, dated for 9 years, had sex within the last 2 months or if I am just gonna hear about it anyway, it would be a lot better coming from your mouth. Or maybe there is no moral and I am grumpy and bitter.
- stars
There are a few different things I will categorize as unexpected marriages and different degrees to which they cause pain. I'd like to present mine and my beautiful (and all single) ladies' dealings to show you all the four different types. All names and identities have been altered to protect the heartbroken.
Code Green: The Loss of a Killer Fuck Buddy
Code Green is the demon that I had to face. You may remember a gentleman from "raging out at... inappropriate ways of finding out information," the man who was a random guest speaker in the class I TAed. We will call him the Sexual Predator, or SP for short.
SP and I had a relationship of sorts over the course of a few years. I could always count on him to hook me up with tickets, be around when I was single and lonely or angry and wanting revenge on a cheating boyfriend, and to basically traumatize me in the best way possible with his complete and utter sexual deviance. (Or perhaps he traumatized me in the worst way possible, as all subsequent boyfriends have looked upon ME as the deviant. C'est la vie.)
Regardless of the fact that I never had any real feelings towards SP other than gratitude and horror, when I found out he had gotten married, it stung. And the worst part of it was the news was delivered by a particular cheating ex-boyfriend whom I had needed SP to work through. Double goddamn whammy and a loss that left a gaping hole in my need to be absolutely vile in the boudoir.
Code Orange: The Loss of Your First Time
One of my favorite ladies, Vanessa, lost her virginity a little later in life than most of my other slutty friends. She finally gave it up to a British man named Thomas. Tommy and V were never officially a couple but they carried on their affair on the regular for over a year. Then one day Tommy met Pigerella (her real name- Scout's honor!) and it was a wrap for V and Tommy. V, like your pal Stars, never had any kind of deep-rooted feelings for Tommy so she plowed past that one pretty quickly. Frankly, I think if Thomas hadn't been her first, it may not have affected her at all. But he was and so it did.
And so yesterday she gets a phone call from a friend who works in Tommy's office, telling her that the rumor around the water cooler is that Tommy and V are in Hawaii and he's planning to propose on Valentine's Day. As if Valentine's Day isn't crummy enough, did V need to deal with that? And to add insult to injury, this tattletale friend of hers isn't exactly her favorite person on Earth and the kinda friend who likes to think that every single person is jealous of her relationship. Awesome times.
Code Red: The Ex-Boyfriend Who Marries Someone New 2 Weeks After Breakup
This is where we start to get into some really hairy territory. My gal Lauren suffered one of those particularly devastating heartbreaks recently. She and Alex hadn't dated for a very long time, but it was one of those intense relationships that moves fast and furious. It ended far before Lauren was ready for it to be over. When the news of his marriage broke, she was still in the crying and screaming and plotting to get him back stage of the breakup.
And what was truly rubbing salt in the wound of this catastrophe (as if doing it a mere 14 days post breakup wasn't bad enough!) was that he married a brand new girl... not an old friend or a rekindled ex. A BRAND NEW GIRL.
And how, you might ask, did Lauren find out about the nuptials? Via the internet. Via the goddamn internet. I would certainly hope if I were going to do something like that to that unbelievably recent of an ex, I would have the balls to let them know and not let them find out in some roundabout way. 'Though I suppose if you are classless enough to pull a stunt like that, the proper social etiquettes are probably far beyond your realm of understanding anyway.
Code Blue: Loss of the Man You Dated For 9 Years
And this one may sting worst of all. I think at this point, we can all agree that the news of a former flame getting married is never a pleasant experience. Sure, sometimes it's more annoying than painful, but it is never fabulous news to hear, especially when you have not yet taken the plunge. And sometimes it is just the worst news of all.
My friend Violet dated Andrew for 9 long years. Their relationship was one of the most tumultuous I have ever witnessed (albeit second hand), but they loved each other. Andrew was the kind of guy who would buy Violet dresses for their unborn (and not even yet conceived) daughter. They had a tendency to make up and break up a lot, but Violet always assumed that when she one day walked down the aisle, it would be Andrew waiting for her at the other end.
When Violet found out the news, she and Andrew had been apart for about a year and a half. Long enough for her to have moved on and found a new boyfriend, but Violet, being the old romantic that she is, had still never fully given up hope on Andrew. Maybe that's her fault, but that's just who she is.
In a play from the Stars playbook, Violet stumbled across their wedding website while Googling Andrew's name. On top of the news, she was also subjected to photos, the proposal story and a million other details no one should ever have to live with. I think we all hate the internet.
The point is, this sucks. People get married and people move on from their past relationships. If we never moved on, I would still be pining over a dude who is now a semi-professional wrestler with GREEN HAIR. (Man, I have dated some real gems.) So we will all take the bad of this and hope that someday, we do the same to crappy exes of ours. Moral of the story here is perhaps a little courtesy would be nice. If we broke up two weeks ago, dated for 9 years, had sex within the last 2 months or if I am just gonna hear about it anyway, it would be a lot better coming from your mouth. Or maybe there is no moral and I am grumpy and bitter.
- stars
11.28.2008
grievance: 2008
What the fuck is going on with 2008? Not one fucking person I speak to claims to have had a "kickass" year by any value scale. Everyone's year seems to be plagued with job quitting, firings, hellacious break-ups, family sicknesses and deaths, financial problems, quarter- and mid-life crises and a general, lingering malaise. So, I'd like to know... what the FUCK is going on?
Okay... so we're in a recession. Well.. I'd say depression. Nonetheless, there is no way that that can procure ALL of the horrendous things that have happened. Really, that only explains the economic hardship in which some of us have been soaked.
Why is everyone I know fucking miserable? I mean, methinks I need not explain my own ennui as I have entire BLOG solely for the purpose of bitching things out: it's pretty clear that I'm pretty irritable and irritated. But I, myself, have been touched by essentially all of the tribulations I formerly enumerated.
I can't even have fucking fun anymore. "Hey friend whose face I have not seen in a year! How are you? Let's meet up for cocktails and a night of fun!" Yeah... that never happens. Instead, I end up in my apartment with a bottle of vino "bitching one out" as I so eloquently put it. Gosh! I remember the good ol' days of one of my friends having one problem and inviting them over to do that. But now it's like, ALL of my friends and the conversation's not just topic-dependent. One horrific turmoil segues to another without so much as a blink of an eye.
And oftentimes there's crying. A lot.
I hate to be so morose, but I just think it ought to be addressed at the advent of the end of the year. Even the holidays... I look at my Facebook status updates and it's all like "Magellan is Fuck off turkeys! I hope you die in hell!" "Christopher Columbus is I hate holidays!" "Amerigo Vespucci is I'd rather eat my own arm and swallow a bottle of aspirin and vodka than spend time with my family!" (I insisted on using random explorers' names so I wouldn't incriminate any of my friends to their sheer misery but felt it necessary to include the inanity of the "is" in status updates.)
My only hope is that in reading this blog, some of you saturnine messes will embrace the feeling of a synergy with all the other miserable people in the world. Smile! You are not alone! Here's to 2009 being just as horrific.
-moon
Okay... so we're in a recession. Well.. I'd say depression. Nonetheless, there is no way that that can procure ALL of the horrendous things that have happened. Really, that only explains the economic hardship in which some of us have been soaked.
Why is everyone I know fucking miserable? I mean, methinks I need not explain my own ennui as I have entire BLOG solely for the purpose of bitching things out: it's pretty clear that I'm pretty irritable and irritated. But I, myself, have been touched by essentially all of the tribulations I formerly enumerated.
I can't even have fucking fun anymore. "Hey friend whose face I have not seen in a year! How are you? Let's meet up for cocktails and a night of fun!" Yeah... that never happens. Instead, I end up in my apartment with a bottle of vino "bitching one out" as I so eloquently put it. Gosh! I remember the good ol' days of one of my friends having one problem and inviting them over to do that. But now it's like, ALL of my friends and the conversation's not just topic-dependent. One horrific turmoil segues to another without so much as a blink of an eye.
And oftentimes there's crying. A lot.
I hate to be so morose, but I just think it ought to be addressed at the advent of the end of the year. Even the holidays... I look at my Facebook status updates and it's all like "Magellan is Fuck off turkeys! I hope you die in hell!" "Christopher Columbus is I hate holidays!" "Amerigo Vespucci is I'd rather eat my own arm and swallow a bottle of aspirin and vodka than spend time with my family!" (I insisted on using random explorers' names so I wouldn't incriminate any of my friends to their sheer misery but felt it necessary to include the inanity of the "is" in status updates.)
My only hope is that in reading this blog, some of you saturnine messes will embrace the feeling of a synergy with all the other miserable people in the world. Smile! You are not alone! Here's to 2009 being just as horrific.
-moon
7.08.2008
raging out at... internet findings
So I'm in love. Again. Just for this week. Or for all time. I have no idea. The only thing I truly know is that Google is severely impairing my ability to have any semblance of a "normal" relationship with "normal" progression. Not that normalcy has been my strong suit historically. I'm babbling. Allow me to rewind.
So being single and with the nonsense of past relationships behind me for now, I've been fully ready to move on and perhaps find that elusive nice guy for once. So bored one night and admittedly on a MySpace binge, I happen upon the older brother of my adorable buddy Pierre (names have been changed to protect the innocent who don't want their business on blast on the internet.) JD, Pierre's brother, is, not to mince words, smoking hot. In the immortal words of Moon, he is just "holy bananas." So being the crazed, freshly recovered single gal that I am, I shoot him a message to the super smooth and charming effect of “Hey, I’m a buddy of Pierre’s so I thought I would shoot you a message. Sweet pictures.” Yeah, I’m good, I know. What man wouldn’t be falling at his feet with such delicately placed words?
So, many exchanged e-mails, texts, and a few phone calls later, I am fully hooked on JD… despite having never met him. Ahh, the age of the internet, where love matches are made based on a few pictures taken at our best angles and a handful of well-worded emails that frankly could have been penned by the entire writing staff of 30 Rock for all we know. But we want to believe and so we do. And sometimes everything we hope for turns out to be true. But none of that risk-taking with potential for meeting a frog you thought was a Prince Charming bothers me. What I am pissed at is my ability to Google anyone.
Now JD is a special case as he is probably a little more publicly profiled than your average internet love affair. He certainly isn't some giant celebrity, but suffice it to say when you're a professional athlete, even one of the lowest common denominator, there's a lot of information about you on the internet. So now only mere days into the beginnings of my new found love and never having met the boy, what do I know about him? I could tell you his height, his weight, how much money he makes, what the inside of his apartment looks like, his Guitar Hero ranking (I am completely mortified about knowing that one), and most importantly, what he looks like shirtless.
Okay, what?? How in the hell am I supposed to progress normally and slowly when I already have a good 4 months of relationship information in my head? Some of my best friends I have known for YEARS probably couldn't tell you all that information about me. I certainly don't know Moon's Guitar Hero ranking. Or if she even has one. But once I set off on an innocent Google of JD, I couldn't stop myself. And now I know too much. And now it's making things awkward.
Example 1:
JD:
"Man, I had a rough day. You would win the day if you came to give me a massage."
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Poor baby, his team lost today. He did have a trying day. Wait, shit, how do I answer that? If I acknowledge I know why he had a bad day, am I a stalker for checking box scores? I can pretend I didn't go to ESPN.com. But then do I look like I don't care enough to even see how his team did? Or like I'm not a sports fan and maybe that's a turn-off. Dear God, help me!!!"
Stars' Final Answer:
"Aww, honey. I wish you weren't so far or I would. Too bad phone massage doesn't have quite the same effect as phone sex."
Crisis averted. Stars' sanity moves just out of her range of vision.
Example 2:
Stars is sitting around, eating leftover pancakes and singing loudly to AFI. Phone rings.
Stars:
"Oh Jesus, JD!"
Minor and brief panic attack ensue. Composure regained. Opens up phone.
Stars:
"Hi love, what's going on?"
JD:
"Hi beautiful girl. Are you listening to AFI?"
Major panic attack sets in.
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Crap, fuck, crap, fuck hell! (My internal monologue indeed does have Tourette's.) Shit!!! I know one of his favorite bands is AFI. Did he tell me that or did I read that? I most likely read it. Is he going to think I'm listening to it because he likes it? Is the jig up? He's going to know I Googled him! This is a nightmare. Why, oh why, did I have to be listening to AFI? I do like other bands! This is so not a big deal, who cares, right? Oh no, it's been way too long since I've said anything."
JD:
"Stars? You there?"
Stars:
"Yeah, sorry. Was turning the music down. Having an iPod Shuffle of a night."
Crisis again averted, although why couldn't I just acknowledge I was listening to one of my favorite bands? He doesn't own them. Now I'm mad at JD for my own stupidity. Calm down, crazy girl.
Example 3:
This is not so much an example as my deep burning desire to point something out. JD has pictures of himself on the internet where he is deeply and meaningfully shirtless. Some dudes should never go without a shirt and some guys I don't mind if they do. JD, in his professional athlete glory, does the world a great injustice when he puts a shirt on. To put it in perspective... we all know my love of Sawyer from Lost. If I could only enjoy one shirtless man for the rest of my life, I wouldn't hesitate to choose JD over Sawyer every day of the week. It's that good.
Actually now that I think about it, this is an example. Knowing the hotness that lurks there, I am infinitely more nervous talking to him than I would be without that information. Generally, I'm not ogling a man I am dating in all his shirtless glory until he is allowed to see me shirtless as well. And usually by the time that happens, I am largely past the point of being fully nervous around him. This is simply not fair.
Example 4:
Google search? Check!
YouTube search? Check!
Scouring through MySpace comments? Check!
Drooling over shirtless pictures? Check, check, and dear God, check again!
So, in conclusion (and thanks to all of you for trudging through this post and making it this far with me... Stars in love is a crazy Stars indeed!), I am never ever looking anything up on the internet again. I don't need that much information until it is presented to me. I don't need to make myself more nervous and more psycho than I obviously already am. Hopefully, I can meditate on this and reach an inner peace and calm before I screw this whole thing up. If not, I wonder if I can sue the entire internet for destroying my relationship?
-stars
So being single and with the nonsense of past relationships behind me for now, I've been fully ready to move on and perhaps find that elusive nice guy for once. So bored one night and admittedly on a MySpace binge, I happen upon the older brother of my adorable buddy Pierre (names have been changed to protect the innocent who don't want their business on blast on the internet.) JD, Pierre's brother, is, not to mince words, smoking hot. In the immortal words of Moon, he is just "holy bananas." So being the crazed, freshly recovered single gal that I am, I shoot him a message to the super smooth and charming effect of “Hey, I’m a buddy of Pierre’s so I thought I would shoot you a message. Sweet pictures.” Yeah, I’m good, I know. What man wouldn’t be falling at his feet with such delicately placed words?
So, many exchanged e-mails, texts, and a few phone calls later, I am fully hooked on JD… despite having never met him. Ahh, the age of the internet, where love matches are made based on a few pictures taken at our best angles and a handful of well-worded emails that frankly could have been penned by the entire writing staff of 30 Rock for all we know. But we want to believe and so we do. And sometimes everything we hope for turns out to be true. But none of that risk-taking with potential for meeting a frog you thought was a Prince Charming bothers me. What I am pissed at is my ability to Google anyone.
Now JD is a special case as he is probably a little more publicly profiled than your average internet love affair. He certainly isn't some giant celebrity, but suffice it to say when you're a professional athlete, even one of the lowest common denominator, there's a lot of information about you on the internet. So now only mere days into the beginnings of my new found love and never having met the boy, what do I know about him? I could tell you his height, his weight, how much money he makes, what the inside of his apartment looks like, his Guitar Hero ranking (I am completely mortified about knowing that one), and most importantly, what he looks like shirtless.
Okay, what?? How in the hell am I supposed to progress normally and slowly when I already have a good 4 months of relationship information in my head? Some of my best friends I have known for YEARS probably couldn't tell you all that information about me. I certainly don't know Moon's Guitar Hero ranking. Or if she even has one. But once I set off on an innocent Google of JD, I couldn't stop myself. And now I know too much. And now it's making things awkward.
Example 1:
JD:
"Man, I had a rough day. You would win the day if you came to give me a massage."
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Poor baby, his team lost today. He did have a trying day. Wait, shit, how do I answer that? If I acknowledge I know why he had a bad day, am I a stalker for checking box scores? I can pretend I didn't go to ESPN.com. But then do I look like I don't care enough to even see how his team did? Or like I'm not a sports fan and maybe that's a turn-off. Dear God, help me!!!"
Stars' Final Answer:
"Aww, honey. I wish you weren't so far or I would. Too bad phone massage doesn't have quite the same effect as phone sex."
Crisis averted. Stars' sanity moves just out of her range of vision.
Example 2:
Stars is sitting around, eating leftover pancakes and singing loudly to AFI. Phone rings.
Stars:
"Oh Jesus, JD!"
Minor and brief panic attack ensue. Composure regained. Opens up phone.
Stars:
"Hi love, what's going on?"
JD:
"Hi beautiful girl. Are you listening to AFI?"
Major panic attack sets in.
Stars Internal Monologue Dilemma:
"Crap, fuck, crap, fuck hell! (My internal monologue indeed does have Tourette's.) Shit!!! I know one of his favorite bands is AFI. Did he tell me that or did I read that? I most likely read it. Is he going to think I'm listening to it because he likes it? Is the jig up? He's going to know I Googled him! This is a nightmare. Why, oh why, did I have to be listening to AFI? I do like other bands! This is so not a big deal, who cares, right? Oh no, it's been way too long since I've said anything."
JD:
"Stars? You there?"
Stars:
"Yeah, sorry. Was turning the music down. Having an iPod Shuffle of a night."
Crisis again averted, although why couldn't I just acknowledge I was listening to one of my favorite bands? He doesn't own them. Now I'm mad at JD for my own stupidity. Calm down, crazy girl.
Example 3:
This is not so much an example as my deep burning desire to point something out. JD has pictures of himself on the internet where he is deeply and meaningfully shirtless. Some dudes should never go without a shirt and some guys I don't mind if they do. JD, in his professional athlete glory, does the world a great injustice when he puts a shirt on. To put it in perspective... we all know my love of Sawyer from Lost. If I could only enjoy one shirtless man for the rest of my life, I wouldn't hesitate to choose JD over Sawyer every day of the week. It's that good.
Actually now that I think about it, this is an example. Knowing the hotness that lurks there, I am infinitely more nervous talking to him than I would be without that information. Generally, I'm not ogling a man I am dating in all his shirtless glory until he is allowed to see me shirtless as well. And usually by the time that happens, I am largely past the point of being fully nervous around him. This is simply not fair.
Example 4:
Google search? Check!
YouTube search? Check!
Scouring through MySpace comments? Check!
Drooling over shirtless pictures? Check, check, and dear God, check again!
So, in conclusion (and thanks to all of you for trudging through this post and making it this far with me... Stars in love is a crazy Stars indeed!), I am never ever looking anything up on the internet again. I don't need that much information until it is presented to me. I don't need to make myself more nervous and more psycho than I obviously already am. Hopefully, I can meditate on this and reach an inner peace and calm before I screw this whole thing up. If not, I wonder if I can sue the entire internet for destroying my relationship?
-stars
1.10.2008
raging out at... inappropriate ways of finding out information
Some information is difficult to take. Some information is painful to swallow. And some information is just plain weird to receive. Is it too much to ask that I just be informed of said news in a manner that's not out of control?
Last night was my very first class as a TA (teacher's assistant). (I will pause here for a moment so everyone can get a good snicker in about who it is that might be a less appropriate TA than I.) And honestly, if you can think of someone, you win the Random Rageouts Door Prize. To be determined at a later date.
As the students filed in, I handed out the syllabus and during this time finally bothered to take a look at it myself. In gigantic, how-in-the-hell-did-I-miss-this? letters, the name of an old gentleman friend of mine (who shall be referred to as "Mozart" from here on out) pops out at me: he is next week's guest-speaker. I literally choked. (And no, not a false usage of the word "literally." I most definitely choked on my French Vanilla coffee.)
Luckily "Mozart" and I are still on excellent terms. Whom else would I call when I can't figure out what to do with my extra candlewax? Or if I need someone to dance for me... to prove why "Umbrella" is a great pop song? Or count on to give me nightmares for a week over requests that I can't believe came out of a human's mouth? I keep him around strictly for those first two reasons... and sometimes hide from him for months because of the last one.
This particular instance wasn't a big deal, but this bitch "Mozart" knows where I work and that I would clearly be the TA on that class and yet I have to find out from a college course syllabus? And considering we are "friends" from back east, to have him guest speaking in my class on the west coast is information I would have preferred to come from him.
There have definitely been instances in my life where I have gotten pretty substantial information from the worst possible source. (Here comes Stars Being Angry at Technology again...)
Not so long ago, in a land not so far away, I was dating a gentleman who shall be referred to as "Pinehog." I don't know why. I just like the name "Pinehog." "Pinehog" went away for work and I discovered through the miracle of pictures on MySpace that "Pinehog" fell into someone else's girlie parts. That is certainly not information anyone ever wants to hear, but learning about it complete with visual aid was probably the worst way to be enlightened.
And in all fairness, a lot of the inappropriate gathering of information has been my own fault, as I am a licensed spy and computer hacker of boyfriends. It's true. They give out degrees for that. But that doesn't discount the innumerable amount of times, I've been broken up with on a text or been told of an engagement on an e-mail or even when I had to find out that a friend overdosed by Instant Message.
I really don't think it's too much to ask of anyone to give me a phone call or have (gasp!) a real conversation about unpleasant, or strange, topics. The whole thing makes me want to delete my MySpace, my e-mail, my AIM, get rid of text messages, and find a safe hiding place under a rock so I never find out anything the wrong way again.
Also, apropos of nothing and entirely off topic... I would like to have Michael Cera's awkwardly adorable babies. I don't care if that makes me a little creepy.
-stars
Last night was my very first class as a TA (teacher's assistant). (I will pause here for a moment so everyone can get a good snicker in about who it is that might be a less appropriate TA than I.) And honestly, if you can think of someone, you win the Random Rageouts Door Prize. To be determined at a later date.
As the students filed in, I handed out the syllabus and during this time finally bothered to take a look at it myself. In gigantic, how-in-the-hell-did-I-miss-this? letters, the name of an old gentleman friend of mine (who shall be referred to as "Mozart" from here on out) pops out at me: he is next week's guest-speaker. I literally choked. (And no, not a false usage of the word "literally." I most definitely choked on my French Vanilla coffee.)
Luckily "Mozart" and I are still on excellent terms. Whom else would I call when I can't figure out what to do with my extra candlewax? Or if I need someone to dance for me... to prove why "Umbrella" is a great pop song? Or count on to give me nightmares for a week over requests that I can't believe came out of a human's mouth? I keep him around strictly for those first two reasons... and sometimes hide from him for months because of the last one.
This particular instance wasn't a big deal, but this bitch "Mozart" knows where I work and that I would clearly be the TA on that class and yet I have to find out from a college course syllabus? And considering we are "friends" from back east, to have him guest speaking in my class on the west coast is information I would have preferred to come from him.
There have definitely been instances in my life where I have gotten pretty substantial information from the worst possible source. (Here comes Stars Being Angry at Technology again...)
Not so long ago, in a land not so far away, I was dating a gentleman who shall be referred to as "Pinehog." I don't know why. I just like the name "Pinehog." "Pinehog" went away for work and I discovered through the miracle of pictures on MySpace that "Pinehog" fell into someone else's girlie parts. That is certainly not information anyone ever wants to hear, but learning about it complete with visual aid was probably the worst way to be enlightened.
And in all fairness, a lot of the inappropriate gathering of information has been my own fault, as I am a licensed spy and computer hacker of boyfriends. It's true. They give out degrees for that. But that doesn't discount the innumerable amount of times, I've been broken up with on a text or been told of an engagement on an e-mail or even when I had to find out that a friend overdosed by Instant Message.
I really don't think it's too much to ask of anyone to give me a phone call or have (gasp!) a real conversation about unpleasant, or strange, topics. The whole thing makes me want to delete my MySpace, my e-mail, my AIM, get rid of text messages, and find a safe hiding place under a rock so I never find out anything the wrong way again.
Also, apropos of nothing and entirely off topic... I would like to have Michael Cera's awkwardly adorable babies. I don't care if that makes me a little creepy.
-stars
1.04.2008
raging out at... "i'm dealing with a lot"
I believe firmly in the golden rule: If you "do unto others...," sure, you'll make mistakes but overall you'll be doing better than most. And we are all selfish. We do things for selfish reasons. What I have no respect for is people who make excuses. Like that whole "it isn't you; it's me," or the current idiocy I just got on text, "I'm going through a lot. It isn't intentional."
If you can find me someone who isn't going through "a lot," you've probably found the equivalent of the fountain of youth. This kind of phrase isn't an excuse; it is a cop out. I'm going through "a lot." You're going through "a lot." That guy you passed on the street is going through "a lot." And guess what? We all don't act like a-holes.
I guess what I'm really raging out at is people's lack of self-awareness. I'm insane. I'm aware. I'm overly emotional and dramatic and I know it. I know it every second of every day. Now this isn't an excuse for my idiocy but it somehow makes it less horrifying when someone is aware. If you are a religious sort (and I'm not, really), then you believe in the right of free choice. So it isn't acceptable to choose to do the wrong thing, but it is almost sad when you're that ignorant in a sociological sense that you aren't even aware of who (and why) you are.
And yes, you're reading the post of the scorned and the hurt. But I'm not so insecure that I can't admit that. And I'm happy to be hurt. It means I still feel and maybe I'm capable of feeling for someone who isn't a frog. But I keep kissing frogs.
But that's okay. I'm okay with that. And I think I've learned my lesson that people who make points of themselves with a snap and a wink, and are caricatures of themselves, are those who will never deliver anyone anything more than temporary happiness. I'm never going to make an excuse for feeling too much or too little. I hope I always feel too much.
All that being said.. Tonight I have a renewed faith in those who have proven themselves time and again, and a belief that I will never again fall for the wink.
Take a gander into the comments and say petty things about your least favorite wink-er. Or even rage out at people whose favorite bands are those we've told them they should love. Or rage at me for being petty.
-stars
If you can find me someone who isn't going through "a lot," you've probably found the equivalent of the fountain of youth. This kind of phrase isn't an excuse; it is a cop out. I'm going through "a lot." You're going through "a lot." That guy you passed on the street is going through "a lot." And guess what? We all don't act like a-holes.
I guess what I'm really raging out at is people's lack of self-awareness. I'm insane. I'm aware. I'm overly emotional and dramatic and I know it. I know it every second of every day. Now this isn't an excuse for my idiocy but it somehow makes it less horrifying when someone is aware. If you are a religious sort (and I'm not, really), then you believe in the right of free choice. So it isn't acceptable to choose to do the wrong thing, but it is almost sad when you're that ignorant in a sociological sense that you aren't even aware of who (and why) you are.
And yes, you're reading the post of the scorned and the hurt. But I'm not so insecure that I can't admit that. And I'm happy to be hurt. It means I still feel and maybe I'm capable of feeling for someone who isn't a frog. But I keep kissing frogs.
But that's okay. I'm okay with that. And I think I've learned my lesson that people who make points of themselves with a snap and a wink, and are caricatures of themselves, are those who will never deliver anyone anything more than temporary happiness. I'm never going to make an excuse for feeling too much or too little. I hope I always feel too much.
All that being said.. Tonight I have a renewed faith in those who have proven themselves time and again, and a belief that I will never again fall for the wink.
Take a gander into the comments and say petty things about your least favorite wink-er. Or even rage out at people whose favorite bands are those we've told them they should love. Or rage at me for being petty.
-stars
12.23.2007
raging out at... unacceptable locking doors
So I suppose there comes a time in every blogger's life where you have to give up a little too much personal information in order to properly make your point. And I suppose that time for me has come now.
Being back home in New York for the holidays should be a time for friends, family, warmth, love and giving. For me, it is a time to be trapped on a rooftop in TriBeCa at 4:30 in the morning. I'm slowly developing hypothermia as I write this, and drinking the half a beer that I had to pretty much channel my inner Jet Li to obtain, so please excuse my normally impeccable rationality as it slowly spirals into psychosis. God, I feel like the guy from The Mist slowly writing his way towards his impending doom. If the last of my memoirs is this tale, I suppose it is only appropriate that this be the legacy I leave.
One of my very favorite people in the whole world (although he is losing points by the minute as he taunts me with his full beer and the other one I KNOW he's got in his pocket; Either that or I chose the absolute right person to be trapped with) lives in this beautiful apartment in downtown Manhattan. I decided to bundle up like an Appalachian hunter and trek in to spend the night playing cards and drinking beers with this lovely man. Fast forward to a few hours later, we are both long past a light buzz and someone is wearing a feather boa and someone else has donned both elbow and knee pads. I will leave it up to you to determine which one is my outfit of choice. Both are very good guesses.
So in our not at all inebriated states of mind, we decide that we should go have a few drinks on the roof to enjoy the view. Now packing for the roof was an episode in and of itself. We could (and should) have gone to Tahiti for a week with what we took up here. We made sure we were plentiful on brews, blankets, Tostitos and for reasons I'm still unclear on, a laptop. Someone's a workaholic and if you guess me, well then you haven't been paying attention.
So let's fast forward to a little later. More drinks in the hole and we're downing them cuddled under a fuzzy blanket. It's sort of sweet, actually. But then comes the Stars catastrophe. Being that my quitting smoking went swimmingly, I panic when my lighter falls over the edge of the roof (even more so than I panicked when a hoodie I lived in for a while went down). I get up and walk over to the stairwell where my purse had dumped over on our way up, praying some matches went renegade and were laying abandoned on a stair somewhere. No luck, of course. On my way back up, I successfully drop my cigarettes behind me and go to pick them up without moving my legs. Why? I don't know. I truly wish I did but I do not and am sure I shall regret it for a long time to come. On my super graceful return, the door slams shut and locks on its own by virtue of nothing I've done wrong whatsoever. (Popular retelling of this tale will tell you that I kicked the door shut then slammed against it and laughed uncontrollably for 10 minutes, but this is why I'm clearing it up now.)
So after 20 MORE minutes, the doormen arrive to rescue my drunken companion and me. But now the door is jammed. So I sit here writing my blog, nursing what may be my last beer ever and I'm still laughing through my rage.
Why do the doors have to lock from the outside? We are a million damn flights up. If someone's spidey skills have enabled them to make it on top of this building, let them on in, I say. They earned it. And to be perfectly frank, I'm sure If they can scale 26-story Manhattan buildings to land on the rooftop, I have no doubt in their skills to pick a lock to get into the building. Have you ever known a criminal to concoct a lever and pulley system to soar through the air and perform professional level acrobatics to land unharmed upon a rooftop to then look at a door and be like, "Oh crap, it's locked. F this." Yeah, neither have I.
Please use the comments section to send prayers for my blue extremities and to share tales of your own follies with things that lock when they aren't supposed to. Fingers crossed that someone has a chastity belt story.
-stars
Being back home in New York for the holidays should be a time for friends, family, warmth, love and giving. For me, it is a time to be trapped on a rooftop in TriBeCa at 4:30 in the morning. I'm slowly developing hypothermia as I write this, and drinking the half a beer that I had to pretty much channel my inner Jet Li to obtain, so please excuse my normally impeccable rationality as it slowly spirals into psychosis. God, I feel like the guy from The Mist slowly writing his way towards his impending doom. If the last of my memoirs is this tale, I suppose it is only appropriate that this be the legacy I leave.
One of my very favorite people in the whole world (although he is losing points by the minute as he taunts me with his full beer and the other one I KNOW he's got in his pocket; Either that or I chose the absolute right person to be trapped with) lives in this beautiful apartment in downtown Manhattan. I decided to bundle up like an Appalachian hunter and trek in to spend the night playing cards and drinking beers with this lovely man. Fast forward to a few hours later, we are both long past a light buzz and someone is wearing a feather boa and someone else has donned both elbow and knee pads. I will leave it up to you to determine which one is my outfit of choice. Both are very good guesses.
So in our not at all inebriated states of mind, we decide that we should go have a few drinks on the roof to enjoy the view. Now packing for the roof was an episode in and of itself. We could (and should) have gone to Tahiti for a week with what we took up here. We made sure we were plentiful on brews, blankets, Tostitos and for reasons I'm still unclear on, a laptop. Someone's a workaholic and if you guess me, well then you haven't been paying attention.
So let's fast forward to a little later. More drinks in the hole and we're downing them cuddled under a fuzzy blanket. It's sort of sweet, actually. But then comes the Stars catastrophe. Being that my quitting smoking went swimmingly, I panic when my lighter falls over the edge of the roof (even more so than I panicked when a hoodie I lived in for a while went down). I get up and walk over to the stairwell where my purse had dumped over on our way up, praying some matches went renegade and were laying abandoned on a stair somewhere. No luck, of course. On my way back up, I successfully drop my cigarettes behind me and go to pick them up without moving my legs. Why? I don't know. I truly wish I did but I do not and am sure I shall regret it for a long time to come. On my super graceful return, the door slams shut and locks on its own by virtue of nothing I've done wrong whatsoever. (Popular retelling of this tale will tell you that I kicked the door shut then slammed against it and laughed uncontrollably for 10 minutes, but this is why I'm clearing it up now.)
So after 20 MORE minutes, the doormen arrive to rescue my drunken companion and me. But now the door is jammed. So I sit here writing my blog, nursing what may be my last beer ever and I'm still laughing through my rage.
Why do the doors have to lock from the outside? We are a million damn flights up. If someone's spidey skills have enabled them to make it on top of this building, let them on in, I say. They earned it. And to be perfectly frank, I'm sure If they can scale 26-story Manhattan buildings to land on the rooftop, I have no doubt in their skills to pick a lock to get into the building. Have you ever known a criminal to concoct a lever and pulley system to soar through the air and perform professional level acrobatics to land unharmed upon a rooftop to then look at a door and be like, "Oh crap, it's locked. F this." Yeah, neither have I.
Please use the comments section to send prayers for my blue extremities and to share tales of your own follies with things that lock when they aren't supposed to. Fingers crossed that someone has a chastity belt story.
-stars
12.05.2007
raging out at... people who take away messages seriously
Obviously with the infiltration of IMs, texts, and e-mails in our daily lives, communication has gotten a little muddled and there are all new sorts of life etiquette rules to be learned. I've gotten into more all-out wars with people I love (read: "the idiot men I date") than I can even recount because of someone taking the cyber-written word the wrong way. But today I learned that cyberspace has figured out a new way to make my already handicapped relationships eligible for the Special Dating Olympics... the away message.
I've been laid up feeling pretty sick the last week or so (and don't worry, there's a rage on my unnecessary need to have an appendix in my body coming) and I've had away messages up more than usual as I've been more unavailable than my norm. So in putting these things up, 9 times out of 10, they're bitching about something or in direct correlation to something a friend and I had recently been laughing about. Now if I were to write "Doing crossword puzzles with Dick Cheney" as my current status, a normal logical person could probably ascertain that I am not, in fact, engaging in word games with our jackoff Vice President. However, if you live in Hollywood and have a slight history of the occasional non nun-like behavior, well then let the rage and accusations fly.
So I'd like to clear up a few things.
1) Almost backing over Shia LeBeouf with my car and having to have him guide me out of a parking spot so he can remove himself from the deathtrap I nearly put him in does NOT mean he was inside me at any point during the day. He did not offer his services. I would have accepted.
2) If you know me well enough to be obsessively checking my away messages, you should know my behavior well enough to know when I'm being tongue-in-cheek.
3) Again knowing me that well, you should know (and by you, I'd like that to again read: "the idiot men I date") that sometimes I write these things to make you angry. It isn't rational or acceptable but this is what I do.
So the point here is this: don't take what I say to be serious. It most likely isn't. And please know if ever I do have Shia inside me, I will take out a full page in the New York Times to announce it. News of that nature is worthy of something more grand than my away message.
-stars
I've been laid up feeling pretty sick the last week or so (and don't worry, there's a rage on my unnecessary need to have an appendix in my body coming) and I've had away messages up more than usual as I've been more unavailable than my norm. So in putting these things up, 9 times out of 10, they're bitching about something or in direct correlation to something a friend and I had recently been laughing about. Now if I were to write "Doing crossword puzzles with Dick Cheney" as my current status, a normal logical person could probably ascertain that I am not, in fact, engaging in word games with our jackoff Vice President. However, if you live in Hollywood and have a slight history of the occasional non nun-like behavior, well then let the rage and accusations fly.
So I'd like to clear up a few things.
1) Almost backing over Shia LeBeouf with my car and having to have him guide me out of a parking spot so he can remove himself from the deathtrap I nearly put him in does NOT mean he was inside me at any point during the day. He did not offer his services. I would have accepted.
2) If you know me well enough to be obsessively checking my away messages, you should know my behavior well enough to know when I'm being tongue-in-cheek.
3) Again knowing me that well, you should know (and by you, I'd like that to again read: "the idiot men I date") that sometimes I write these things to make you angry. It isn't rational or acceptable but this is what I do.
So the point here is this: don't take what I say to be serious. It most likely isn't. And please know if ever I do have Shia inside me, I will take out a full page in the New York Times to announce it. News of that nature is worthy of something more grand than my away message.
-stars
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