I will stop listening to love songs on the coast. I will STOP listening to love songs on the coast.12:33 PM Sep 3rd from web

In junior high, I liked this boy.  In fairness, I liked a lot of boys in junior high, but for the purpose of this story, let’s just focus on this one boy.  His name was Gavin.  As my memory is aging even more rapidly than my crows’ feet (all I want for Christmas is botox), I can’t remember if his actual name was Gavin or just that I associate him with my celebrity crush of 1997 (Gavin before he was Mr. Stefani).  In any case, after months of shy smile and half wave, along with very standard small talk at lunch, I decided it was time to break through the obvious signals I thought I was sending him (the number of times I touched this guys arm, I tell you) and just tell him.  Or have a friend tell him…yes that’s much better. I had my friend Elena make the call and timed it for right before winter break to ensure that, should there be a negative result, it wouldn’t be awkward by the time we returned to school in January. 

The result was, indeed, negative.  The first Monday back was awkward anyway (because bitch, please, I wasn’t going to change tables. Just because you rejected me doesn’t mean I’m leaving the popular table*). I built up the awkward so much in my own mind, that I booked an art class the following semester for the sole purpose of changing lunch periods without being increasingly awkward.  I hated clay.  Had I just stuck to the shy smile half wave, I wouldn’t have dry hands and dirty fingernails.  Lesson learned. This turned out to be a formative experience in my dating life. 

I.Hate.Awkward.  I have spent the rest of my life since January 1997 avoiding awkward interactions.  In college, in between classes, walking up and down Commonwealth Avenue was a minefield of awkward interactions, and if anyone could have read my mind walking down the street, I would have been committed long before graduation:

Oh dear. Oh dear oh no ok here comes that girl who was in my discussion group for Philosophy freshman year.  Does she remember me? I remember her, but I’m just really good with faces.  If she remembers me and I DON’T say hi, then it’s awkward.  But if she doesn’t remember me and I DO say hi, then it’s REALLY awkward. Ok just breathe it out, breathe it out and THINK. T minus 20 seconds before encounter. What do I do? Awkward head nod? Hide behind person in front of me? WHY DO I ALWAYS WEAR THESE HEELS? It’s so hard to avoid when I’m towering over everyone. Ugh T-7 seconds, way too late for detour.  Ok, I’m going to go with the shy smile and ‘arm stays attached to ribs’ half wave.  Good idea.  Oh shit, I just did it…and she gave me a weird look.  SHY SMILE? What was I thinking, she TOTALLY thinks I have a crush on her. Ugh I seriously need to consider University of Phoenix classes for adult learners and the socially awkward.

So multiply that compulsive thought by a million, and that’s how I interact with guys. Still.  Here I am, a profesh business lady on the wrong side of 25, who has managed to triumph over awkward-phobia for the sake of my career (lots of rooms filled with people I don’t know, and I manage to net-work it girl), and I’m still shy smile half waving to the boys I still have crushes on to avoid clay class. 

Clay class, as it is, is much worse these days.  Forget dirty fingernails, we’re looking at life changers.  If I put myself out there, and then be subsequently rejected, by someone I live near, I would have to move, and I **love** my apartment.  Someone I work with? Recession, kiddos, we’re looking at becoming King Spencer Pratt’s publicist, at best.  Someone who runs in my circle of friends? Disaster: everyone is so connected to one another that this would exile me to the land of “people you may know” on facebook.  And listen, I KNOW all those people I “may know,” facebook…and if the time it takes to put in an internet friend request is too much trouble to expend being friends with this person, odds are they aren’t someone that I would brunch with.

There has to be a solution.  There has to be somewhere other than clay class where the awkward moment-hating, rejection-fearing can run to after having put themselves out there unsuccessfully.  Somewhere that doesn’t require moving, friending the people you may know, job changing or dirty fingernails. 

I think the only logical option is a witness protection program set up.  A non-profit organization dedicated to relocating the rejected until their shame has blown over.   I’m even willing to combine this with Holidate and televise it if we need advertiser dollars.  There can be hidden cameras as I tell someone that I like them, and then secret-service uniformed ninjas to swoop in and shield me from the line of fire upon getting rejected.  It will happen so fast that I’ll probably forget I was rejected and just think I was kidnapped and moved to one of the Dakotas.  I’m even open to the idea of brainwashing, while we’re at it.  Tie me up, blindfold me, and make me listen to a tape that repeats the line “He told you that he was gay or he would love to marry you.  You decided to move to North Dakota because you read a statistic that it was the straightest state in the union.  They are making a reality show about you called ‘The Plains.’” over and over.  I’ll believe it and be totally fine with it.  I’ve always wanted to follow in the footsteps of Lauren Conrad.**

So someone, please, found that organization.  Found that organization, and I will A.) Sit on the board of directors (we’ll have name tags for the mixers so it doesn’t get awkward if I forget anyone’s name) and B.) start telling anyone that I have feelings for that we should be together forever and ever.  I will hope for the best, but more realistically, please ready the secret service ninjas and hidden cameras, because North Dakota, here I come!

*Fine.  It was definitely not the popular table.

**Just kidding on the Lauren Conrad thing.  Sort of.  Ok, not really. What? I can do meaningful thinky stare and perfect mascara tears with the best of them.  Maybe I should be on “The Plains.”

The friends that strip together, stay together. Venturing into new worlds of exercise with Amanda and @herestheproblem.

11:56 AM Sep 13th from UberTwitter

There is a reason that Cobra Starship’s “Good Girls Go Bad” is on the Billboard Hot 100 list.  It’s not the vocal styling of Leighton Meester, no, the song is popular in spite of that.  (Not to mention the fact that Leighton Meester isn’t even a name, it’s actually a muppet monster.  “Hide, Kermit, here comes the Leighton Meester!”).  I don’t think it’s the video, because who really watches MTV anymore?  Ultimately that song is popular because every girl, everywhere, in every culture wants to go bad in the safest way possible, which, as it turns out, is rocking out to bad pop rock in a dance circle surrounded by 10 girlfriends.

I am not exempt from the group “every girl, everywhere, in every culture,” but I do hate dance circles and bad pop rock.  In light of that fact, I decided to go bad in the second safest way possible, which, as it turns out, is the LA’s ladies only pole dance/stripper class – otherwise known as S factor.

My fabulous, coupon-loving, good girl friend Amanda, had 3 passes for a free S Factor Intro class from her cousin – a pole dancing pro with a slamming body we’d all die for. She graciously invited me and our other fellow good girl friend, Lisa – mainly because no one wants to pole dance on their own for the first time.

I woke up early that Sunday morning to get dressed for stripper class; which was so fun, yet so concerning.  Fun, because I haven’t worn my shiny leather leggings since Sundance, but concerning that I found clothes that I declared “perfect” for stripper class.  As I looked through my drawer of sheer accessories, I briefly thought of how my grandparents were probably sitting in their parlor thinking fondly about their oldest grandchild, beaming with pride at the thought of me headed to church on a Sunday morning.  I should feel guiltier about this, but there are just SO many similarities between stripper class and church (It’s about 2 hours long, on a Sunday, I’m sure we’ll be on our knees a lot… ok that’s it).

I waved goodbye to my 75 year old land lords/upstairs neighbors, vaguely explaining that I was going to “dance class” before I scurried off in my stripper uniform to Amanda’s car.  Amanda agreed that I put the “class” in “Stripper Class,” and off we went.

Lisa met us right before class, and we all exchanged nervous glances as we sat in the lobby, surrounded by stripper merchandise.  Tacky hot pants, slutty tank tops…and shoes.  Here’s the thing about stripper shoes.  Yes, the Lucite is a little on the tacky side…but these shoes are EXACTLY the height I love.  5 and 1/4”.  Puts me just above the 6’ line, but not in a tranny way because the shoes do it, not man-length legs.  They are SO inexpensive (the manufacturers know that most will be paid for in crumpled dollar bills), and I just know I could make them look super cute if I paired them with a conservative Marc Jacobs or DVF dress.  Sigh: I miss online shopping.

Before I had a chance to purchase a pair of black and white patent leather stripper shoes, a conservatively dressed, timid-looking Asian woman instructed us to follow her into the studio.  This was our teacher?  That boho dress was straight up out of “Big Love.”   We sat in an effing trust circle and talked about our feelings and bodies for what seemed like forever (it was probably 10 minutes), and it felt an awful lot like the “don’t stick your finger down your throat” unit of health class in high school.  Just as I was about to call bullshit and jet, our apparently not-so-timid instructor ditched the dress, stripped down to hot pants and had us all smack our own asses.  Let the stripper games begin.

Without giving away too much of the routine (I do recall signing a waiver that said I couldn’t sue if I killed myself on the pole, and I was not allowed to reveal the secrets of S factor) (I’ll need to ask them if that means I can’t use any of the moves we learned in a professional stripping career should the recession continue or the online shopping hobby come back), let me just say there was a lot of gyrating, air humping, a good amount of ass slapping, some thrusting, leg spreading, body caressing, sexy walking (which I kept almost falling during – I blame the fact that we were not wearing heels), cat stretching and just acts that made me wish I had sex much more often.  At one point I remember the instructor telling us to “feel the center of the universe,” and sadly, I had to look up to realize that she meant “touch your vaginas, ladies.”  Admittedly, I did feel like a sexy beast by the middle of class.

At last, it was time for the pole.  Oh. Man.  I had been looking forward to this since I first heard about stripper class.  In my limited experience with strip clubs, I do recall it seeming really fun to just swing around the poll.  Kind of like monkey bars.  (I should never have children). 

Amanda, Lisa and I gathered in the same pole group. There we were, 3 Los Angeles gals, trying to make it rain on a sunny afternoon. (If I replaced “Los Angeles” with “Manhattan” and spewed this shit out for HBO 10 years ago, I would be rolling in piles of cash instead of learning how to get dollar bills in my Target leggings).

I was up first.  How hard could this be?  Just sexy walk up to the poll and…

THUD.

Although it wasn’t a hard fall, this looked WAY more like Bridget Jones clinging desperately while sliding down that fireman’s pole than the “dragonfly” or whatever the fuck that was supposed to look like.  My hopes and dreams about being a naturally gifted stripper were squashed as I tried to “lead with my ass” back up to standing.  That. Blew.  I felt much better, though, when everyone else failed JUST as hard as I did – except this one Canadian (who I’m sure moonlights as a stripper in Vancouver)…and Amanda.  Girl’s got a back-up career lined up!  A few more spins around the pole and we had all improved our form…and of course procured bruises that would be awkward to explain to really anyone else.

That basically ended class, with the added bonus of watching our instructors put on a strip show to “show us how far they had come.”  Those bitches were able to ride that pole upside down and backwards, and though I’m still not sure where that skill set comes in handy, I really want it.  After the strip show, we endured a few more minutes of feelings talk, and then we were out of there.

Only time will tell if I sign up for a full series of stripper class.  After a few post-class mojitos, I did briefly consider moonlighting as a stripper for extra money.  I mean, I do look really good in leather leggings…and I could totally write off any and all stripper shoes I purchase as a business expense.  It does beat circle dancing to bad pop rock…

I didn’t buy it. I feel empty inside. I have a problem.

12:40 PM Aug 20th from web

I have an online shopping problem.  I mean, I don’t know if it’s serious enough to classify it as a “problem,” per say, more like a habit.  Habit has such a negative stigma.  How about hobby? I have an online shopping hobby.  I have a serious, financially debilitating, emotionally draining, addictive, obsessive, out of control online shopping…hobby.

Le sigh.

I used to be so financially responsible…or as financially responsible as you can be with a part time job before turning 22.  So – financially responsible when I didn’t have any money and it didn’t really count.  I had a credit card starting at age 16 (when I was pre-approved for a leopard print Capital One card.  I know…adorable…just enough sass, not to big such as to be too much leopard print, really went with my wallet…but I digress), but always paid it off…in full…every month.  I was on track for good credit and a financially stable life.

And then I moved to LA.

I don’t want to blame my shopping hobby on the city of Los Angeles, but right around the time I moved here, a few things happened in succession.    The actual move was one, and with the move came just so many moving costs.  I signed a lease on an apartment that I couldn’t really afford to begin with, and then topped this with the fact that we had paid a month before moving in so we didn’t “lose” it.  I sent in a security deposit to go with said apartment (which included first month, last month and first born).   I was unemployed for a month before finding a job that didn’t really cover my “standard of living.” I needed clothes for said underpaying job…and obviously shoes.  And then…it happened.  Immediately upon finding the job…my parents cut me off financially.  This wasn’t punishment for anything (that I know of) (maybe I should ask, it was really harsh), but just the standard “We’re done paying for the things we paid for when you were in college” cut off.  Rent, car payment, car insurance, cell phone bill, student loan payments – apparently all that stuff added up.  Who knew?  So point being, August 2005 is when I went into debt.  I needed a solution, because debt makes me unhappy.  That solution? Online shopping.

Looking back, I realize solving debt with online shopping wasn’t completely well thought out, but it made sense in my mind.  I couldn’t NOT by clothes…I mean, this was LA and I really had to fall out of the Gap if I wanted to keep my job (job = money).  And I didn’t really have time to shop with the hours I worked (working hours = more money).  And really, I was SAVING money because there are so many sales on the internet (buying things on sale = savings).  If I bought a dress for half off, I was literally SAVING hundreds of dollars (buying a dress = saving hundreds of dollars).  With all of this in mind, online shopping was the obvious solution to my debt (online shopping = happiness).

The main problem is now…4 years later…I still can’t quite shake this logic, or the inherent association I’ve made between online shopping and happiness.  I’ve always loved coupons (thanks, Dad), and seeing the total savings at the bottom of a grocery store receipt after all the sales and coupons are calculated in.  Online shopping is just like that…only you’re saving hundreds of dollars!  On every purchase!  And I made a lot of purchases…a LOT.  I became an online shopping expert.  I found websites that would e-mail me twice a week with everything that was on sale on the internet in my favorite brands in my size (shopittome – the love of my life).  Twice a week, I was sent hundreds of options of things I generally liked that fit me AND were on sale.  I limited myself quite a bit….as in only picked one item, per newsletter, twice a week.  And then came Gilt Group.  Sweet, sweet Gilt Group.  Gilt Group has made it possible for me to feel like I’m a frugal consumer by only spending $700 plus shipping on a dress.  (I stand by that decision, because in fairness, it was supposed to be $1,200).  Both of these websites have opened my eyes to new designers…and therefore new websites…and therefore new ways to solve my debt and create happiness.

It was on a Tuesday afternoon when I was ordering Omaha Steaks on the internet because I felt a little empty having not bought anything yet that week (yes…on a Tuesday) that I realized this hobby was maybe more like a habit…and this habit was kind of a problem.  I literally felt like I was missing out on something every day that went by that I didn’t buy something.  In the middle of buying frozen steak, I realized  it was time to go cold turkey (suck on that, Carrie Bradshaw).

I write this in the past tense as though it happened ages ago and I am a happy well adjusted person now.  Not so much.  This was 2 weeks ago.  Two long…shopping free weeks.  In this time, I’ve had several breakdowns and withdrawal symptoms that seem unrelated, but I know are completely tied to the emptiness in my soul from online shopping. 

Withdrawal symptom #1: Phantom weight gain.  Right after closing the Bloomingdales page on a DVF backless dress (60% off! In my size! Shopittome!), I decided (without stepping on a scale) that I had gained 11 pounds this summer.  I was convinced, in a very delusional way, that this was the truth. I completely made up that number AND BELIEVED IT AS IF THERE WAS PROOF because of how much I hated everything I own, how I looked in it, and how much better I know I would feel with new clothes. 

Withdrawal symptom #2: Irrational desire to move. I’m actually about to break into hives thinking about this missed purchase, but last week, Gilt had a sale on Calvin Klein shoes.  I really like Calvin Klein shoes, AND they are so reasonably priced.  My last purchase before I gave up online shopping (well, other than the steaks), was this great pair of Calvin Klein shoes…that I haven’t worn yet but I know I will and I know I would have ALSO worn the ones on sale if it wasn’t for this stupid online freeze.  About the time I deleted the Gilt Group sale notification from my inbox, I decided I should move back to Boston.  I would be happier in a Burberry scarf…I mean in Boston.  This is obviously my subconscious trying to force me to move to a different climate where I’ll need a new wardrobe for survival reasons. 

Withdrawal symptom #3: Intense loneliness.  About 5 minutes after not buying a pair of Citrine by TheStones earrings (half price, Gilt Group, still upset), I realized I was going to die alone.  Not a feeling, but a sudden realization that was so strong, it was fact.  That is how deep the void is without the shopping.  I seriously almost joined an online dating website…but even had I decided to go through with it, I couldn’t have because it was shopping online.  That was the most shallowly sad moment of my life.

So anyway.  I have to kick this addiction.  I think 90 days should do it before I’m able to slowly bring joy…or online shopping or whatever…back into my life.  Just now through the beginning of December, that’s all I have to do.  I’d buy a book about willpower on Amazon but…you know.

 Just found a beer in my purse. Last night, Claire told me to put it there “to be safe.” I guess we all have different definitions of safety.

9:31 AM Aug 16th from UberTwitter  

I blame peer pressure, really.  If my friends had been holding a “let’s drink in moderation” wine and cheese party, I wouldn’t have woken up with a raging hangover and alcohol in my purse.  But no, instead they had to hold a “let’s pretend we’re still in college” party, even though we’re all agents/grown-ups/have assistants who we are afraid to run into at these parties because it’s more age appropriate for them.  It was a college frat party…with one major difference: now that we’re all “Hollywood tastemakers,” (or, at least the party organizers convinced a few naive brands that we are), the party was sponsored.  Yes, this is real.  No, not by AA.  I thought I was being lovely throwing a few cases of mixers their way, but when I got there, I realized that they had liquor brands bring in liquor…and bars…and bartenders…and displays.  For us. This is real life.  In the backyard.  I would have loved to be a fly on the wall during that conversation:

“Hey this is Andy Martin at ICM**.  I’m having a party…uh I mean mixer…with a bunch of my frie…clients” (he he he).  “Should be a really high end soiree.” (HA HA HA) “And was just wondering if you would like to promote your brand to Hollywood’s most influential tastemakers” (TEARS OF LAUGHTER).

So there was that difference, but that was it.  We were living the same party we lived through 5 years ago.  Summoning up my inner fictional columnist “I couldn’t help but wonder: had we overstayed the party?”

(How did that show stay popular for so many seasons/full length feature films?  Really?  Every episode was based off of “I couldn’t help but wonder: WEEKLY PUN.” Without irony. Puns aren’t the height of comedy.  Jesus.  But I digress.)

There needs to be a reference guide regarding normalcy and partying.  Essentially, a census tracking the age/maturity/social choices/professional status/marital status/drug and alcohol consumption so that I can know, at age 26, whether it’s more normal to stay in and watch The Closer on a Wednesday night, or to get blackout drunk at a glorified frat party for 20-somethings on a Saturday night.  Both?  No idea, that’s why I need the Census.

With nothing else to do to stave off my hangover on my Sunday morning walk down Melrose to pick up the car I began to compose the party census.  My attention span was shorter than my hangover would be, so I think let’s keep this at 10 questions max.

1.)    Were you drunk at any point this week:

a.      No

b.      Yes

c.      I’m drunk now

2.)    Did you drive home drunk any of those times

a.      No

b.      Yes

c.      I’m drunk now and answering this on my blackberry while driving
    home

OK – a c. on question 1 and an a. on question 2.  Not bad! Part of me was patting myself on the back for not driving home drunk.  How much I had grown up over the past few years.  The other part of me wanted to throw up on the sidewalk.

3.)    When was the last time you actually threw up from drinking?

a.      College

b.      Within the past month

c.      Within the past year

d.      None of the above, I’m Mormon/Muslim/Boring/Self Righteous and
    I’ve never thrown up from drinking excessive alcohol.  That’s
    dangerous

4.)    When was the last time you hooked up at a party?

a.      College

b.      Within the past month

c.      Within the past year

d.      None of the above, I’m Mormon/Muslim/Boring/Self Righteous 
    and I’ve never hooked up with a party guest due to drinking
    excessive alcohol.  That’s dangerous

It pains me to include d on both of these options, because those fuckers ruin the curve for the rest of us, but  this is a census, not an effort to prove to self that I’ve really grown up. I think I’ve earned a b. on 3 (but to be fair, empty stomach! LA!), and then a c. on 4, not for lack of trying. Pathetic, mature: same thing!

You know what?  I probably wouldn’t drink nearly this much if I lived in a small town, or at least a Midwest city not filled with those who’s maturity growth was not stunted mid adolescents.  Let’s add that as a census question to divide up responses by region.

5.)    Where do you currently reside?

a.      College

b.      The town in which I grew up…and my parents and their friends 
    are watching

c.      LA, New York, Miami or Vegas (but not The Valley, Long Island, 
    Fort Lauderdale or Henderson)

d.      A grown up, responsible city, such as Cleveland

Ok, I’m feeling better about this, already.  If we separate Angelenos and NYers from Cleveland…ites, we’re already off to a good start in padding our lifestyles with an inflated sense of maturity.  I’m mature…for my city.

6.)    Which illegal substances would a random drug test have found in your system this past year?

a.       No one said I’d have to take a drug test! This is bullshit, BULL! 
    SHIT!  My body, my choices!

b.      No to blow, but isn’t pot legal in California? I have anxiety.

c.      Do diet pills count?

d.      I could pretty much teach DARE classes still.

Whatever.  I have anxiety.  Work is stressful.  Hey, yeah, speaking of work, can we give ourselves some bonus points for the employed?  Like…earning the right to party?  Ok I’m obviously stretching on this one, but…

7.)    Are you employed?

a.      Yes AND it’s on track with what I want to do with my life!

b.      Yes I work lots of hours and have a paycheck and health
    insurance, but no I either don’t know what I want to be doing or
    don’t know how to get there.

c.      My writing/acting/sculpting/failed business endeavoring IS my
    employer

d.      What? There’s a recession! DON’T JUDGE ME.

Ok so I still don’t know what I want to do with my life, but I’ve sort of stumbled into a “career” that I enjoy.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not “fulfilling” or “contributing to the world,” but I did somehow manage to finagle a steady, decent paycheck in “marketing,” which, in many circles, is considered a “profession.”  Granted, I’m sitting at my desk mildly hung over working on my side project, which will likely go nowhere.  So I’ll give myself a b., harbor jealousy for anyone who answered a., and feel better that there are people who answer c. and d. without irony.

8.)  It’s Wednesday night.  You have at least one crime procedural or other show with which you can relate to your parents on the DVR.  The sweatpants are already on.  Your friend calls to tell you there’s a total rager going on…but it’s a 10 minute drive and it would be advisable to wear a shirt without stains.  You

a.      Rush to the party thinking “Why the fuck is CSI on my DVR?” 
    Who’s driving? I’m gonna get dah-runnnnk!

b.      Begrudgingly put on going out clothes and stop by for an hour or
    2.  That’s why they invented DVR, right?

c.      Debate it for a minute or two, say you’ll try to make it but invoke
    a planned flake and put on The Closer.  With wine.  Can’t wait
    for SVU to come back.

d.      First of all, I heard about it through a voicemail.  Answer your
    phone when the Closer’s on?  Forget that.  We’ll try socializing
    again on a Saturday. Or not.

I love The Closer.  And SVU.  And it’s been a long week already.  At work (see question 7).  I’ve earned my right to party, but I’ve also earned my right to drink wine on my couch and watch Deputy Chief Brenda Lee Johnson solve crimes. So…c. 

9.)    Friday night.  Would you rather go to:

a.      A raging party

b.      A bar that the college kids don’t have the connections to get into

c.      A dinner party

d.      Bed early

Ok let’s face it.  This answer is a combination of c and d.  I want that dinner party to be over by 11.  When did I become my mother?

10.)  Going through this survey is the closest you’ve come to worrying about your maturity level, isn’t it.

a.       Yes

Although I had come up with no scientific way to quantify this survey, and had no plans of distributing it and actually analyzing the results, I HAD found my car. It was where I left it last night, adjacent to the site of my most recent immaturity.  It would probably be great to end this with some sort of metaphor about leaving the party in the past as I drove away, but A.) I drive a Hyundai (no, seriously), B.) We’re not resorting to sex and the cityisms yet, and C.) The party is far from over.  I think I can have my booze and crime procedurals too.

**Most names and places of employment have been changed to protect our ridiculousness.