His top button is unbuttoned allowing a small isosceles triangle of white cotton fabric to peek out. Thank you, men, for doing this because it's freakin' hot! I'm sure that I look like a creep because my eyes automatically gravitate towards the triangle as we're talking but I don't care: I'll stare at it as I lick my lips like that triangle is a Little Pig and I'm the Big Bad Wolf about to blow his house down.
After crunching the numbers, I've determined that my interest in him automatically increases 29% if he has that patch of t-shirt showing. I wanna bury my nose in that little triangle and softly whisper Celine Dion lyrics to it. I wanna cook it a casual Italian dinner on a Tuesday night. Hell, I wanna pretend that I like Jim Jarmusch movies to impress it on our second date: THAT'S how bonkers I am about that little cotton patch. It's like if his neck/chest were wearing mascara and it's batting its eyelashes at me. I don't possess the skill set to resist that kind of charm!
See what I mean?
The undershirt is so cute, right?
I am Jack's complete casual business look
Sure, Darlene's a ten-year-old girl, but she's rockin' it
It's not quite a triangle up top--it's more of a parabola shape--but I'll accept it
Boy Meets Undershirt
Not even close, James Hetfield
Eh, not really
Dude, not close. At all
Toss on an under tee, baby Gos. You're almost there!
I could do without the bad attitude, but we're gettin' better
We'd catch the first showing of Adam Sandler's terrible movie Jack & Jill at like, 11:30am.
Then we'd run a weird errand where we had to stop by a sketchy strip club because he has to pick something up from his ex-girlfriend who works there. And, even though he says that we'll only be there for "two minutes," I end up sitting at the bar by myself for a half-hour, not knowing what's taking him so long.
Then he'd insist that we grab greasy chicken bowls from some random KFC for a late lunch/ early dinner which is doubly gross because I don't eat fast food but he's a picky eater and it's the only thing he'll eat.
Then we'd go to some shitty bar that only serves Bud Light and smells like a homeless man's farts mingled with stale cigarette smoke. He loves the place because he can smoke freely, but I'd be bummed that my clothes and hair are gonna smell like ass now. Good thing I wore my favorite fancy perfume for this stupid date! (Not.)
Then, he'd eat a pickled egg from a giant jar and try to kiss me.
And, after I've rebuffed his advances, he'd confess that he's actually engaged to this girl but that they have an "open relationship so it's cool."
That, my friends, would be my worst date of all time.
It's almost December 1st, which means it's almost time for a new mix to go
out to the Shmitten Kitten Mix of the Month Club members. Are you stoked? I'm stoked. Actually, I'm super fucking stoked! I have over 1,300 people signed
up so far which is still bonkers to me. I take this club seriously and really try to put together something that you're gonna love. Not a member? Sign up and join the club
already! I
mean, look at our logo: how can this club not be fun?
As always the club is free and it's fun. It's free fun, people. Sign up right now and get it on this. DO IT!
Dude. Duuuuuuude. Your behavior was not cool. Not cool AT ALL. Do you have a PhD in fucking up vibes or something?
Did you not see the body language going on between us? Both his hips AND his shoulders were aligned with mine. In body language terms, we were practically on our third date and talking about what we'd wanna name our kids half-jokingly. BUT YOU HAD TO RUIN IT, YOU MASSIVE FUCKHEAD.
He had just laughed at one of my jokes and asked me what I did for a living but I didn't even get to answer him because you, Mr. Asshat, swooped in, put your arm around his shoulder and whispered
something in his ear.
I stood there holding my drink politely for twelve seconds but you didn't just pat my guy on the back and walk away, Senor Testes Satchel. No, you stayed put like a tomato sauce stain on a white t-shirt, completely fucking up my game.
I finally had to walk away because what am I gonna do, stand there looking like an idiot while you drone on and on in my dude's ear? I'm good at a lot of things but standing still and not talking to the guy I want to talk to is not one of them.
I hate you. I hate you so much YOU PASTY-SKINNED, THIN-LIPPED, UNIBROWED, STUPID SOUL PATCH-HAVING MOTHERFUCKER! Ugh. I hope you contract some kind of disease usually only seen in exotic animals like dolphins that baffles your doctors how you were even exposed to it so they silently make judgments about your private life,
YOU FUCKING SHIT SKIDMARK.
Seeing Michael J. Fox play "Johnny B. Goode" the other night at his annual A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To Cure Parkinson’s event was the coolest thing that's ever happened to me. I'm (practically) a life-long fan of his and watching him play guitar--LIVE!--was beyond unreal. He straight-up shredded. It was like watching Michael Jackson do the Moonwalk or something; just a completely iconic performance. But, let's back up a bit.
Michael J. Fox was my dream guy before I even knew what dream guys were. When I was little, I was obsessed with Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties. He was a jittery Republican who constantly ran his hands through his feathered hair and I was an awkward, chubby nine-year-old; clearly we were a match made in heaven.
For my birthday that year, I went to see Back to the Future at the movie theater. Watching him as Marty McFly was the hottest thing I’d ever seen in my life up to that point. Those tight jeans! Those suspenders! THOSE PURPLE CALVIN KLEINS! I didn’t even know a guy’s underwear came in purple. Talk about a gamechanger. It was the first time a boy had made my heart flutter. I'm telling you, Marty McFly skateboarded his way straight into my young heart. I wondered what his neck smelled like and what it’d feel like to squeeze his thigh the way Lorraine did under her parents’ dining room table. I wanted him to gaze at me the way he gazed at the 4 x 4 truck at the end of the film. I wanted to know. I needed to know.
After I saw the movie, I plastered my walls with Michael J. Fox posters which I’d eagerly tear out of Teen Beat magazines. He was in stereo, smiling at me from all sides of my bedroom. A million Michael J. Foxes hovering like attentive, friendly boyfriends. Whip our your hankies because let's just say that it was a longshot to take our imaginary relationship to the next level. Unfortunately, I’d have to settle for a crush. Boohoo, I know.
I've already written about how I love dating shorter guys, and looking back, I can say that it all started with him. And, my adoration for him hasn't faded in the slightest. In fact, I still have a Michael J. Fox poster on the back of my bedroom door. Whenever I move to a new place, it's the first thing I post up in my new bedroom. That's how I know I've settled in. Home is where the Teen Wolf poster is. I should needlepoint that on a pillow. Here's a picture of me in front of it:
HOW COOL WAS THAT VIDEO? So cool, right? Because Michael was such a big part of my life during my formative years and because I'm so inspired by his work, I plan to partner with Team Fox and his foundation to help raise money for Parkinson's research. It's gonna be awesome. So stay tuned for updates because with our help, we can make a difference!
This clip from Funny or Die gently skewers Zooey's cute/whimsical/wide-eyed persona. Here we meet her fanciful brother, Jooey, and I gotta say, it's pretty funny.
In other news, I'm not sure if you heard, but I'm now a writer for her site, Hello Giggles. My first post, "How Did You Get So Tall?" ran this week. Ch-ch-check it out.
You know what's single? Slices of pre-wrapped American cheese, one dollar bills, and servings of Lean Cuisine. These are ALL boring things. I'm not sure why being single gets such a bad rap. I feel like people hear the word "single" and think that it's all frowntown, all the time:
But, for me, being single feels like this, a sweet treat best enjoyed with a low-cut shirt and a smile:
It rules being unattached for a while. Personally, I love it. It's super fun! If I wanna stay in and catch up on Boardwalk Empire, I can. If I wanna go out and kick game to an attractive semi-stranger, I will. I never have to compromise on anything. I can hang out with anyone I want. I can singalong to whatever pop songs I want at the top of my lungs while I'm driving and not have some guy cross his arms and roll his eyes. I'm like Kevin McAllister when he first finds out that his family is out of town in Home Alone: I'm giddy with freedom. I can stay out as late as I want with whoever I want and not have to explain anything to anyone ever. IT RULES.
You think Garfield gives a fuck about being single? Look how happy he is!
He's livin' large.
He's got a remote control, a fluffy pillow and a frosty beverage i.e. a non-stop party. He's reclining like a goddamn Pharaoh or some shit. You think he has a care in the world? NOPE-A-LOPE! You think he's worried about what movie to stream on Netflix that some girl hasn't already seen AND is in the mood to watch? Hell no. He's kicking back watching American Horror Story, burping at his leisure and snacking on a bowl of (presumably) sour cream Pringles.
So, what's your favorite thing about being single? Tell me in the comments.
This might be hard to believe, but when I like a guy, I get super shy. It doesn't happen often, but occassionally, I'll get SO SHY that I can't even sustain eye contact. During our entire dinner, I'll just mumble, look down at my plate and blush a lot like I'm a nervous foreign exchange student or something.
This tic of mine is bad news bears because looking down and blushing a lot makes me miss ALL of his high-fiving attempts. Like, every single one. So when I finally look over and see him with his arm up and his palm waiting to meet my palm, I feel terrible. He's trying to break the ice and I'm so nervous that I'm doing the opposite of breaking the ice: I'm skating around on it in a tizzy like an unattended Zamboni.
By the time I engage in the high-five, it's a few seconds too late and it's a limp little slap that makes a limp little noise which makes me even more nervous and makes me blush and stare at my dinner plate more which makes me miss his next high-five attempt too. It's a vicious cycle! Men, don't high-five me if I'm nervous. And, please don't high-five me if I'm not already engaging in eye contact with you because really, I'm terrible at it.
It's funny; I was going to write about this topic today but then I saw that the subject was just broached by the site Animals Talking In All Caps. So, here it is, re-posted from their site for your pleasure:
I'm an animal and I'm talking in caps
THANK YOU FOR YOUR OPINION REGARDING MY EYELINER, BUT LET ME EXPLAIN A COUPLE THINGS TO YOU:
1. I DON’T WEAR IT FOR YOU, NOR DO I PICK OUT MY OUTFITS BASED ON
WHAT I THINK MEN WILL LIKE. YOUR CONSTANT OGLING HAS NO BEARING ON MY
DECISION TO FLATTER MY FIGURE OR ENHANCE MY NATURAL FEATURES WITH BEAUTY
PRODUCTS. THAT IS YOUR GENDER’S CONSTANT MISGUIDED PERCEPTION.
2. YOU DON’T LIKE “WOMEN WHO DON’T WEAR MAKEUP.” YOU LIKE WOMEN WHO
ARE WEARING CONCEALER AND BARE ESSENTIALS FOUNDATION CAREFULLY BLENDED
INTO THEIR NECKLINE, CHEEKS TINTED LIGHTLY WITH SOFT ROSY CREAM BLUSH,
EYESHADOW ONE SHADE DARKER THAN THEIR FOUNDATION, EYELASHES DOTTED WITH
GREY PENCIL AND LIPS THAT HAVE BEEN ENHANCED WITH A LIGHT BERRY GLOSS. THAT’S PROBABLY $200 WORTH OF CREAMS AND POWDERS AND TAKES MORE TIME
TO APPLY THAN YOUR ENTIRE ‘SHIT, SHOWER AND SHAVE’ ROUTINE, ALL SO
ASSHOLES LIKE YOU CAN TALK ABOUT ‘NATURAL BEAUTY’ WHILE WE’RE WAITING
FOR A DAMNED BUS.
3. EVEN IF I HONESTLY CARED ABOUT YOUR AMATEUR MAKEUP CRITIQUES, I
WOULDN’T IN A MILLION YEARS GO OUT WITH YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE AN IGNORANT,
BALDING FASHION CASUALTY WITH NOODLE ARMS AND A BEER GUT WHO CAN’T KEEP
HIS EYES OR OPINIONS TO HIMSELF.
IF YOU KEEP TALKING TO ME I’M GOING TO SHOVE YOUR SANDALS UP YOUR ASS AND YOU CAN WADDLE HOME IN YOUR SOCKS.
My name is Anna Goldfarb and I approve of this message. You can't see me, but I'm doing a standing ovation. I'm also still laughing at the "noodle arms" part.
And, not for nuthin', but HowAboutWe.com recently named me as one of the Top 10 Ten People You Should Be Following On Twitter If You're Single. I'm number #9 which I think means that if the other 8 people ahead of me get married, then I'm #1. That's how it works right? Like if this were the American government and we were talking about who was in line to succeed the president, I'd be the equivalent of the House Minority Whip. I'm pretty pumped about that.
And, if you follow me on Twitter, I promise I'll never make an awkward political science joke like that ever again. Girl Scout's honor.
