Old Dogs

I’ve been working as a receptionist for a few months, which is a new gig for me. I don’t know what it is about being a receptionist or a secretary, but those titles sure get the older guys going. I’ve never had issues with older men before, but plant a young blonde behind a desk and give her two way calling- middle aged guys will line up!

Now forgive me, because when I said old, I mean mid 30’s. I’ve barely gotten into my 20’s over here so anything past 30 constitutes OLD for me. And I know, I know, you’re only as young as you feel and all that bullshit but it’s hard for me to take the situation seriously.

Guys in their 20’s are typically the worst age bracket to date, we all know this. Sure they look good but they’re deceiving; they still have their hair, their metabolisms are fast, plus they’re at their sexual peak. 20 year old dudes are shady, poor, and have ADD. I’m not saying these are bad things, it just is what it is, and I’m fine with it.  If some guy in his 30’s thinks I’m a big enough chump to believe that he really wants to “get to know me” he obviously doesn’t know what I’ve been dealing with.  Girls in their 20’s are no better, sure we’re pretty and our boobs stand up by themselves but we’re flaky, and boozy and, you guessed it, poor. Anyone over the age of 28 who’s into that might have some issues.

I may be a lot of things, but one thing I TRY not to be is judgmental. So when a clean cut white client at my office asked me out for dinner, I said why the fuck not. I hate the saying ‘don’t knock it till you try it’ but it is kind of true. I had my reservations, based on the attraction factor. I don’t want to say that this guy wasn’t good looking, but he didn’t really light the fire. Let’s just say he wasn’t my type.

So whatever, I went out to dinner with this guy, and you know what? I actually had a good time! I had totally forgotten about our date because I was day drinking margaritas and showed up an hour late- I am 23 after all. But he was fine with it and the conversation was easy. I laughed and drank sparkling wine and enjoyed myself. I started thinking, okay, this won’t be so bad, I’ll go to some dinners, get my shit paid for, maybe go on a trip! So when he asked me out for drinks a few days later I said sure.

Here’s where things went awry:

1. I had to meet him at his place downtown. This is annoying to me. If you’re such a stud, come pick me up so I can have a drink. Also, parking downtown isn’t exactly a cakewalk and he has his own parking spot! I drove around for 20 minutes and literally almost went home.

2. He didn’t have plans. This is bothersome on so many levels. This is our second date and you don’t even have a game plan? Impressive.

3. We went to HIS local bar. How fun! You get to chop it up with the bartender and all the other losers you see here on the daily and I’ll sit here drinking lemonade because I DROVE MYSELF.

4. He got drunk. So attractive right? I can’t wait to walk back to my shady parking spot 18 blocks away with the stumbling and slurry guy pushing 40.

Here’s a couple reasons why this may have happened:

1. He thought I would get drunk too and end up staying at his place. HA. Nice try buddy, this isn’t my first rodeo.

2. He was nervous. I would never care about this, but it’s a possibility.

3. He’s an idiot. I’m sticking with this one. If a guy in his 20’s pulled this shit I’d probably shrug it off. But here’s the deal- you’re by definition a man now, and there’s no way around that. If you want to date barely legal girls you go right ahead, but I don’t see any success in your future if you keep acting like that. Do you really think that you’re so amazing that you can bag girls that way? It’s insulting and it’s sad.

Long story short, I did not go out with this “gentleman” again. Even when he offered me Kings of Leon tickets. That, ladies, is called maturity.

I don’t anticipate dating any older dudes in my near future, and I hope for the young women out there that guy cleans his act up. But you never know, some old dogs can learn new tricks. As always, I’ll keep you posted.

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Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave

Or…”How Getting Hair Extensions Made Me Insecure”

Those of you who know me probably already know about my obsession with almost every show on Bravo and the Kardashian clan. That basically means that I enjoy a few things: heavily made up women, day drinking, and a good weave.

Please don’t misunderstand- never have I ever idolized or looked up to any member of the Kardashian family (except maybe Bruce Jenner). But if you can’t watch one episode without remarking on the unbe-weave-able hair of those Armenian sisters, then we just can’t be friends.

After graduating college I moved back home, which, roughly translated, means “I am a loser”. In some situations, however, it also means “I don’t pay rent”. Me likey.

That being the case, I found myself sitting on a pretty sweet little nest egg with a part-time hosting job. My 22nd birthday was approaching, and I had my eyes on the prize: hair extensions.

I sat in the front of the mirror at the salon watching my short little bob transform into luscious mermaid’s ringlets. My head was pretty heavy with tape but whatever, I was fabulous. I trotted around town whipping my fake hair back and forth.

Then a strange thing started to happen…no one cared. I wasn’t getting any props on my new look. As days went by I started to get paranoid; why didn’t people like my weave?? Could they see the tracks??? Could they tell it was fake???? Did people think I was an out of work stripper?????????????????

I wouldn’t exactly call myself wash and go, but I’m a pretty low maintenance girl. If I can throw my hair up into any type of bun without brushing it and still be seen in public, I’m a happy camper. I thought long hair made this lifestyle more attainable. HAIL NAW. Long hair is a huge pain in the ass- especially if it’s someone else’s hair taped to your head. My 15 minute routine for the day was now pushing 45. If I didn’t meticulously blow-dry, silk spray, and brush with something that looked like it was meant for a horse show, I’d look like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

Slowly little pieces of my weave started falling out during yoga, errands, and even sex. Do you know how awkward it is to pick a piece of hair up off the ground and continue about life like everything is normal? I felt highly unattractive and not like someone you wanted to keep up with.

A few weeks later I got drunk off some home-made peach sangria and pulled out every piece of fake hair. I sealed them up in a freezer bag and returned them to my hairdresser for half of what I’d paid.

My weave looked so sad, dried up in that zip lock baggy, probably wondering why I was abandoning it. But I took no pity on the faux ‘do, because we just weren’t meant to be.

Some girls are Kardashians: they’re beautiful, accessorized, and always have perfect eyeliner.

Some of us a little more like Jennifer Lawerence- girls who spill Doritos on a perfect white dress five minutes after putting it on and eat shit going up four stairs.

I’ll never be the Victoria’s Secret model with the long flowing hair, and let’s face it- no matter how much white wine I drink at noon, I’ll never be a Beverly Hills Housewife.

But I am me. This short, tangled mess is mine- and I’m proud of it.

Life Alert – For the Younger Generation?

There were many times during my college years, despite the annual rotation of roommates, where I found myself alone. Most of the time I would do normal things- study, clean, watch hours of Real Housewives, etc. During my junior year of college I was living in a house where the kitchen was upstairs and my room was downstairs. Annoying, sure, but houses in San Francisco aren’t really designed in a way to make you happy, just to make you fit. Anyway, I trotted upstairs to make my usual afternoon blueberry bagel, and on my way down I happened to miss a step and nearly fell to my death. My bagel flew through the air as I bumped down each step dramatically on my bare ass (I should note here- another thing I like to do when I’m alone is wear my silk robe- Hugh Hefner style). All I could think was I’m going to die, I can’t believe I’m about die. 

When I finally reached the bottom, I discovered that I was not dead, but my neck did hurt pretty bad. I lay on the cold tile floor noticing one half of my bagel stuck to the wall, and it hit me that I was completely alone. One of my roommates was in Paris and the other was visiting her family in the East Bay for the next four days. My cell phone was about twenty feet away in my room…if it turned out that I was paralyzed from the neck down, there was no way I’d be able to get it.

So basically, if I had died, my rotting corpse would not be found for roughly three to five days. I massaged the back of my whip-lashed neck, finally feeling a connection to all those old people in my life who sent me cards with barely any money in them–the worries they had about about dying in their home or in the shower or planting some flowers and wondering how long it’ll be till someone finds them.

There is an understanding of this dilemma in the old people world- that’s why they get Life Alert. And at least old people get checked in on occasionally, my parents aren’t really the check in type. After sending me to the Bay Area the express myself, they rarely called and I never answered. When I would call them back days later, I usually got a response similar to “oh that’s okay honey we just assumed you were out drinking”.

It’s a scary thing, laying at the bottom of a staircase, bagel-less, thinking about your demise. I really think that the Life Alert company should make a larger effort to target the independent youth of the world.

I was hunting for a studio apartment not too long ago, and I just didn’t feel comfortable signing a lease until I had Life Alert in my hand. Or around my neck. Or wherever you put it.

I eventually moved home to San Diego to be closer to my family. Needless to say I also call my grandparents a lot more now.