Hold on to your Xanax bitches.
I have widely acknowledged that I am one sketchy bitch. Google is the spunky and highly educated Asian sidekick I’ve always wanted. You know, someone who lets you cheat off her homework, collects Hello Kitty memorabilia, and whose mom makes a mean mushu. Google has helped me find many nearby sexual predators, hot new sushi spots, and almost everything you could ever know about a potential suitor. I feel there are many blurred lines between using the Internet for research or restitution. I have no fucking clue what the word restitution means.
I don’t like going into any situation blind. I haven’t been into a restaurant without aggressively reading their menu beforehand since 2006. It has become a game for my friends to quiz me on side dishes and specialty appetizers since they already know I have most likely memorized the bill of fare.
Drive bys are so 2009. Now instead of borrowing your little sister’s car with tinted windows, putting on a beanie, and a large pair of shades as you carefully drive by your new love interest’s place for a pre-visit inspection, you can just do a digital drive by via Google.
I once went out with a guy who I vigorously Googled prior to our first date. After some geo-tagging I was able to locate his residence and was very pleasantly surprised when Google Earth showed me the exteriors of his remodeled condominium.
After a few cocktails, we hopped in a cab back to his place. He began telling me a funny story from college and was clearly distracted by my shimmering cheekbones and full of shit feigned interest. The cab driver missed a turn and I casually said “Sir, you needed to make a left at the stop sign you just passed. It’s the grey building on the corner.”
At first he didn’t compute and I hurriedly tried to continue conversation. Failed mission.
“Wait… how did you know where I live?” Shit.
“Um… I am just kind of psychic. I normally don’t tell people on the first date. It’s kinda like a ‘That’s So Raven’ deal sans the closeted lesbian factor. LAWLZ!”
That joke didn’t translate and I could instantly see fear in his eyes. Suddenly what was looking to be a fun night quickly turned into him being “super tired” and needing to be at work “super early.” WAY HARSH TAI. The evening went from promising passion to pending restraining order in a matter of seconds.
I guess curiosity killed the connection. As I called my best friend and told her the critical error I made, we began dissecting my habits. Am I insanely creepy or just adamantly curious? Are these two synonymous? Do I need a hobby? Probably. One may draw the conclusion I am insecure, batshit crazy or severely unstable. I prefer to think I am proactively curious and adorable.
I believe all bitches have the right to utilize our God given resources. I have learned during my personal pursuit of information the following is crucial:
- Establish a motive. Like in any high profile business establishments, background checks are not only mandatory but justified. What exactly are you looking for? Financial stability? Relationship history? Federal offenses? Find your motive and stay organized. I am well aware that these are my golden years; I ain’t wasting a weekend going out for fucking teppanyaki with a guy who was president of the Scientology Club in high school.
- Clear your browser history. When a guy comes over and asks to use your laptop and you have his name and yearly income in the search bar, things WILL get awky. Trust me, I have learned this the hard way… twice.
- Play dumb. Sure, you know what every person in his family looks like already, where he went to college, what his GPA was and his unique blood type. But never reveal your knowledge. Quite frankly it’s none of their fucking business. And always remember when it comes to constitutional research, honesty is the WORST policy.
Every once in a while I am hit with a midnight martini epiphany. Last month I came to the conclusion I don’t really think the show ‘Friends’ is funny. The month before I made a short-lived vow to only buy local produce. Last week I convinced myself all this Amanda Bynes drama is a genius hoax on the public for a majorly well-concealed documentary premiering at Sundance a la Joaquin Phoenix.
Last night, I finally got a grasp on the complexities of my personality. I like to dramatically categorize all things in my life especially types of people. Optimists and pessimists. Bitches who make nail appointments and those who only do walk-ins. Team LC or Team Kristin. People who caption photos with song lyrics and those who would sooner eat a deep fried puppy. The pimps and the hoes. Bitches that like Michael Kors accessories and those who think it says “I’m settling for mediocrity”. Life is so much easier to navigate when you can put things in a clear container with a label.
At the end of the day there are really only two kinds of people: introverts and extroverts. In life, I tend to live in black and white so it has been a constant struggle to identify with such a strong shade of gray. What gray you may ask? Because I’m an extroverted introvert. It wasn’t until recently (last night) that I realized I am the ultimate union of both. Attention gives me fuel. Not in a daddy issues, lady of the pole way. I hate when people ASSUME that people who love attention are insecure. Some flowers just require more water to bloom.
Growing up, I participated in every fucking activity I could weasel or bribe myself into. Plays, lip-sync competitions, talent shows, pep rallies – you name it, I was there, front and fucking center. Obnoxious doesn’t even begin to cover it.
My first week of middle school I did a painful rendition of “Hey Mickey” during a lunchtime assembly. People threw their lunch at me (I will never look at Domino’s breadsticks the same again) but I held my final pose with my pom poms in a high V, grinning like a winner #nailedit. Sure, I had enough marinara sauce in my hair to feed the Giudice’s for the entirety of Tre’s sentencing, but I was working my shit and it would make for an amazing tale for my E! True Hollywood Story: ‘Bitches, They Are Just Like Us’.
So one could easily assume I am the most extroverted of extroverts. But much to many’s surprise, I am colossally private. I will discuss my digestive system to anyone with a pulse and ear canal but would rather shoot myself in the asshole than discuss anything emotional.
Ever since I was young, I have had this inner dialogue in my head where I am able to sort my inner struggles solo. WebMD may diagnose this as bipolar, but I would just call it having a great sense of self.
I have literally never cried in public. Not sad tears at least. It’s a real shame because crying is a good look for me. My eyes turn this really pretty shade of teal and the tears sitting on my cheekbones give my complexion an unreplicable dewy look. It’s fucking fantastic. Now, in the privacy of my own home or with selected group of bitches I will cry at a Sylvan commercial… dumb kids who need homework help really tug on my heartstrings.
I also have total social anxiety. My hypnosis therapist has assured me this is a control issue and I am uncomfortable in any situation I haven’t carefully crafted. I won’t even go to a restaurant without reading the menu and RAPING the place’s Yelp page.
One could over analyze this and try to associate my introversion to some childhood trauma but that just isn’t the case. To put it very simply, I have always enjoyed being alone. I am the most entertaining person I know. Does that make me an asshole or a complete psychopath? Probably both, but I will discuss that with myself over sushi later.
Sometimes I am an extrovert, sometimes I am an introvert. There is a huge likelihood that I am bipolar. There’s no question that I am neurotic. I wear sequins while home alone and can be found in bed by 9:00PM 87% of the week.
Spontaneity is a personal myth and I have about 8 fully choreographed dance numbers ready to go at any given second. I don’t cry in public but will let a homeless person cry on my shoulder as long as I am not wearing something that’s dry clean only. I own my shade of gray. And am proud of it. And to all my extroverted introverts HAYYYYYYY!
I am a very routine bitch. I wake up, check my Instagram followers and make a to do list for the day. I tend to do my marketing around 11am post breakfast after a failed attempt at delivering my food baby, an average of 4 hours watching Bravo and cloaked in both shame and water retention. The parking lot is open, the cheese selection hasn’t been picked over and the staff seems in a chipper mood. For the first time ever I braved the carpool mom cluster fuck that IS Trader HOES at 5pm. The whole market just smelt of baby formula, cheese puffs and regret.
Within 34 seconds of entering the market, a kid spit on me. It wasn’t like he hacked a loogie on me, it was more of an aggressive drool. Thank god I have a serious gravitation towards Asian children or I may have cut a bitch. I am not an ageist … babies can be real assholes.
As I headed towards my happy place aka the liquor aisle I was hit with an immediate wave of social anxiety. All of these medicated carpool moms were clearly 20 minutes away from getting the shakes and running rampant. Children were left abandoned as their mothers grabbed crates of Two Buck Chuck. The sight alone was the best birth control I have ever experienced. I needed to get the fuck out of there. As I went to grab my routine bottle of Goose on the top shelf I found myself perplexed as the bottle in my hand started to crackle… because it was made of fucking plastic.
It read “Vodka of The Gods” and was $9.99 for a handle. The description boasted it was “perfect for mixed drinks” which is like when someone describes a bitch as looking “healthy” after she has gained a few lbs. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I would sooner ferment my own potatoes or find a Russian sugar daddy with great Vodka inventory before I bought this shit. I practically dropkicked the nearest employee and demanded they check the back for some decent vodka.
College wasn’t my shtick but I can imagine how those 4 minutes of waiting for Salvador to return and determine the fate of my evening has to be eerily similar to waiting for a University acceptance letter. As I saw my little chalupa emerge from the back without any happy juice in tow my heart sank. “So sorry ma’am. It’s been a very busy afternoon. Have you ever tried Vodka of The Gods?” “Fuck you Salvador.”
I had spent 40 minutes navigating this infested market, helped an elderly pick out a new orchid and swapped germs with enough children to cast a United Colors of Benetton ad. It was time to get sketchy.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a yoga pant-wearing woman chatting away on her Bluetooth. She had abandoned her little boy in the shopping cart and was perusing various meatless products. I quickly scanned the contents of her cart: 1) Her mediocre child 2) No animal byproducts 3) A bottle of fucking Grey Goose. Clearly this bitch was a vegan. Can they even DRINK vodka? “Seriously tempeh tastes better than steak Cheryl, you MUST try it” … Now all bets were off. Her kid was playing on his iPad, she was gabbing away about her philanthropic dietary restrictions (side note: if everyone was a fucking vegan the ecosystem would CRASH #teamfoodchain) and I was getting thirstier by the minute. I knew if I could just position myself about 45 degrees to the left of her malnourished child I could grab the bottle of Goose and make a bolt for the cashier. It really seemed like I would be doing her a favor… I mean drinking something that possibly could have come from a Goose seems conflicting with her lifestyle choices.
I inched closer pretending to red the nutritional info on a nearby box of Snap Pea Crisps and ever so delicately let my left arm fall into Vegan Victoria’s shopping cart. Without breaking eye contact from the Snap Peas, I located the bottleneck and slowly started to lift it out of the cart. With merely centimeters to go … “MOM MY IPAD DIED!” what a little shithead. The mother whipped around and caught me awkwardly holding the bottle of vodka behind my back while I clutched the snap peas. “Oh… UM. I am so sorry I thought this was my cart? Haha!” #LAWLZ Yeah fucking right. I am pretty sure I didn’t also have an overindulged little asshole riding shotgun in MY cart. She looked over at my nearby basket filled with ground lamb, 46 kinds of cheese and enough frozen fish to subsidize for Fukushima and things only got more awky.
She looked at me in total disgust. Back off me bitch, things could be worse. It wasn’t like I was trying to kidnap your child. Some may call this occurrence a personal low point… I prefer to think I had great initiative and high spirits. I headed to the checkout sans Vodka and many of my maternal instincts. Since this incident I have been popping birth control pills like wintergreen Tic Tacs. I have made a vow never to come face to face with these vicious Trader Hoes ever again and to forever more buy all alcohol at Costco where the dilfs and samples are plentiful.
Surprisingly I initially like most people. Especially if they really like me. If Vladimir Putin told me I had high cheekbones and a protruding clavicle I would probably invite him over for Shabbat dinner and set him up with one of my slutty girlfriends to tickle his Russian pickle. As a Leo, I am incredibly protective over the people I love and have unfortunately run into the situation of hating a few of my friends significant others. My cousin (who is more like a sister) was dating this guy who I lovingly referred to as Fuckface for a couple years. The first time I met him in his college apartment I knew I wanted to bury him alive and dance to Daft Punk on his grave with a bottle of Vueve Cliquot and a bendy straw. He was arrogant, condescending and spoke like a closeted homosexual Subway Sandwich artist supporting his way through school to become a Planetary Scientist. Fucking asshole. Naturally upon my first impression he was wearing a gold chain (red flag #1) and made me split a Gatorade when I asked for something to drink cause he “only had a few left”. I tried my hardest to swallow my pride and pretend to like him. Three hours in I had hit my limit.
He insisted we go to a local Teppanyaki restaurant for their “super dank half off lunch specials” (red flag #2). He started verbally harassing my cousin when she insisted on ordering from the full price menu (red flag #3). It wasn’t just one comment… the fucker went on and on, he was relentlessly rude. She brushed this off and excused herself to the bathroom. As soon as she was out of sight I leaned over the cook top table, grabbed Fuckface’s wrist and looked him dead in the eye and said, “If you ever speak to her like that again I will get all of my goliath family members and the sketchy Cholo custodian at my office to drive down here and beat the shit out of you… Also are you done with your fried rice?” I was dead serious and I am almost positive he shit his pants.
My smidge of a death threat was a huge wake up call. My cousin finally saw what a total dick the guy was and they split shortly after. Unfortunately, these confrontations usually don’t turn out as ideally. So what is a bitch to do? The upside of sharing your reservations about said asshole is honest communication and you may be saving your friend from a crazy breakup and possible restraining order. The downside is that your friend will most likely not listen and it will cause a strain in your friendship. The first step in dealing with a situation like this is addressing WHY he is an asshole and the LEVEL of harm he may be causing your friend. Is this a Justin Bobby short-term tryst or a Spencer Pratt long-term holy matrimony… it makes a huge difference.
The rule to interjecting in a friend’s relationship is that you can never take it back and you have to expect that your girl will side with the shmuck. Also know the guy WILL be told you dislike him and then it’s game on. Ultimatums are dramatic and prompt early menstrual cycles. Calm your ovaries and think like a rational bitch. Is it worth the drama? Side note: Jealousy is transparent. If you are a needy Nancy and only dislike your friends new love interest because it conflicts with your Bachelor and wine nights – you are the asshole. The truth is if you are in a serious and happy relationship, your partner usually becomes your best friend and that is totally fine.
So you have assessed the damage and you are positive the asshole has surpassed Spencer Pratt and is verging on Tiger Woods. You know he is penetrating her sister, embezzling money from her checking account and may have dabbled in drug dealing. How do you tell her? “Hey love can I come by and borrow that sequined sweater of yours? We still down for Soul Cycle tonight? Oh and one last thing, your boyfriend is an asshole, everyone hates him and yesterday I threw a penny in a fountain and wished he would contract a immune system crushing disease. Love ya!”
Honestly, that’s probably how I would do it. As easy as that seems it is not the best way to go unless you’re prepared to move forward without a sequin sweater to borrow, an unfollow on Instagram (the harshest of all) and a fractured friendship. Last side note: I have said this a million times, I track everyone who unfollows me. Once you make that decision you are dead to me. Don’t conveniently pretend we are cool. To put it in song: “We are never ever ever going for drinks together. You go talk to your friends take your selfies and unfollow me (bitch) but weeee will never ever ever ever have martinis together.” That’s my Taylor Swift bad bitch remix. Sorry for the passive aggressive tangent.
Meddling in your friend’s relationship is a very slippery slope. A good friend always wants to protect their bitches from the pitfalls of dating an asshole but unless they are headed for a seriously life and heart threatening future it is always best to let a bitch come to these conclusions by herself. Unless the fucker is in a gold chain, makes you go halfsies on an orange flavored Gatorade AND thinks daytime Teppanyaki is socially acceptable.
If you don’t follow my neurotic ass on twitter… you are really missing out. Some of you may notice that I have opted out of the standard post-reality show recaps I once relied on to fill this blog. This is because I have taken to the twitter-verse for a dirty martini fueled impulsive play by play. In honor of the disastrous masterpiece that IS Vanderpump Rules, I have decided to compile my tweet thoughts from the live premiere to give you all an insider look whilst watching this shitshow of 30-something failed model slash actors living in apartments with cottage cheese ceilings and drinking out of puffy painted wine glasses like community college sorority girls.
The episode starts and immediately we check back in with one protein powder snorting, chunky sweater wearing wannabe “sex addict” Jax Taylor. He is still living in his super chic Hollywood studio so he can bang, make mac and cheese AND shit in the same radius of 500 square feet #pantydropper. Side note: as a Jew from the San Fernando Valley, I ain’t buying the ol “deviated septum” nosejob excuse.
Then we check in with my personal fave (not) Kristen. Her ex boyfriend Tom has evicted her and subsequently dropped her from his Verizon Wireless family plan and now she is banging a 22 year old busboy. Adorable. The good news for her is that if this whole server career doesn’t play out she is a SHOE-IN for the perfect Lexapro spokeperson. Get it gurl.
Scheana has gone for the low budge Kardashian ombre and has ruined “Almost Famous” by tattooing a Penny Lane quote on her forearm “it’s all happening”. The only thing happening for me at this point is a libation refill and a note to self to burn any gold polyester I have convinced myself looks “chic”. #GoodAsGold
Oh yay! It’s Katie! The good news is that Katie is no longer is a fire crotch – the bad news is that she now has the hairdo of a Midwest soccer mom who is trying to revive her marriage with a box of Franzia and a weekly date night at the bowling alley. HONEY – please get it together. Kisses.
The bitch is back. Nothing warms the heart like Princess Stassi riding dirty in her fucking Toyota convertible in a Claire’s “Couture” statement necklace. If life is treating her so well why is she squatting in Katie and Tom Schwarts fluorescent lighting apartment? And if her family is so wealthy why the fuck does her mother live in Lake Arrowhead? I am over this Princess Stassi charade. Is Pump hiring any new hostesses?
Krazy Kristen has done some casual cyber stalking and has “evidence” Tom is cheating on Ariana. She brings this news to pop icon Sheana Marie and naturally she starts crying. She decides it is an AMAZING time to discuss the situation at her own birthday party and holds the tears back to avoid an eyelash malfunction. The only thing I was able to take away from this party is how happy I was that Scheana wasn’t wearing another fucking tutu #growth. Also Kristens new twink boyfriend needs to stop pretending he is fuckin Afrojack. Super tight stickers on your 2009 Macbook DJ no one gives a fuck – you are a busboy shut up. Until next week bitches…