The DILF Hunter 5000

OK, look. I’m going to be REAL honest with you: I’m fully aware that a heaping tablespoon of our readership is pissed at us right now because we took two weeks off to, you know, write a book. Because someone gave us money to. Versus this little venture. Which we do for free. Actually, that’s a lie; Lexie Briggs gave us a donation yesterday. So Lexie Briggs: I’m sorry I disappointed you…but mostly, I’m sorry I disappointed myself. You let me know when you’d like to get drinks and they’re on me. (And by drinks plural, I mean one for me and one for you. Reasonably priced. Preferably domestic. This isn’t prom.) ANYWAY, the point is I’m buckling under the pressure of winning your hearts back and now I have writer’s block and can’t think of an introduction for this post and Chris isn’t answering my text messages. To add insult to injury, there’s a crack in my Brita pitcher and I’ve been fucking parched all day but don’t trust unfiltered DC water, so I just chugged four random Stellas I found in the back of my fridge from Halloween in under five minutes and am surprisingly drunk right now.

So here I am, accidentally drunk, playing with “novelty borders” in Illustrator, and trying to think of a way to be non-offensive and charming when it’s like, fuck it—just like these novelty borders, someone’s always going to think I suck, so I might as well just be the best little novelty border I can be for the people who appreciate novelty borders. Which, I might add, certainly has never been me, but you know what? I can’t fly in the face of an 8.5 x 11 piece of computer paper flanked in picnic ants and paw prints. I would go to that block party and I’m not even trying to front like I wouldn’t. So what I’m trying to say is: I recently discovered is that I’m a total DILF hunter and I think we should talk about it. But first:

As of February 11, 2011, Larry Hagman is alive! And here’s a quick story about him before we move on (“We suuuuure did Blanche…”): I found out some disturbing health news Tuesday afternoon and was just generally really down, so I came home and cracked open the Larry Hagman autobiography, Hello Darlin’, which 2b1b super-readers Anna and Sarah were wonderful enough to send to me. Within 19 pages, I was hysterically laughing because a.) He dedicated the book to his liver donor, which I know isn’t “funny”, but also isn’t not funny; b.) The first time he did acid (or a “turn on”, if you will) it was a gift from David Crosby and he did it in a tiny little brown terry cloth robe that his wife, Maj, made for him; c.) He was raised by a “extremely loving” black woman who, if little Larry wouldn’t stop talking at bed time, would blow out the pilot light in the gas heater and let the gas fill the room until he got drowsy and passed out. His grandparents made her stop doing it though when they came home from a church barbecue once and found both of them passed out, “gas still flowing.” Instead she would let little Hagman suck on a bourbon-soaked sock until he got buzzed enough to fall asleep. The concluding sentence of the introductory chapter is, “Was this the start of my alcoholism? Who knows.” Larry Hagman, Lexie Briggs, Anna, and Sarah…you keep me hangin’ on.

So, Chris and I were watching an episode of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip last week, per his dad’s recommendation, and I got all oddly hot and bothered by Matthew Perry. It started innocently enough when I remarked that he looked good in a suite, and then somehow turned into me full-blown rapping the “spicier” portions of Ludacris’ Fantasy while grabbing my invisible dick with my left hand and uncomfortably caressing my breasts with the right.

Chris didn’t understand my attraction to Matthew Perry at first but eventually admitted that he could see the being attracted to him circa the “Friends” years. And I could NOT disagree more. I like post-rehab Matthew Perry. I like that he looks poofy and a little waterlogged. I like the worry lines across his forehead and the bags under his eyes. I like that you can tell he was once a pretty boy who’s now a little weathered and clearly has a story to tell. And that’s when I connected the dots that Studio 60 Matthew Perry looks disturbingly like a lot of guys I’ve hooked up with over the years. Up until that moment, I never really thought I had a “type” (or, I considered my type to be whoever wanted to have sex with me at that given moment, which I don’t think is really having a “type” more as it's having "low self-esteem”), but standing there in Chris’ apartment, clutching my left breast and pointing to the television screen with a shaking finger, I realized that I do have a type—I’m a total DILF Hunter.

Chris was quick to point out that this must mean I have some serious daddy issues, but the thing is; I don’t. I have an excellent relationship with my dad; we’re friends, but that’s where it ends. My dad could be Steve Martin’s doppelganger and every time I watch that scene in Shop Girl when he gets into bed with a naked, whorish Claire Danes, I want to run a cheese grater over my eyes and jump out a plate glass window. That and I don’t think there’s anything “daddy issues-y” about being into DILFS. Sure it stands for “Dad I’d Like to Fuck”, but since when does that mean it’s my dad? My father is a distinguished older gentleman, and a distinguished older gentleman does not a DILF make.

Let me paint you a picture of what I consider a DILF to be: a man in his mid to late 30’s; typically brunette; classically handsome; exquisite bone structure; maybe married right out of college and got saddled down with the wife and kids a little too early; works an unfulfilling, but decently paid corporate job; perhaps has a wee bit of a drinking problem as a result and has put on a few pounds; maybe he’s looking for a young blogger with dwindling popularity to escape with for a few hours and remind himself what it’s like to be alive, feel a little dangerous with, I don’t know?; but most importantly he’s wearing a crisp Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up three-quarters of the way, top button undone and just slightly exposing his undershirt, haphazardly loosened tie, and a-reeking of musky cologne and a decade of disappointment. BOOM. I’m into, you guys. I’m into a big, big way. The highlight of every single one of my Monday through Fridays is when the guy I’m currently into text messages me a detailed description of what he wore to work that day. Sound a little gay? Well there’s nothing gay about it when the end result is me wanting to jump your fucking bones. (Sorry. Four Stellas. Getting a little defensive. Throwing hard F’s around.) And while I’m fairly certain all of this says something unfortunate about me, I don’t think it’s that I have daddy issues.

That being said, I did bring it up with Laura to see what she thought when we were out getting drinks this past weekend. After I finished my little schpeal, her eyes widened and I could see the pieces fall into place. She stammered, “Like…like Timothy Dalton!” PLINKO. We then spent the remainder of our night sitting in the window at Big Hunt comprising a list of the DILFiest men we could think of—a list that has now become known as The DILF Hunter 5000. Which was awkward when it got crowded and we agreed to share our table with another group of people and frequently interrupted their conversation with things like: “MICHAEL VARTAN?!” “DILF. ME. UP. AND. DILF. ME. DOWN. YES.”

Official rules of the DILF Hunter 5000:

1.) Must be attainably attractive, not too pretty or too exotic. Because that really is the majesty of the DILF. I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell with Ian Somerhalder, I realize that, but something deep inside of me truly believes that given the right amount of alcohol and a dimmer switch, I could probably get Ray Liotta to go home with me.

2.) Doesn’t necessarily have to have kids. Jude Law has three kids but is way too pretty to ever be considered a DILF. Conversely, George Clooney doesn’t have any but aesthetically fits the bill. DILF is a state of mind, not a lifestyle.

3.) Of a certain age, but not of another. Which is just another way to say—

4.) DILF ≠ Distinguished Older Gentleman

5.) We recognize that every rainbow has a spectrum. George Clooney, to me, is a DILF, but he’s also in that age range where he could just as easily be a Distinguished Older Gentleman. Likewise, Joseph Gordon Levitt is going to be a great DILF someday, but that day is not today. The age range can get a little ambiguous, but all we can do is try our best.

6.) He has to put the F in DILF. Laura was quick to put Steve Carell on the list, but does anyone really want to fuck Steve Carell? I’d shake hands with Steve Carell and buy him a beer, maybe even have a sweaty make out session with him in a sports bars commode; anything else just seems…overkill.

Over the course of this past week I challenged myself to pare down the DILF Hunter 5000 to what I consider to be the top 10 DILFs of all time. Screw writing the manuscript—that was a challenge. But thankfully after a lot of soul-searching, reordering, and revision, it’s done. I proudly present to you now, Meg McBlogger’s Top 10 All-Time DILFs:

#10: Alan Ruck

Or Alan “Ruck Me Harder”, if you will. Baha. I know what you’re thinking: “PSHHHH, seriously, Meg? He hasn’t been in anything since Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and he was like 25 in that.” Oh, really? Allow me to point you to a little slice of the human experience called Cheaper by the Dozen and episode four of “Stella” entitled “Coffee Shop”. He played an emasculated, down-on-his-luck DILF in both of those and need I mention those blue eyes?? (Plus in CBD he wore a tux. Netfix it immediately. Or just come over because I own it. It’s a genuinely funny movie. Don’t judge me.)

#9: Will Arnett 

Knock, knock? Who’s there? I’d lick that receding hairline. That’s my entire joke. ‘Sup?

#8: Timothy Dalton circa 1987's The Living Daylights 

Look, we can go tit-for-tat all day about whether or not he was a respectable Bond (Lord knows I’ve got the time) (and four years of 007 Days of Christmas marathons under my belt) but I think we can all agree that in his prime, Timothy Dalton was a DILF and he made no apologies for it. I mean, that noble mane of hair! Those suits! Eyebrows that could make Peter Gallagher blush! And my god—the cleft chin. I, personally think cleft chins are sexy, but I think that’s mostly just because I have one and spent the majority of my youth being told it was a butt chin and developed a self-deprecating sense of humor and semi-serious self-mutilating problem as a result, but DALTON! Dalton made it look good.

#7: That Correspondent From The Daily Show who Kind of Looks Like Timothy Dalton if you Cross Your Eyes and Squint

Which I do. Frequently. It gives me terrible headaches and I might be developing a lazy eye, but Timothy Dalton looks like a decrepit vampire these days and Jason Jones? I. SAID. GOD. DAMN.

#6: Justin Kirk

I dated a guy who looks like Justin Kirk once and we both know I was in no way the one who ended it.

#5: Jon Hamm

I mean, “Mad Men” and “30 Rock” reruns basically just serve as softcore pornography at this point. Reasons one and two to get my cable turned back on…

#4: Clive Owen

I just…he’s just so…and he makes me feel…and I could…and he…and I…I have to go.

#3: Jason Bateman

There’s no one else I’d rather make sweet Pop-Pop with.

#2: Paul Rudd

As I obnoxiously shouted over the head of a perfect stranger a mere six days ago: “LAURA!!! PAUL RUDD—THE ORIGIONAL DILF!!!! THE DILF THAT LAUNCHED A THOUSAND MINI-VANS!!!! FUCK. YES.”

#1: Jeremy Piven

First and foremost: I don’t have to explain anything to you people. Second and second most: Fine. Let’s just all acknowledge that Jeremy Piven is a douchebag, OK? Jeremy Piven is a giant douchebag and I, Meg McBlogger, recognize that. He’s a “Jewish Buddhist”, whatever the fuck that means; he pussied out of a play with an excuse only applicable to 19^th century hatters; he might actually think he’s Ari Gold after the cameras stop filming—I get it; he’s a douchebag. But that doesn’t mean when he shuts that pretty little goddamn mouth of his and stands perfectly still, he isn’t the sexiest man in the entire world. Yeah. I said it. I honestly think that Jeremy Piven is the sexiest man in the world. I pitted him against every single other member of the DILF Hunter 5000, and he came out on top every time. And am I embarrassed to admit that on a blog where I’m already on thin ice? No. No, I’m not. I’m proud of myself for being able to be that honest. Because originally I hid Piven at #6 and put Rudd at #1, but it was with Alex’s emotional support in the basement level of a Panera that I learned to be proud of my feelings for the Piven and not care what other people think. I’m sorry that I can actually look past people’s personalities and inner selves and judge them solely on their physical appearance and you can’t. I’m a

lso sorry I didn’t get tickets to Burning Man this year, hippie.

Also,you don’t think that Jeremy Piven has contributed anything to society or even to your life? Uh, let me remind you of a little motion picture called PCU, and a line that’s not only my personal mantra, but is what inspired Ex Co-Blogger Eddie to write her senior history thesis on "Dallas", thereby introducing her to Larry Hagman, thereby introducing me to TGI Hagman, thereby introducing you to TGI Hagman:

Tom: What is he doing?

Droz: He’s finishing his senior thesis. Pigman is trying to prove the Caine-Hackman theory. No matter what time it is, 24 hours a day, you can find a Michael Caine or Gene Hackman movie playing on TV.

Tom: That’s his thesis?

Droz: Yes! That’s the beauty of college these days, Tommy! You can major in Game Boy if you know how to bullshit.

And bullshit we did. And continue to! Well, not Eddie. She’s an upstanding member of society who counsels America’s youth about doin’ it with condoms. I…made this list. And got drunk alone tonight because I couldn’t afford Gatorade. Well. Remember to use a condom! There. Now we’re even. 

Welp, that’s going to do it for us! Good riddance to this god-awful week and here’s to shit getting better. If you find yourself sitting around this weekend coming up with some quality DILFs, shoot them my way. 

Remember, there’s no “I” in “DILF Hunter 5000”. Except for the one in “DILF”. That literally stands for I. Good. Glad we’re friends again. See you on Monday.

WARNING: This post contains material of a frank and sexual nature. Reader discretion is advised.

So…I feel very conflicted. I had a sexual misadventure Monday night that was (true to form) completely unfortunate and obscenely hilarious. Even as it was happening I found myself thinking, “Wow…this is so blog-worthy.” But I just can’t bring myself to chronicle the tale. A lot of the one-liners my dude said to me were priceless, yet raunchy enough to make Andy Dick blush. But I’m pretty open about talking about my sex life, and I am sure as shit always up for asking about your sex life, so it’s only fair that I share. So I’m giving you the PG-13, edited for TV version of the story instead of the full X-rated straight to a porn store near you version. If you are related to me, work with me, or just find the idea of me having sex disturbing, allow me to nutshell it: Sex. Went bad. Left. I only date weirdos. Fin. If you’re feeling more adventurous, read on. But you have been warned.

So I went on a round of successful dates with a 22-year-old hipster musician who lives around my neighborhood. We’ll call him…Blake. Overall I feel very “meh” about him. STATS! Pros: Sarcastic, really likes me, always has a compliment and most importantly, the best hook-up I’ve ever had. Cons: When he talks, I have elaborate fantasies about duct tapping his mouth shut, cokehead, likes tranny porn and is incredibly impressed with himself. I decided a few weeks ago that the cons outweighed the pros and cut off all contact. But you have to understand that I’m a gay frat boy trapped in the body of a 22-year-old woman. I can’t waste a good hookup, but I don’t want “emotions” or “feelings” to get involved. So I decided to entertain Blake’s request to hang out, but strictly on a hook-up only basis. One more sit-down with him and I fear I’d shove a salad fork in his eye.

Monday night we decided to make a sexin’ date, so I headed over to his place for the first time. In the straight-up ghetto. But one must make sacrifices for a decent hookup, so on I bravely went. I got to his place and headed down to his “apartment” in the basement, which he turned into his personal music studio. I was forced to get the full tour of his studio (including a long-winded explanation about the difference between Japanese symbols and American-made symbols…) while his friend burned some of his porn from him. Thanks asshole. Can’t you use X-tube like a normal person? After porny friend left, it was time to hop on the good foot and do the bad thing.

HILARIOUS THINGS HAVE BEEN EDITED AT THIS POINT BECAUSE THEY MAKE ME FEEL DIRTY WHICH IS SAYING SOMETHING. Let’s skip foreplay and cut directly to sex. I brought a condom with me because the thought of breeding with the world’s most boring cokehead is enough to become celibate and get thee to a nunnery. However, Blake insisted he had is own special condom he was going to use. Whatever, get to it, thought I. Two thrusts in and the flag went from full glory to folded neatly and put back on the shelf. Not happy. Blake insisted that this had NEVER happened to him before and it was definitely NOT me. Could I give him a little head to get things going again? Why not, we all need a helping hand (or mouth as it were) every now and then. Plus I had never given a blowjob to a dude wearing a condom before and frankly, I was curious. I actually didn’t really care at this point because I don’t really mind giving head and his condom totally tasted like English Breakfast tea. So now I wanted sex and a scone.

Back in position we went and things were going fine. Suddenly, Blake starts screaming and falls to the floor in pain. He starts hitting his now yet again flaccid dick over and over again and then ran to the bathroom. A few seconds later he came out looking embarrassed and in pain. Blake explained that he sometimes has a problem with premature ejaculation (STEEEEEEERICK ONE!) and wanted to impress me, so he bought Durex extended pleasure condoms lined with Benzocaine. Benzocaine. Benzocaine is a local anesthetic and fish tranquilizer. Why in the sweet name of Jesus would you want to put that on your penis? So the poor kid can’t feel his dick at all and then proceeds to have an allergic reaction to the Benzocaine causing him to lose it. I’m sure that was very scary, but I could NOT stop laughing. There I was, in the basement of a house in the ghetto wrapped in a sheet laughing my ass off while my date was in the bathroom screaming and running his dick under the faucet. This is my life.

Five minutes later he came out and apologized for his current inability to perform. He proposed that he explain all of his studio machinery to me while he waited for the feeling to come back to his nether regions. I explained that I think I should hit the old dusty trail. “Wait! I’ve got some killer pot!”…Damn him…I can’t resist that! So there I sat high as a kite as he manically raced around his studio explaining the mechanics of his amps and microphones and how his computer worked in conjunction with each cord and blah blah blah... Now, I don’t mean to be heartless but…DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF MY LIFE IS SPENT BEING BORED ASSHOLE? I spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week sitting in a cubicle trying not to fall asleep and thinking of new ways I can entertain myself without getting fired. I never thought I could be more bored then I am at work, but congratulations Blake, you proved me wrong (STEEEEEEERICK TWO!)

At least the situation really couldn’t have gotten worse. Oh wait, yes it could. Suddenly we heard a door slam upstairs. “Oh shit…get your clothes on! Get dressed! My dads home!!!” Um. What? That’s right kiddies! His basement apartment was in the home of his drunken and abusive father’s house. How lovely! Blake raced around the room picking up condom wrappers and spraying air freshener to hide the pot smell like a fucking 16 year old. It was at this point that I couldn’t find my pants. Why? Because Blake had hidden them under his bed. Why? I don’t fucking know, why did he think it was a good idea to put a fish tranquilizer on his dick? I got my pants on, grabbed my bag and was thinking of how I was going to gracefully leave when he said, “Well, I guess the odds of us having sex are out tonight. Why don’t we just sit and talk about more?” STEEEEEEERICK THREE! I’M OUT!

Sha la la!
Patsy

I WANNA SEX YOU UP!

Strippers. ::Patsy proudly stands up and starts a slow clap while nodding vigorously in approval:: After this weekend, I just gotta give it up to strippers who can work a pole. It’s not what you’re thinking; I didn’t go to Score’s and get a killer lap dance this weekend (but there’s always next weekend). However I did do some stripping of my own this weekend. Well, not really, but I did work a pole. Friday night Serena, Blair and I were on the N train headed to Union Square to have drinks with a friend. Recently three strippers have been doing “performance art” by working the poles on the N train. When we found ourselves in an empty subway compartment, Blair channeled the strength of the strippers and starting spinning around the poles at a really impressive rate. As we approached the Manhattan Bridge, I decided to make my dream of spinning around a pole like a stripper while riding the subway over the Manhattan Bridge become a reality. Like most dreams I develop ten minutes before acting on them, it did not end well. Turns out properly spinning on a pole is really fucking hard. You have to have a lot of upper body strength and strong abs. The only time I work my arms is to bring whatever cocktail I’m drinking to my mouth. And the last time I did a crunch was when I laid down and realized my ipod was at the foot of my bed. But, I had a dream to fulfill damnit, so I got some pointers from Serena the stripper (you have to lift yourself up with your upper body, control the release slowly and cross your legs as you spin down) and attacked the pole a few times before going over the Manhattan Bridge. And when I say attacked, I really mean attacked. I sort of just ran and flew myself at the pole, spun once really fast and landed on my ass. Over and over again. Across the Manhattan Bridge. I kid you not, this happened Friday night, it’s Tuesday morning and I am still feeling it. My arms are killing me, my back is killing me and my abs feel like they’re on fire. This proves a few things: 1.) Strippers deserve our respect 2.) Carmen Electra’s “Strippaerobics” might be a late addition to my Christmukkah list and finally 3.) mother fucker I’m out of shape.

If I were to write a self-help book. It would be called How to Make Awkward Work for You. I’m sort of awkward and I am pretty socially inappropriate (for example: actual conversation taken from the subway this morning:
Me: I want to become a high class dominatrix and I’m dead serious.
Serena: Go for it.
Me: I can’t think of anything better than dressing in a hot outfit, whipping some guy with a riding crop and peacing out.
Serena: Oh, so you wouldn’t have sex with them?
Me, screaming: I’M NOT A PROSTITUTE!!!!! ::notices everyone is looking at me::
Serena: Patsy, I am returning your gifts and getting you social graces for Christmas.

However, I kind of make my awkwardness work for me. Friends have told me that my awkwardness is charming and instantly puts people at ease. But being this socially inept and awkward has other bonuses, as I found out Saturday night.

As I said in my last post, when I’m at a party, my standard icebreaker is to ask someone the story of losing their virginity. I cannot recommend this enough. Now you can’t just show up at a party and dive straight into hymen talk. You have to wait until people are nice and toasty and then go for it. Saturday night Serena, Blair and I went to my friend from college’s Politically Correct Holiday Party. (This has nothing to do with anything, but there was this guy there who looked JUST like David Boreanaz (of Buffy, Angel and Bones fame) and it was freaking me out the entire time. I tried to hit on him, and my sexy intro ended up with us making a bet to see who could pee their pants for the longest. We didn’t actually try. But either way, that’s not sexy.) Anyway, at the end of the party I found myself with in a corner with a few people including a drunk and rowdy boy. So, away with my new icebreaker I went. He lost his virginity when he was in 11th grade to a random slutty girl at a party and she got blood all over his shirt. “Wow, you must have a big dick,” I innocently responded. “Yea. You wanna see it?” And I did. I will never pass up the opportunity to see someone’s dick and if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right. So we went to the bathroom (although I explicitly prefaced this with “You’re a good kid and you went to the University of Maryland so I gotta respect you, but although we are going to the bathroom together, I have to be upfront and tell you that I am not going to blow you, jerk you off, make out with you or let you touch any part of my person.” So in we went. The kid was not lying. He had a massive, massive wang. And that’s in regards to both girth and length. So there I am, standing with a drunk kid, pants and black silk boxers at his ankles, having an honest to God intelligent conversation about condoms, love and the merits of long term relationships. Good kid. Although he did ask if he could “at least lick my tit and give him a tug” (response: punching him slightly above the dick) before we both walked out of the bathroom together looking like those people who just hooked up in the bathroom at that party. I decided the best way to remedy this was to turn red and yell “IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” over and over again which apparently made me look even more guilty. Wouldn’t it have been easier if I could have just handed them my book How to Make Awkward Work for You to them and ask them to turn to chapter 23?

And to end this sexually charged post, I have to mention something that happened yesterday at work. With the five seconds I had to spare, I went on facebook because I saw that my friend who we shall call "Chuck Bass" had posted something on my wall. By “my friend,” I also mean I’ve never met him, but he’s best friends with Serena from college and I have an odd fascination with him that he doesn’t get creeped out by, which I appreciate. The following is what Chuck posted on my wall:

for some reason, this song just reminds me of you (and by you, I mean my crazy, hypersexualized version of you that I jerk it to every day..umm..just kidding!)

http://youtube.com/watch?v=8VhPHtKinmA

“How sweet of Chuck to think of me!” I thought to myself. So I turned up my computer and clicked the link. Guess what the song is called? Smell Yo Dick. Now the song didn’t play too long before I quickly pressed pause so the bible-thumping editorial assistant corner-caddy from me didn’t get offended by my musical choices yet again. However Anne The Evil Copy Editor was dropping something off in my box (that’s what she said) just in time to see “Smell Yo Dick” in large yellow letters on my computer screen as I panicked to mute it. Now, I haven’t gotten a chance to listen to the full song, but from the title I think I get the gist. Chuck, what in the sweet name of hell makes you think of me when you hear “Smell Yo Dick?” Is it because I frequently send you hand written notes with a single pink rose that says, “My Chuck, I would love to smell yo dick?” If so, THAT WAS METAPHORICAL!

Sha la la!
Patsy

Youz a ho, ho, ho

Hello 2bird readers! First I would like to apologize for my absence that I’m sure crumbled your world and broke your heart. I know, I can be so cruel. But I have returned with kooky stories and the makings of a bangin' drinking game this friday to make up for my absence.

So it’s Christmas time in the big City. I love Christmas time: fabulous store windows, twinkle lights everywhere, trees, ribbons, ice-skating, hot cocoa (with a lot of Baileys)! However, my normal holiday joy was put on hold this year for two reasons.

Reason 1:
Obviously relating to Rick a.k.a. my patriotic asswipe of a landlord. Now, as explained, I gots the holiday spirit just like any other girl, but Rob has taken it too damn far. Let me explain to you what the already tacky exterior of our apartment now looks like. The large American eagle liberty poster has been replaced by a large flag of the nativity scene with 2 floodlights illuminating it at all times. In addition we’re talking garland (fake, obviously), mini Santas, ribbons and bells everywhere, twinkle lights, 3 wreaths (one of which is made of blue and white lights to shut the Jews up), a large “Merry Christmas” sign that’s made out of the material of one of those fake diamond rings you get out of the vending machine at an arcade, little signs proclaiming “Joy!” “Noel!” “Jesus is the only Lord and Savior!” everywhere (well…maybe not that last one,) and finally we come to the icing on the cake: the singing fake Christmas tree lit up by mini Santa Claus lights. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. The apartment looks like a red carpet showgirl any other day of the week, of course he would bring out the big guns during Christmas. Expect pictures for 4th of July…

Reason 2:
Every Jane or John feels a little lonely around Christmas time. It’s natural. The city is so romantic this time of year, they might as well be playing porno in Times Square and hand out condoms and Barry White CDs. Coming off of the worst date known to man and a mighty rough experience with a fucktard gent over Thanksgiving break, I’m not exactly in the mood to put myself back out there and find Mr. Right. You know what doesn’t help? Waking up on a cold Monday morning at 6:45, checking perezhilton.com and seeing this banner ad:



Boyfriend Season? Fuck. Great, now I have to get a camo-printed ho dress, John Deer trucker hat and a rifle from my grand pappy and catch me one of dem critters.

Sha la la!
Patsy

I missed DEXTER for THIS?

So I went on a date Sunday night. My first New York City date. I “met” the guy through the personals on bust.com through Bust magazine and had high hopes for this gent. He is 30, in magazine publishing, plays the guitar and seemed to be very attractive.

APPEARANCES ARE DECIEVING PEOPLE. Do not put up pictures of yourself that make you seem hotter than you are! That is just such a bad idea; I cannot stress it enough. Sure I put up a few pictures where my neck is at such an angle that I look like I have better bone structure than I do, but I wasn’t hiding a major skin disorder or a major jacked up teeth situation that causes a nerdy sounding lisp. Just don’t do it people.

So let me back up a little bit. So this Internet “bad-ass hottie” named Steve and I had been emailing for a few weeks and decided to go out for dinner and drinks. “Mamas gonna get some!” I casually thought to myself while making a thrusting motion of my pelvis (at work).

A few days before the date was to go down (if the pictures were accurate…zing!), Steve called me to chat. I was immediately caught off guard by what a stereotypically “nerd” voice he had. It was nasal with a slight lisp and he stuttered a lot. He also talked. A lot. Mostly about the difference between chrome slides vs. Digital photos in a magazine. Now I’m a design/magazine nerd, but such conversation is not the way to my heart, or my pants. He also divulged that the reason he couldn’t go out on Saturday is because he was going to UFC, or Ultimate Fight Championship.



Like the cage fighting you see on Spike TV when you’re flipping through channels...his “obsession.” Hmm…I hung up a half hour later feeling 98% “Oh fuck, how do I get out of this gracefully?” However, the 2% left rationalized that cool people can be into lame things. Take me for example, I love “Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and went to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival for 6 years in a row out of choice. Or my roommate Serena! She’s cool as shit, but enjoys a good Renaissance Festival and likes horses. Or my sister! The epitome of cool, and she likes Linkin Park! I was feeling better and ready for our date.

The day before our date R2Steve2 (as he shall here on be called due to his cliché nerdy voice) called again and said we would be going to a Mexican restaurant on St. Marks Place. “Score!” I thought. I had had a very successful first date at a nice Mexican restaurant before and St. Marks is a trendy area. So the afternoon of the date I was filled with anticipation and butterflies. So I killed those butterflies with my pre-date ritual of a glass of wine and a bagel (well, the bagel wasn’t part of the ritual, I was just hungry). Except instead of one glass, I had three and was feeling a wee bit sloshed seeing how I had only eaten half a bagel that day. I realized that I had no idea where St. Marks Place was, if it was a park, circle, arch, dome, cube? I looked at the MTA map and saw that there wasn’t a St. Marks Place stop anywhere. Not wanting to call R2Steve2 back and reveal that not only am I new to the city, but I’m heavily geographically challenged, I searched the rolodex of my mind to think of who would know how to get around St. Marks. I knew there was only one man: my father. Seeing how my father went to NYU and spent a good chunk of the 60’s as a junkie laying around that area I called him up. Yes kids, I asked my dad for directions to my date drunk. Siiiighhh… But trusty old dad knew the directions of which trains I should take off of the top of his head and I was on my way.

Half an hour later, there I was, gussied up and looking fly, waiting for R2Steve2 at the corner of St. Marks (a street, not a park, circle, arch dome or cube) and third. Suddenly, he walked up and we exchanged glances. “What’s up, I’m Patsy.” I calmly said. “OH MY FUCKING GOD! HE’S SHORT, HAS GRAYING HAIR, LOOKS LIKE HE’S SUFFERING FROM LEPROCY, HAS A SERIOUS BUSTED TOOTH PROBLEM AND SMELLS LIKE ONIONS! RUN! RUN AS FAST AS THOSE IRONIC COWBOY BOOTS YOU ARE WEARING WILL TAKE YOU!” screamed my brain. But I’m not that shallow. I decided not to run and to continue on to the Mexican place and give the man a chance.

Now about this Mexican place. Turns out he takes me to Burritoville, a burrito-to-go place where you order at the counter. I got a taco salad and offered to pay but was met with R2Steve2 assuring me “Oh no, it’s on me, it’s the least I can do since we have to eat it in the cold.” Are you fucking kidding me? It was 32 degrees out! We shivered over our food talking awkwardly, most of the time just him talking about his new found love of shrooms and the best way to brew them in tea. Once the meal was over I thought, “Thank God, I’m getting the fuck out of here!” But then R2Steve2 asked if I wanted to go for a drink. And I just can’t refuse a damn drink, so I reluctantly said yes.

R2Steve2 took me to “The 24-hour Cocktail Lounge,” which I can best describe as the seedy bar at a seedy strip club, but sans strippers. We were the only people there (besides the 90 year old bartender who can’t speak anymore and just shuffles around) and there was no music playing. You could cut the awkward with a knife. We sat down at a booth that no doubt has already given me the Herp, and began awkwardly talking again as I chugged my Heineken. Finally another couple came in and started to have a normal conversation that was occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter. “Do you think we have that kind of chemistry?” R2Steve2 asked. “No I don’t. I also think I have to go now.” And that was that.

Fuck. Me.
Patsy

Where Have all the Cowboys Gone?

Normally I like to write about just random, kooky things that happen to me (as they tend to), but alas—here comes the dreaded “Sex and The City”-esque update. So let’s set the scene- I’m wearing boy cut underwear, a Gucci camisole, my Patsy gold ghetto-bling necklace, chain-smoking and walking around my fabulous studio pondering all of the recent sex I’ve been having.

Reality: I’m wearing jeans and a white shirt (It is BCBG though…I don’t know if that wins me any anti-white trash points), sitting at my office computer in my cubicle drinking sugar free instant cocoa, thinking about all of the sex I’m not having.

I propose the following question: What the fuck Brooklyn? What. The. Fuck. When I moved here, I wasn’t aware that it was a magical borough full of couples with dogs and babies. BABIES AND DOGS AND HAPPY COUPLES! Everywhere I look! I assured myself that when I went out a-boozin’ in the trendy area of Brooklyn this past weekend, surely I would frolic through a field of single indie-hipster boys, spin around, throw my hat in the air and sing “I’m gonna get laid after all!” But no! Even at the trendy places, it’s married couples and dating couples. Where did you people come from? In order to become a couple, you technically have to be single at some point. Therefore, there should be single people besides myself who are single and ready to mingle. But no! The entire borough of Brooklyn has coupled off. I don’t get it. How is this possible? All I know is it’s 100% depressing.

Everyday when I commute to and fro work on the subway, I have a subway crush. Someone I make eyes with hoping to God they’ll toss a note to me across the car that says “I like U, do you U like me? Circlez 1: Yes, No, Maybe.” But alas, they always break up with me and get off the train before the note can be tossed. The worst is when you’re makin’ eyes at your subway crush and you can’t see his ring finger to see if you’re a subway crush home wrecker or not. Yesterday there was a hot guy standing by me and he sneezed. I was about to say “bless you,” when I realized he was wearing a wedding ring. So I didn’t say bless you. This is how bitter I am. I wish we all had to wear stars sewn onto our clothes, a yellow star meaning you’re single, and a black star meaning you’re taken (a.k.a. you are any given resident of Brooklyn that is not myself or my roommates). Yes, sewn stars on clothes everyday. No exceptions. This is what will happen damnit! Didn’t someone try to do that before…? [Editor’s Note: Patsy is Jewish and therefore allowed to make Hitler jokes. It’s like black people with the N-word]

Last night I watched 4 back-to-back episodes of HBO’s “Tell Me You Love Me,” which taught me two important lessons: 1.) Never get married and 2.) Never have children or attempt to have children. Both will ultimately ruin your life. If this is the case, Score: Single Patsy: 1, Stupid couples with their dogs and babies: 0

But the romantic in me can’t be that cynical…last night I found out an old friend of mine got engaged. I got jealous, harsh words were thrown around the apartment (she sort of deserves them…we were Middle School friends, so she was obviously a deviant little cunt.) That makes like 5 friends from my childhood engaged in the non-white trash “I got engaged because mah boyfriend Jeb is shippin’ out to Iraq in 2 months and I gots knocked up” kind of way. Via facebook (facebook: making stalking people socially acceptable and easier since 2003,) I looked through her photos from the night they got engaged. She looked so damn happy. I want that! Later that night, I got to thinking: What the hell is a girl to do surrounded by couples, dogs and babies on an island full of happy couples?

Sha la la!
Carrie, er, Patsy