So Jake Gyllenhaal is gay, right?  And his “relationship” with Taylor Swift was manufactured so that she would be in the tabloids around the time of her album release and then they could break up and he would look like a heterosexual player and she would be “heartbroken” and have tons of new material for future songs, right?  I mean how many guys in your high school drama club were straight?  Like, one, right?  And he was kind of gross and tall and had a big adam’s apple and long curly Nickelback hair, right?  He didn’t look like Jake Gyllenhaal.  The one that looked like Jake Gyllenhaal was the one you were in love with for all of high school– literally four years of your life– and then when you saw him at the 24 hour diner when you were home for that one Thanksgiving during college and you were stoned and it was like 1:30 in the morning– you spotted him over the faux-wood linoleum booth divider, and you saw him pick up the spoon in his glass bowl of rice pudding, maybe his pinkie was up, you can’t remember, but, right then– you just knew he was gay.  Right?  It’s kind of sad to be a girl in love with a gay dude, because usually unrequited love is so tragic and personal, but when he’s gay, it’s like you don’t even get to be dramatic about it.  You can’t really take a distaste for the genitals of half the planet’s population personally.  When you’re a straight girl in love with a gay dude, you can’t get all Baz Luhrmann or Frankie from Real World San Diego about it.

And the whole thing with Kanye West getting on stage with Taylor Swift at the VMAs last year?  That was staged, right?  Did anyone else think that?  It was all planned out so that, you know, people would actually watch the reruns of the VMAs, and Kanye would look like an opinionated drunk asshole (Which is obviously the image he’s trying to project; have you ever read his Twitter feed? And I quote: “I specifically ordered persian rugs with cherub imagery!!! What do I have to do to get a simple persian rug with cherub imagery uuuugh”.  I mean that’s amazing but I rest my case.) and Taylor Swift would be “heartbroken” that her moment was stolen from her and have tons of new material for future songs, right?  In any case, Kanye was right.  Single Ladies is THE MOST INSANE video ever.  It is the world’s sexiest dancing.  Well, it’s actually not that sexy if you have ever watched me try to do it in the shower while washing my hair (which happens… every time I shower), but I actually remember watching the video for the first time on YouTube in a coffee shop and closing my laptop halfway through because I was afraid someone would see me watching such SCANDALOUS BEHAVIORS.  I actually kind of felt like I was watching porn in public.  Maybe I am just a closeted lesbian, but it was hot.  Watch the Single Ladies video and then watch the You Belong With Me video, back to back.  It’s like someone going down on you for three minutes and then forcing you to watch an episode of Lambchop instead of taking you to Pound Town.

In other news, I can never, ever tell my parents about this blog.

And this is coming from someone who loves Taylor Swift and actually bought her album in the store, like actually bought it in the plastic jewel case, which I haven’t done since the second Coldplay album came out.  All of her music is like the suburban white girl version of “I’m So Into You” by Tamia, “Sittin’ Up In My Room” by Brandy, “Before You Walk Out Of My Life” by Monica and all the other R&B hits by single-name female artists of the 90s on which I was raised.  AND she’s not pretending to be a virgin.  But I think she could tone it down a notch on the publicity.  Her songwriting stands on its own; no need for the Taylor Swift: Inside My World tell-all book from US Weekly Publishers to supplement it.  Carly Simon totally capitalized on bitter breakups with famous lovers in her music and she didn’t need her publicist to notify the paparazzi that she was about to have a cup of cloudy coffee with Warren Beatty or James Taylor or whomever.

Also: Tom Cruise gay too, right?  I mean, that’s what they say.  However, I think it would be amazing if Tom Cruise were, in fact, straight, and is actually really in love with Katie Holmes and vice versa, and then if Brad Pitt were actually The Big Gay Closeted Actor That America Doesn’t Know About, and Angelina was his beard.


Penises Are Scary And Other Thoughts

I am writing this post in a coffee shop and I think the two people sitting across from me are on a date.  It doesn’t seem to be going that badly, actually.  They both appear to be in their late thirties, and the guy is pretty cute (He’s almost Matt Damonesque, in all honesty.  If he came over and asked me out right now, I’d say yes.  Especially if he got up right in the middle of his date to do it, because as we all know, there’s no faster way to get in my pants than by being a total fucking prick.) but still– he’s talking non-stop about his work which I think involves radio stations and there’s some awfully long silences going on and my butt is clenching so I think I will put on headphones.  I guess I’ll just have to console myself by downloading Katy Perry’s entire new album.  (Also: where can I get a giant cotton candy cloud bank in which I can lie down naked?  I’m guessing that’s the kind of thing that makes itself available only to the rich and famous.)  Ooh– someone just left the coffee shop and dropped their glove on the way out and she pointed to it and he got up and took the glove and went out of the shop and found the person on the street and gave them their glove back.  I mean just reel her in buddy.

I saw the hottest guy in Harris Teeter yesterday.  There’s always a lot of hot guys at this particular Harris Teeter, which, obviously, is why I shop there. You know where there’s not a lot of hot guys?  At the Shell Station in my neighborhood.  This is the only gas station even remotely conveniently located to my house, and so I go there out of necessity, and it is THE WORLD’S WORST GAS STATION.  No matter which pump I pull up to, it always, without fail, is the pump that has a haggard “Cash Only” sign crafted from a piece of torn-out notebook paper taped over the credit card slot.  The air machine has never worked, and literally every single time– every single time!– I’ve stopped there, someone has asked me for a dollar or some spare change.  Oh and after 9pm it becomes a prostitution hub.  Twice I’ve gotten gas on my way home from work and BOTH TIMES a cop has pulled up to me and told me that it wasn’t safe for me to be outside my car at that time of night in that neighborhood.  Ah. Okay officer.  In that case, after I drive the two and a half blocks up the street to my house, I’ll be sure to stay in the car when I get there.  Wouldn’t want to run the risk.  And also– if both times this happened I was the only white person at the gas station, and everyone else, including the three prostitutes leaning against the air machine, was black, does that mean the cop was doing some sort of bizarro racial profiling? But I’m too lazy to go anywhere else, and anyway, it still sells Four Loko, which is clutch for when I’m on the way to work and need a boost!

So the Harris Teeter guy.  He looked like Aaron Eckhart but bigger and less clean cut and without the whole cleft chin and Guy Smiley aura and with a red plaid wool coat and work boots.  He was, in a word, manly, and I think I’m going to do a Craigslist Missed Connections post for him.  The Catch-22 here is that the more manly the man, the less likely he is to ever check Missed Connections, or even to know that they exist, am I right?

The question I want to posit to the universe is: how ballsy should you be when you want to talk to a stranger?  Would you be freaked the fuck out if someone left a Missed Connections post for you?  And if you posted a Missed Connection and someone actually responded to it, would you even want to date them, because doesn’t the fact that they were trolling Missed Connections in the first place make them the tiniest bit vain?  And for that matter, creepy?  Unless of course that one time you saw that person you locked eyes and both instantly knew it was true love forever and so you both went on Missed Connections specifically in search of each other which is neither vain nor creepy but just charmingly hopeful and also totally exactly what is going to happen with me and Harris Teeter guy.

In the same vein: how about giving out your number?  Is it super-duper tacky or slutty to leave your number for someone when they don’t directly ask for it?  I work in a restaurant, and when girl customers leave their numbers behind for their waiters, the guys are usually pretty psyched but also tend to then refer to such girls in less-than-savory language.  Women’s magazines are always doing “What Guys Want!” issues chock-full of rejoinders from “real men” begging women to make the first move, but let’s get real here folks.  We all know that any quotation attributed to a “real man” in a woman’s magazine should actually be attributed to a really real female staffer of said magazine who is heating up her Lean Cuisine lunch and imagining exactly what she wants to hear that guy who stopped calling her last week to call her and say immediately.  Guys want to be the pursuer.  Pursuing– hunting– is the male pastime.  As my friend Jimmy said once after a hookup, “The best thing you can do is completely ignore me after we have sex. If she had just ignored me after we had had sex, I would’ve wondered what was wrong with me, and gone after her to find out. But no. She’s calling me all the time, and now I’m wondering what’s wrong with her.” You won’t be reading that advice in a women’s magazine any time soon.

I had the most enormous crush on this guy I sat next in an algebra class I took over the summer after freshman year in college.  I was chubby and totally shy and not confident in myself and barely talked to him all summer and on the last day of class I left my phone number and a note on a piece of paper under the windshield wiper on his car.  I don’t remember what I did to figure out which was his car if I had never talked to him, but I’m sure it was something sufficiently stalkerish.  Of course he did not call me, but that is the problem with leaving behind your number or doing a Missed Connection.  It shows some lack of confidence, I think, and it’s also way less likely to work than, you know, actually talking to the person.  Like what if I had come up with some bullshit question to ask Harris Teeter guy about, say, organic milk, as a way to start conversation?  Instead of extremely bashfully looking down into my grocery basket of full of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Helluva Good French Onion dip, which is totally exactly what happened immediately after I locked eyes with Harris Teeter guy.  I for one get kind of freaked out when strangers talk to me, and so am totally disinclined to be the one to initiate such a conversation, but when I’ve actually taken the time to relax and just go with it, I’ve ended up having some really lovely conversations with perfect strangers, even some of the strangers who have asked me for a dollar at the Shell Station.  I suppose the lesson here is: being afraid of people is stupid.

Well, while I was writing this post, I did the Missed Connection, and to my delight, I just received a reply.  It’s not from Harris Teeter guy.  It says this, verbatim:

“I don’t think I’m the one your looking for but if your interested in hooking up I might be your type”

In the spirit of being more sexually irresponsible, do I respond to this message, thereby breaking my Number One Dating Rule: Never ever ever go out with someone who spells “your” where he should be spelling “you’re”?  I mean the dude didn’t even take the time to punctuate his e-mail.  Like there’s literally not even one single punctuation mark.  So what, I ask you, are the chances he’s going to take the time to find my lady comma?

“I don’t think I’m the one your looking for”– buddy, you have no idea.

New Year, New You.

In 2010, I:

-Pierced my ears, got contacts, and had my Bat Mitzvah.

-Trained myself to run regularly for the first time since high school. I can run five and a half miles now, though I look like a hot pink zeppelin coated with gasoline when I’m finished.   Thank you Erin Warner for the good advice and encouragement when I was first setting out to do this.

-Thought I was 5’7 3/4″ but learned I’m actually 5’9 3/4″.  Let me tell you how much easier it is to eat an entire plastic tub of Helluva Good French Onion Dip when you can justify it by saying to yourself “But I just ran five and a half miles AND grew two inches!”

-Quit smoking seven times.

-Probably drank too much.

In 2011, I will:

-Return my Netflix regularly and not spend $75 on one rental of, say, Schindler’s List which I never actually got around to watching.

-Wear my new roll-down knit Uggs (that I got on sale! Uggs never go on sale!) and pretend I am a post-rehearsal ballerina who wears chic monochrome legging and cashmere wrap sweater ensembles a la Natalie Portman in Black Swan, minus the bulimia and psychosis. I will however make out with Vincent Cassel in said Uggs if given the chance.  Why do I have such a fetish for seedy Euro types with thick accents?  Gross, Liz.

-Give up fetish for seedy Euro types with thick accents.

-Be (on the other hand) more sexually irresponsible, not in a Bad Idea Jeans kind of way, but in a stop-evaluating-every-guy-you-meet-with-a-psychotically-demanding-rubric-of-necessary-qualities-and-ruling-them-all-out-within-the-first-five-minutes-because-you-are-on-the-verge-of-becoming-a-shrill-needy-terrifying-composite-of-Bridget-Jones-Carrie-Bradshaw-the-comic-strip-Cathy-and-the-cast-of-Waiting-To-Exhale.  Yes– yes I know as a woman I am supposed to PRETEND that I don’t spend half my waking hours thinking about men, sex, dating, boyfriends, engagement rings, sex, wedding dresses, babies, imaginary but actually kind of real deadlines of when I am supposed to get married, and sex, but I DO.  I am coming out of the closet as a full-on heterosexual female, and you can call me crazy if you want, because I totally am.  So, having admitted all this, and in the hopes of never finding myself lighting some poor man’s kerosene-doused and clothes-stuffed car on fire with the butt end of my cigarette in front of my giant, airy spec house outside Tucson, I am going to stop thinking so much and start throwing more caution to the wind.  I am going to be more friendly– to everyone– and open to what-the-fuck-ever comes my way– in all parts of life.  I am going fly on airplanes!  I am going to write ridiculously revealing blog posts such as this!  I am going to wear outfits that you will probably make fun of! I am going to give a dollar to anyone who asks me for one! Don’t hold me to that!  In sum I am going to live my life as if it were the music video for the song “I Hope You Dance” by Lee Ann Womack, dammit!

Oh and I am also going to learn to cook.  First dish: Ina Garten’s Engagement Chicken. Apparently if you make it for your man, he proposes shortly thereafter.