Tag Archives: lifestyle

Is catcalling ever okay?

cat paint

A while ago I wrote a piece for my blog titled “Stop hitting on me” that people both praised me and critized me for. I think the criticisms came from people thinking I was bemoaning how hot I am and how I’m sooooo sick of male attention. Not even close. I don’t think that and that isn’t what I was trying to say. I probably should have titled the post “Stop harrassing me.” That is closer to the point of the article. Anyway, if you don’t feel like reading it, the post is about how rude and upsetting it can be when strange men harrass young women when all we’re doing is minding our own business. We should be able to walk down the street without a stranger commenting on our appearance. Doesn’t matter if the man in question is young or old. It comes off as creepy and disrespectful.

But. But. A few nights ago I had an experience with catcalling that did not make me feel degraded. It actually made me feel…happy. Attractive. Confident. Is this wrong and hypocritical?

I’ll explain the situation.

I don’t often like going to parties alone. I’ve written about the subject and on my blog and on Hello Giggles about how it’s okay to go alone and have a kick-ass time, but on occasion I feel overwhelmingly shy and not good enough. The event I went to last night was a gathering of beautiful people and hosted by one of my all time favorite film directors/artists and usually this doesn’t bother me, in that, I’m born in LA and have lived here my whole life, so who cares about celebrities, but given the drama that’s happened lately, I felt kind of small. And I’m really embarrassed, even ashamed, to admit that. Though I eventually met up with the awesome person who invited me, I had to go in alone and be there alone for about 40 minutes. But once I got in there I was okay. And here’s why.

I was waiting on the corner in my dress and lipstick and heels pretending to be busy on my iPhone determining if I should go in alone. I felt like a dweeb. Just very shy and not at all confident. I’m doing nothing with my phone and a car is at a red light near me. I don’t notice it until the man inside rolls down his window and says something like, “Excuse me, miss.” I’m thinking, “Okay, here we go.” And he says, “You have the perfect body.” And I’m stunned. I’m about to attend a party where there are size 0 actresses who look stunning like a ray-gun. I do not think I have even close to the perfect body. He went on. “I’m not trying to be weird or hit on you, but I muted my phone call just now, put them on hold, I had to tell you. You look so good.”

And I almost cried. I know. I’m apalled. But I needed to hear it, and he was so kind about it. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. You look great. Really.” Then the light turned green and he drove off.

Maybe my perception of body image is warped, and by maybe I mean, 100% completely is. I was surprised to receive this compliment from a strange man. And yes, I was flattered.

Am I screwed up? What do you think and what’s your experience been like?

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Moving Home

cute couple

Today I bring you a guest post from a lovely blogger I met via the Bloggers In Sin City conference. Her name is Jenna Britton and she’s generally awesome. Enjoy!:

I moved home to Los Angeles from San Francisco in May 2009 and it felt a bit like failure.

I was still smarting from the pain of a nasty and recent breakup just months earlier, and days upon moving home I found out that my former love had already married (yes, MARRIED) someone else.

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Living alone in LA.

Decorated by David Lynch.

 

I moved into my new apartment and started being a badass adult. Or maybe I’m just a bad ass. I am trying to figure this all out. There are still boxes everywhere and certain things remained unpacked and some walls are bare and it makes me anxious. And there are cords and wires everywhere from connecting various electronic necessities like Internet and television. I know, the horror. The struggle. The sleepless nights.

I don’t have a dining room table. I am okay with this. Do you have a dining room table? I don’t really dine. I eat. I haven’t started cooking yet. I keep threatening to do it, but I don’t. Do you cook? Does anyone out there lead a responsible life and can you tell me how I can do that too?

For now I am living alone and it’s good and it’s bad. I lived alone in college in NYC in a lovely little studio. I loved it, mostly. The great thing about New York is that you walk out of your building and there’s people and there’s people you know and you’re okay, everything is fine. Unless you hate people. Then you’re fucked, little sir. This is what I like about my new neighborhood. On Saturday I ran into the same guy twice. Once in the afternoon and once at night. At night it was in a restaurant (after my performance with Hello Giggles at UCB which I don’t really want to talk about because I am a perfectionist and wished I had done better. But that’s not important right now.) He was on a date and his mom was there. I think maybe it was not the best time to say hi. But I did. I am fearless. His mom and girlfriend are very nice. It’s nice when people are nice. It’s unpleasant when people are fake nice. But sometimes fake nice is better than being outright hostile.

My friend and new manager (yay!) says that my apartment is haunted. That would explain why the rent is good and why my landlord is so nice to me. I haven’t experienced any hauntings aside from when the record player started making noises like an alien spaceship in 1950s movies. I knew there was a logical explanation but I turned it off anyway.

Do you live alone and do you like it? And what does your apartment look like? Be honest with me. If it’s a mess I want to hear about every last beer can and pizza box.

 

This post was sponsored by U Move Free. Moving soon? UMoveFree complaints are few and far between. So, challenge accepted. Kidding.

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Our lives suck.

january jones met gala

Unless you're January Jones, then it's perfect. For now.

“Your life is so glamourous!” People tell me. Yes, it is. On Instagram. On Instagram my life looks as fun as Disneyland inside of another Disneyland. But I don’t think my life is awesome. It kind of sucks sometimes. I think all of our lives suck sometimes. But if all of our lives suck then why is it that we think other peoples’ lives are great? We all complain and we all wish we had better lives. We say, “Crispin Jones has such an awesome life, why can’t I be Crispin? Crispin hangs out with Quentin Taratino and gets invited to all the Nylon parties and works as a full time blogger and owns a cologne business, Crispin has it going on and I feel bad.” There’s a Crispin in all of our lives. This one is made up, but I bet someone out there knows someone with the exact descriptions that I just gave this fake Crispin.

Everyone’s lives look better than ours but our lives look fantastic to other people. It’s true. If there is someone out there who thinks their life is awesome and amazing and cannot be topped, please tell me. Not so I can try and argue with you or prove you wrong but because I want to praise you and learn your secrets. It doesn’t matter what your job is in life or who you know; there are people out there who lead average lives but love them. That’s what it’s about. Not about looking glamorous. But about feeling glamorous, for real, even if all you do is work a 9-5 job and the thing you look forward to most in life is the Thursday night line-up on NBC. I can think of hundreds of people who would envy that life.

I blame the bloggers. The bloggers look so freaking cool on their little Internets. People think I’m cool but guys, I’m not, and I never claimed to be. If you look at the header of this blog you see that I think I’m awkward and I am. I met my celebrity crush and told him his head was too big. That’s fucking awkward and totally uncool. And I look at other bloggers who are part time models and full time awesome and I have to suffocate my jealousy “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” style. And honestly, I know that my life isn’t terrible and there are wonderful moments and I’m lucky for what I have. But I’m also great at being a selfish and superficial jerk who complains that her apartment is too big for her wireless router’s signal.

Why does your life suck? Tell me, maybe we can have a contest about whose life sucks more.

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Never complain, never explain.

 black cat

 This quote “never complain never explain” was attributed to Katherine Hepburn. I don’t know if she actually said it because I wasn’t there. I was super, super not there. But I am trying to make this my new motto. Not complaining is, for me, harder than not explaining. As women I think we feel the need to apologize for ourselves, which I’ve written about here. We also feel the need to explain ourselves a lot, which men typically don’t do. But I’m working on it. I want all of us — man, woman, E.T. — to work on this.

Example: you’re sick and cannot come into work.

DON’T:

“I’m so sorry but I have the flu and it’s giving me mad diarrhea and I can’t stop vomiting and I just can’t come in today, I am so so so sorry, please understand, I can’t move, I’m really sorry I hope you guys are okay!”

ALSO DON’T:

“I’m not coming in today, deal with it, bros.”

DO:

“Hi. I’m ill today with the flu and will not be coming in. Let me know if you’d like a doctor’s note. Thanks.”

 

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La La Los Feliz

old los angeles apartment buildings

My apartment is not pictured here. I just think these are pretty.

After what seemed like a hopeless search, I found a place to live. My mom will be my roommate no longer. I will miss living with her. The last time I lived alone was in NYC when I was in college. I like to live alone. But I’ve never lived alone in LA before. That can feel very alone, I would imagine. But I am living in a great neighborhood (Los Feliz, hipster status achieved) where everything is within walking distance like liquor stores, bars, and my boyfriend. Perfect! I remember my fear and loathing of Silverlake that I had not so long ago. But people change you guys. They change from entitled people from the westside to entitled people from the eastside. I guess I’ll have to start wearing more vintage clothing and skinnier pants. And lose like ten pounds. And hold a pack of cigarettes as a prop. I’m not drinking PBR though, you have to draw the line somewhere.

My greatest hope is that in all this stress, I will lose weight. There has to be a silver lining in everything, right? Or maybe I will have a complete mental breakdown and be hospitalized, in which case I will get some sweet morphine and have conversations with cartoon characters. Speaking of which, I saw “Space Jam” recently and I don’t even know what happened there. How did that movie get made? Michael Jordan, what? I feel like someone said to him, “Michael, we want you in a movie, you can work with anyone you want!” And he said, “Looney Tunes.” And there was a pause and his agent said, “…okay. Let’s do it.”

But that’s not important right now.

Finding an apartment was stressful. Moving into the apartment is maybe even more stressful, especially since I have about a week to do it. Good luck, Future Almie! And Godspeed.

Anyone have any moving tips or tips for organizing an apartment, or even decorating it? I have a nonworking fireplace and it seems like Pinterest is encouraging me to put empty wine bottles, candles, or books in it. My life so hard.

This post is sponsored by the fab  apartment-finding service You Move Free.

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On giving up drinking and complaining.

cocktail

R.I.P fun.

I have decided to give up drinking. Not forever, that’s hilarious! But for the month of April I am going to abstain from my favorite hobby. I wanted to announce this yesterday but I figured people would think it was an April Fools’ joke. I am going to stop drinking this month because I’ve had some health issues lately and I have to get real: if I don’t give up alcohol I’ll never know if I would feel better without it.

I’ve been under so much stress lately and I think it would be good for my soul and my head if I complained less. If you’re already stressed and you complain about everything, “you’re gonna have a bad time” (South Park ski instructor.) I’m not ashamed to admit that within the past two months or so, I have developed a single gray hair. I’ve named him Eric. No reason. My boyfriend, knowing how vain I am, asked me why I didn’t get rid of it. I’m keeping the single strand of gray in my bangs as a reminder that I need to calm down, slow down, and treat myself better. I’m also wondering if I should face my fear of getting old and dye my entire head a silvery gray or white. Just to get over it. And dye it back again. I probably won’t. But I need to give less of a fuck about things that don’t matter. Because I am literally making myself sick. And gray. And it’s exhausting.

To all my martinis, margaritas, gimlets and gibsons, see you next month!

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