what the hell 2000

March 2023. What? How? I last updated this blog in November 2017. I had already stopped making bad decisions at that point so why continue?

Well, I kept it so I can talk about THINGS. What specifically? Great question. My last post on here regarded a diary entry from 1999 that was RIDICULOUS, and I just located said diary so I could remember WTF I was talking about. So, why not continue on this journey?

First, lets watch the intro scene to the controversial movie He’s Just Not That Into You. (I say controversial because I know a shit ton of people hated this movie but if you take it for the basics and face value, it is kind of hilarious.)

I would like to highlight this specifically:

Here’s the problem: He likes you too much. You’re too pretty and too awesome. He can’t handle it.

All the other excuses are equal bullshit, but I’d like to provide this excerpt from my diary from January 17, 2000. (Background: I was talking to my friend Rob* on AOL IM and mentioned I didn’t like The Matrix and his response was that he couldn’t be friends with me as a result.

*not his real name

Couple things:

  1. I had a huge crush on him but he had a huge crush on someone else.
  2. We were not in any position to be dating (geographically and otherwise)
  3. He was probably kidding, but my dumb ass took him for his literal word and flipped out.

Now to the excerpt from my diary:

I hope Dave and Tiff were right – he needed an excuse to not talk to me anymore because he liked me too much.

To everyone in this situation except for Mr. Matrix:

Liking someone too much and as a result using that as an excuse to not talk to them anymore is…not a thing.

Picking up on January 23, 2000:

As for Mr. Matrix, he can’t end what we have over a movie and if he does I hope he realizes he is being stupid.

He can’t end what we have…what we had was NOTHING. We worked together and both had crushes on other people and bonded over that and then at some point I thought having a crush on him might be easier.

It appears my frustration peaked when I got super specific this one day.

At the end of the entry, I channeled my internal Chandler Bing.

Sidebar: My handwriting used to be so legible, now it is LOL.

Spoiler, I wrapped this up in April 2000 and then just didn’t keep a diary but tune in for the next edition of Delusional College Freshman of 2000!


In a move I like to call: you’re a moron…

I thought things with Bachelor #3 were done. Over the weekend I got another apology, minus an explanation, plus the whole, “I want to be friends more than anything” speech.

Eye-roll. I could have responded in one of three ways:

1 – Completely ignore him

2 – Tell him to go fuck himself

3- Agree to be friends because guys never mean it anyway and who cares

I stupidly chose option 3. Apparently he was serious, and told me he was going to pick me up on Sunday morning and we were going to go watch football.

Everything was fine, except he picked up the tab, which does not align with being friends. And we had a blast – at least I did, who knows what he was thinking. He even threatened to buy me a Maurice Clarett jersey for Christmas as part of his imposed therapy and insistence that I get over the end result of the 2003 Fiesta Bowl (that was not FUCKING pass interference!!).

(Side note: I’ve finally figured out how to tell if you’re on a date in Southern California, and that is whether or not they walk you to your car. If they do, it’s a date, if they leave you to fend for yourself in an eight story parking garage – probably not.)

Anyway. So it’s fine, I am thinking okay, we’ll be friends, because I’m still new here and he’s fun, and I don’t want to give up fun even though the pendulum of “fucked up” has already swung back and forth numerous times between “awww” and “run for your life” in the precisely three weeks that I have known him.

But Monday when I asked him if I could buy him drinks later this week because he’s paid for everything else, I get a text back saying he needs me to know that he’s a dick when it comes to dating (pause for reaction)…

…and that he sees the way I look at him when we kiss and he doesn’t want to hurt me.


Second of all: That ship has already sailed far far away after our third date.

Third of all: You have paid for everything we’ve done so far including when you just wanted to be “friends” (pause to look up definition)…

…Then I offer to buy you some drinks and maybe throw in some baseball and all of a sudden the way I looked at you when you last kissed me over a week ago is now a problem?

To make matters worse, I got a barrage of OKCupid messages on Sunday night in a play I like to call the End of Weekend Blues. The candidates were as follows:

One guy listed on his profile weed as one of the six things he can’t live without and that the first thing people usually notice about him is how he gets down (??). One guy was 51. Automatic no. One guy could not get his subject/verb agreement right (You meet Jay Cutler), and one couldn’t form a complete sentence: “Good morning miss looking gorgeous and oh yeah Ohio not a real state ;)”.

So is it any wonder I want to continue to hang out with Hottie McHott even though he’s kind of a prick? When he’s not being a prick, he’s fun. I know, I know, I’ve learned nothing.


Bitch, please, edition: I AM EXHAUSTED

My friend Melissa sent me a link to this book on Amazon.com today and asked me to blog about it…in a bad way. Um, challenge accepted.

The book, Get Married This Year: 365 Days to “I Do”, is just a pile of nonsense and preying on the girls who think they have to be married by a certain age (i.e. me, five years ago).

Here is the description:

Forget waiting for Mr. Right! You can go out and find “The One” yourself when you follow this plan. Celebrated relationship expert Dr. Janet Blair Page has distilled the very best of her acclaimed dating class at Emory University—the one covered by CNN, FOX, Good Morning America, and The Early Show—into this one-of-a-kind book. She’s helped bring thousands of singles true love—and now it’s your turn!

Your To-Do List This Year:

  • Today: Get to know yourself.
  • Next Month: Figure out what you really want from your man.
  • Month 3: Learn how to get out of your own way.
  • Month 6: Take the field and find the right guy.
  • Month 10: Make the big decision.
  • Month 12: Get married!

The power is yours—and with Dr. Page’s guidance, you’ll use that power to meet and marry your Perfect Guy. From designing the ultimate Spouse Shopping List to getting the right guy to commit, this tried-and-true method gives you the blueprint you need to take charge of your love life and find love that can last a lifetime—in only 12 months or less!

BITCH, PLEASE: You think that someone can get to know themselves in a day/week/month? I’ve been in therapy for eight fucking years (on and off) and I still don’t know myself. I do stupid things, and fall for the wrong people (as much as I don’t want to), and how the fuck do you suggest I can fix that in 30-fucking days?? FUCK OFF.

Not only that, she only factors in six months between finding the right guy and getting married. Planning a wedding can take more than six months, let alone finding someone and knowing within in four that you want to marry them. What the FUCK is your problem, lady? All your stupid ass book is going to do is increase the divorce rate when people rush to the altar after taking your stupid fucking advice.

And what is with the shopping list? Men are not avocados, and you cannot hand pick the perfect one, you stupid bitch.

But, there’s more!

There are three main sections to the book, what you are doing wrong, beginning the search and on the road to happily ever after. There are numerous worksheets, self-assessment quizzes, lists such as the spouse shopping list and numerous suggests for self-reflection included throughout the book. There are also short “Love Notes” and “Love Stories” that are fun and interesting.

BITCH, PLEASE: You honestly think a fucking worksheet is going to solve my problem? I ALREADY KNOW WHAT I AM DOING WRONG AND A WORKSHEET IS NOT THE ANSWER. I hate you.

One of the most unique concepts Page describes is the “Love Resume” used to create a catalog of past relationships. Each chapter begins with a myth and a truth phrase. One sample is that the right person will complete you, the myth. The truth, the right person will be a good match for the person you happen to be.

BITCH, PLEASE: A love resume? Really? I mean, okay fine, I am writing a book of “love resumes” but it is to make fun of myself for being a dumbass, I’m not using past fuckery to use towards future happiness. The past is the past and we know what we did wrong, and we don’t need a fucking worksheet for your fucking truth vs. myths.

It is no surprise that people who bought this book also bought Patti Stanger’s, which basically has the exact same title.

Now if you will excuse me, I am off to chug some vino.

In Defense of Love Actually (and I can’t believe I have to write this)

My brother-in-law, Shane, who has had to suffer through my sister and I’s obsession with Love Actually, sent me a link to this article on Salon.com, in which one Mary Elizabeth Williams proclaims that it is the worst Christmas movie ever.

Her arguments are so poor, however, that I could not just read the article, stew in anger, silently curse her and move on. Oh no. So I now present to you point-counter point, or as I like to call it, “Bitch, please!”

Point: With the exception of Bill Nighy’s witty plotline about an aging pop star’s attempt to secure the coveted Christmas No. 1 hit, every one of the 85 other stories in the movie involves some horrible lesson out of the battle of the sexes playbook. If you were an alien watching “Love, Actually,” you would come to the conclusion that what human British men really, really want are hot chicks who fetch them tea, put up with their dalliances, and don’t speak English.

Bitch, Please: FIRST of all, that is ludicrous. Mark does not love Juliette because she ever brought him tea. And your only mention of THAT story line is a fleeting insult, when to me that is the saddest and truest and not at all the “demoralizing, misogynistic holiday twaddle” you call it. Furthermore, Prime Minister what’s his name is instantly attracted to the British Monica Lewinsky before she ever brings him tea. It’s also part of her fucking job, lady, she’s not doing it to win him over. In fact, it’s part of Aurelia’s job as well. She was HIRED to be Jamie’s housekeeper. And she doesn’t speak English because she fucking lives in Portugal.

Point: Which of the many story lines is most likely to make a reasonable human want to get drunk on lighter fluid? There’s Colin Firth’s – the one about a man who, betrayed by his cheating girlfriend, flees the country and immediately falls for his mug-brandishing Portuguese housekeeper. So pretty! So uncommunicative! And she has hot beverages! See also: the Hugh Grant story line, in which the prime minister falls for the assistant who brings him tea. Seriously, what is with you dudes? Do you not know how to boil water?

Bitch, Please: Were YOU too busy getting drunk on lighter fluid to notice that they WERE trying to communicate? And they only fucking learned each other’s language just in cases. The Hugh Grant story line does not revolve around tea. What’s with this tea argument? It does not hold water. (See what I did there?)

Point: There’s also the Alan Rickman story line, about the married man tempted by the unbelievably predatory secretary, and the heartbroken wife (Emma Thompson) faced with the choice to “stay, knowing life would always be a little bit worse.” There’s the Laura Linney one, about the noble woman who can’t be with the man she loves because she has to care for her mentally ill brother. And doesn’t that make an interesting contrast to the Liam Neeson plot, in which a very recent widower is rewarded for his emotional pain by hooking up with Claudia Schiffer. Claudia Schiffer!! There’s also Kris Marshall’s, in which a lonely, goofy-looking Brit flies to America to dazzle the ladies solely on the basis of his Britishness – and immediately scores a pile of insanely hot babes. And yet they call crap like this a “chick flick.” I’ve seen less depressing Michael Haneke movies.

Bitch, Please: I’ll start with Alan Rickman. Mia throws herself at him, legs open, like the predator that you call her. So I do agree with you there. However, I believe the point of that whole plot is that she is, in fact, an aggressive hoe, and he would have just continued on with his dull marriage had she not flung herself at him. It was never about love, and affairs happen and sometimes women instigate them. I don’t know what to tell you. Sometimes people are shitty.

Next – Laura Linney. She actively chooses to not be with Hottie McHot. She could if she wanted to, and she chooses to care for her brother. It was a hard decision, but she made it, and it sucks, and has nothing to do with Liam Neeson and Claudia Schiffer. That was just a joke. Were you not paying attention during his eulogy? Geez, lady, not everything is about the guys coming out on top here. Mark doesn’t. Alan Rickman doesn’t. Hottie McHot doesn’t. And sometimes in life you have to choose family over love, which is why Laura Linney doesn’t, either.

Next – Colin. Um, it’s in the movie because it’s true. We American ladies are suckers for British/Scottish/Australian accents. I’ve always said that part of the movie would be insulting if it were not 1000% true.

Point: You’d be hard-pressed to find another movie – holiday or otherwise – that makes the case so convincingly for how miserable the lives of women truly are, and how all fired up awesome it is to be a man.

Bitch, Please: First of all – Keira Knightly is loved by two hot men. Laura Linney was always miserable. Natalie ends up with the fucking Prime Minster. Second of all: Snow White? Sleeping Beauty? Cinderella? Seven Brides for Seven Brothers? Taming of the Shrew? All of those movies are way more convincing in your quest to find a movie that makes the case that women’s lives are miserable.

You, ma’am, do not know what you are talking about and the foundation of your argument is based on TEA. And that, actually, is ludicrous. Good day to you.