Everybody has their area of expertise. While my friends work their way towards becoming functional members of society, real career paths included, I continue accumulating experience in douchebag analysis, tallying up those 10,000 hours to become an expert. As a result, I have garnered a rather keen understanding of the nature of the Dbag game, equipped with its own repugnant code of conduct!
When it comes to the land where K is the only letter of the alphabet, I have a very firm stance: ignore and pray that it goes away.
The only problem is, it doesn’t seem to be going away anytime in the foreseeable future. In fact, the Kardashian clusterfuck seems to be growing at expedited speed, as though pumped with the same chemicals as its members’ individual body parts. Everywhere you turn, a new KK Klone is talking about her latest divorce, minor health issue, or other strenuous ordeal that was written into her life by the masterminds that are the show’s scriptwriters. I get the brilliant businesswomen part, the fact that their net worth may be higher than the government budget of Malawi, and that their Momager is probably going to be next to nominate herself as governor of California or VP of America. (The worst part is that this may actually work.) Nonetheless, I find these people to be the direct projection of the overall mass stupidity of this county and fail to see anything positive in their existence.
A few things to feel thankful for later tonight while nursing your food baby…
1. The Dbag that got away. The one you cried a river over, fully believing him to be yin to your yang, the Do to your Re, the stuffing to your turkey, the ginger beer to your Moscow Mule; the list of bad analogies goes on. Now that time has worked its magic and you see him for who he truly is, whether it’s an Unemployment Artist who would have made you pay full rent, an Eternal Bachelor who would have strung you along for years before trading you in for a younger version, or a Cross Bearer who would have made your life Lexapro – laden hell, it’s time to count your blessings and be grateful for dodging that bullet, sista!
Square-toe shoes: the most sinful combination of words in the English language, as far as most women are concerned. Apparently, this footwear faux pas can cost a man his respect, his reputation, and even, in some cases, his ability to “seal the deal”—his footwear becoming the sartorial equivalent of erectile dysfunction, so to speak. “We were in this guy’s bedroom and all I could think about were the terrible square-toe shoes he had worn to dinner,” recalls a Parisian fashion consultant friend, shuddering over her glass of Sancerre, while claiming that the memory had served as a mental impediment to their brewing connection. I would think that this was ridiculous—something as superficial as shoes, ruining a romantic evening?!—if I myself had not recently had a traumatic experience on London’s Tube, wherein my otherwise handsome, intelligent date picked up his foot, pulled at the partially detached sole of his deteriorating (albeit not square-toe) oxford, and proclaimed: “Time for some new shoes!” (For the record, I’m fairly certain that my ability to bite my tongue at that instant could qualify me for international diplomacy.)
READ MORE HERE!
As any woman who has ever been on a first date can affirm, nothing feels as awkward as that Faux Wallet Move.
You know the drill. The bill comes. You fumble through your bag, halfheartedly looking for that little Comme des Garçons coin purse that holds holds your credit / debit / metro card collage, while simultaneously monitoring his actions with the vigilance of a border control officer. Will he put his card on the table and move the bill away, out of sight and out of mind? Or is he – gulp – waiting for you to actually cover your portion of your gin and tonic fiesta? You locate your card and slide it over with one hand while crossing your fingers with the other. Best case: he rejects it – you insist – he tells you that you can get him a drink later – you internally breathe a sign of relief, knowing that there is an official chance at a future. Not-so-best-case: he accepts your card – asks the server to split half way (or, even worse, cover your exact portion!) – extinguishes all budding attraction you may have had – gets written off in the “time waste” category.
Tomorrow will mark exactly two years since I launched this blog. Like any other day of personal relevance, I remember November 16th, 2013 perfectly. It was a Sunday, a colder Sunday than the one in Paris today, a gloomier one as well. I published the first post and went to meet my friends at Musée d’Orangerie to see the Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera exhibit. We were too late to get in, so we crossed the Seine and made our way over to La Palette on the Rive Gauche. I have a photo of my friend balancing on one leg on Pont des Arts, laughing in the freezing cold.
