Perfectly Good At Making Bad (Decisions)

Penelope: Hey Annah, want to have some martinis and then watch the Hangover 2? My treat.

Miguel: Dude, let's have some Loaded Coronas tonight and then look for a bit of trouble.

Janet: Yo! I know it's like one in the morning and raining but want to jump in the pool? I got drinks.

Britt: So there's this cute guy I know that wants to take you out to dinner tonight. Would you be down? He's only twenty-one.

Me: How old?!

Britt: Twenty-one. Perfecty legal. What do you say?

Ay, Dios mio.

:'(

It has been brought to my attention my Followers' Widget isn't working and if that doesn't make me want to cry then nothing ever will. There isn't exactly a point to this post except to say you can still follow this blog via Facebook (by "liking" me):

Or through Twitter (follow me here).

While I get this issue resolved with Blogger please don't miss me, because then I'd miss you.

And missing each other is a Victorian tragedy I have no room for in this life.

I will end this with a self portrait and gratuitous picture of my boobs because otherwise this would just be a pointless post about my Followers' Widget being broken.

Now it's a pointless post about my Followers' Widget being broken, with boobs.

You've Been Poked

Haven't you ever wondered what the bloody point of a "poke" on Facebook really is?

***If you're a caveman or one of the two people without Facebook on the planet, a poke is a notification that someone has acknowleged your existence and they're saying "Hey." Basically, a way of stating "I know you're alive but I don't have anything fucking interesting to say so instead I'll poke you."

Each time I see the little hand on the right sidebar indicating that someone has poked me, this is what I imagine:

And I turn into this:

Granted, I will say nothing and do the obligatory "pokeback," which inevitably turns into a poking war between the person who initially poked me and yours truly.

Recently, a stranger poked me on Facebook but since he was among all the other people who poke me on a constant basis I poked him back without taking any notice of who he was. Suddenly, I receive a message from him with the title, "Your cute" <---- Yes... "Your" cute.

I replied to be nice but then it got a little out of hand and I wasn't sure how to say "Not interested" so instead I drew him a picture.

Here's a close-up:

So far, no reply.

(And I win the poking war.)

Bitch Face (A Game Of Pretend).

"You know what the problem is with you, Annah?" My friend Lola inquired a few months back. "You only like those 'bitch face' guys. I think what you need is a manly man! One with hair inside his ears and muscles in his eyes."

The above statement was so eloquently delivered to me out of left field once and I laughed it off and stored it away in the depths of my vodka-filled membrane without giving it a second thought.
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Let's pretend you knew a girl who was a blogger whose name started with an A and the thing she wanted most in this world was famosity and a book deal. Let's pretend said Girl -who is obviously just a fictional character for the purposes of this post- worked in an office at a unfulfilling desk job she marginally enjoys because it pays the bills.

Let's pretend there's a guy in the office who's totally hot and she initially crushed on (and blogged about) who looks like this minus the angry face:

Sometimes, Girl has caught the above gentleman looking at her but has ignored it because she's not one to pursue the opposite sex like an Italian construction worker would an unsuspecting American woman on holiday.

Enter Bitch Face.

For pretending's sake, let's say he's chubby. And slightly shorter than the girl in question. Let's pretend he's not interested in appearances. Nor does he care about laughing at inappropriate moments or chewing with his mouth open while it's still full.

Let's pretend that for reasons unbeknownst to her, Girl is smitten. So much so, that she can't recall the last time she felt like this.

(There's irony somewhere in all of this.)

Let's pretend a sort of silent friendship is struck between Girl and Bitch Face when he brings her a dish he cooked for lunch one day out of the blue. Girl is struck by this small gesture of modern day courtship and promises Bitch Face she will one day return the favor by cooking him something special.

Let's pretend one day, Girl realizes she hasn't seen Bitch Face in over two weeks and inquires with the Office Gossip about him.

"Oh, that guy? He left the company, Girl," says Office Gossip. "Yesterday was his last day."

 

Let's pretend Girl is shattered, and inevitably turns to her friends (and margaritas) to mope on a Tuesday night about the one that got away.

Female Friend: Maybe you should contact him on Facebook!

Girl: We're not friends on Facebook.

Female Friend: Well then add him!

Girl: Um... Isn't that a bit, stalkerish?

Female Friend: No, it's just Facebook. It's not like you're camping outside his house in a tent waiting for him to come out so you can pop out of the bushes and surprise him with donuts.

Girl: Who would do that?

Female Friend: Not me (looks away quickly and lights a cigarette).

Male Friend: Whatever you do, do NOT add him on Twitter. That's the pussiest move you could play.

Girl: Yikes. That's what I was planning on.

Male Friend: Negative. Just send him a Facebook message.

Girl: Are you sure? I feel like this is sort of ridiculous.

Male: Why ridiculous? I'd be stoked if a hot chick from work sent me a message on Facebook.

Girl: How about you guys write the message for me and I send it sometime next week, so as not to seem desperate.

Friends in unison: Okay!

Let's pretend the friends each gave their sample letters to Girl and asked her to choose the best option:

Letter #1 (written by girlfriends)

Letter #2 (written by guy friend)

Let's pretend Girl is confused.

Especially, when she's no longer trying to pretend.

Put Your Paws Up

The simple fact I had my penis surgically removed a month ago officially validates me being a girl. Taking this into account, this blog is indeed owned by a girl and as a girl, sometimes I will post things that are "girlie".

Oh-so-sorry.

Product reviews on a blog are lame and I know this isn't what you come here for, but since many of you inquired about the fishnet nail strips I posted a picture of last week, I will gladly oblige. These strips act as a nail polish sticker which you put right over your nail and press hard all over to attain perfection (sounds kinky, I know).

They're made by Sally Hansen and you can buy them at your local Walmart, Target, drugstore, drug dealer's house, nail salon for $6-$10 a pop.

Here's a picture of this week's:

I'm obsessed with these little strips, guys. They come in a huge assortment of designs and colors which you can view here. Just don't fall prey to the idea that they're "done in five minutes" because if you want them to look right, you'll invest at least twenty.

The fucking fantastic thing about these babies is there's no spillage of nail polish or cleaning around the edges. There's also no waiting time for the situation to dry up.

Annah's verdict: These are great for a cute date or special night out or if you're just lazy/broke and have no money for a professional manicure.

Also, for clawing your partner's eyes out if he behaves badly.

Meaow.

Last Night

Because it's not an epic rapture survival party if someone doesn't bust one of their teeth in half.

(I just really wish that someone hadn't been me.)

The End

My sweet friend Kimmie is California dreamin' on vacation without me and I miss her so much it hurts my liver but God is good because he invented the Blackberry hence putting the magic of BBM instant messaging at my fishnetted fingernails.

Yesterday, she sent me a message that read: Pete called me at 5:00 a.m. your time to ask if it's true that the world is going to end this weekend.

(Pete is her ex-husband)

Me: And what did you say?

Kimmie: "I have no idea, Pete. I'm trying to sleep, damn it!"

Me: What did he reply?

Kimmie: Something about me being so far away and him having to take care of the kids on the weekend the world is gonna to end.

Me: Well if it's going to end you're all going to be dead. How is he going to have to take care of the kids?

Kimmie: I have no fucking clue, Annah. All I can think is *This is why I'm divorced.*

After finishing our conversation, I immediately had to text this information to my friend Miguel, who's been tirelessly harassing me about this whole "Rapture" situation, trying to scare me into having some sort of end-of-the-world sex with him or something.

Me: So Kimmie just said Pete texted her, chastising her about being on vacation and him having to be with the kids while the world ends tomorrow.

Miguel: Well it won't necessarily *end* tomorrow, it'll just be the beginning of the whole process. Apparently it really ends October 21st. It's like a five month rapture period or something.

Me: What does that even mean?

Miguel: Well, it takes a while to organize the billions of people on earth. They have to see who's saved and who gets left behind for the devil.

Me: I see...

Miguel: Then there are the people who are on the fence and it isn't really clear whether they're saved or not so I'm assuming this is going to be a logistical nightmare for Jesus. Also, there's the unborn babies who haven't done anything wrong but haven't been baptized so technically, they're sinners as well.

Me: Please say you're joking.

Miguel: What I want to know, is if during this whole thing we'll be able to go about our days or we have to just sit at home and wait 'cuz there'll be fires and crazy shit outside.

Me: Oh my God, shut up!

Miguel: I also think about people like Buddhists and Hare Krishnas who never do anything to anyone and probably have fewer sins than pretty much all of us. If they've lived nice quiet lives where they've helped others and don't go around judging people, why should they get left behind?

Me: Seems like you've given a lot of thought to this, my friend.

Miguel: Yeah, well... When you haven't laid in a while your mind tends to wander to some weird ass places.

Happy Rapture, everyone!

Just Friends

This is my good friend, Ryan. Today he turns 26. If you ever feel like dedicating a sappy birthday wish to a friend, copy and paste the following. You're just gonna have to tweak a little bit of it. Especially the part of the stinky pants and lesbians.

Then again... Maybe not.

I love you, because you always know when something's off, and precisely what I need to turn it all around.

I love you because you're honest. And sweet. And understanding without being a pushover.

I love you because you see me. And you don't judge the fact I never brush my hair or shower on Sundays. Or that I write my posts on paper napkins when we're out drinking and ask you to light some matches in the dark so I can see.

I love you because your smile lights up my life. And you're so good to me. And you say things like "being a closeted lesbian must be so awesome because you get to see naked girls without even having to pay for their dinner."

I love you, because we can sleep together night after drunken night and you would never try to take advantage of an otherwise favorable situation.

I love you because you know my checking account is usually negative but don't blink an eye when I say the only thing I want in my mouth is a steak from Christie's. Even if it costs fifty dollars.

I love you because you hate wine but still smiled after I made you drink two bottles that one night at Bin. 18.

Because you're just inherently good. And kind. And full of laughter on shitty days. And never judgmental when I say the only tools required to clean my place on Sundays are vodka tonics and Taylor Swift songs.

I love you because you make me believe there is still some good in people. And that friendship does exist amidst all the bullshit and hipocrisy I'm forced to encounter on a daily basis. And that my writing is "really good" even though it's mediocre at best.

Because you really don't know when to shut the fuck up.

Mostly, I just love you. Because life is too short not to reach out to those who've touched you in ways most never will.

And because you'll totally misinterpret that last sentence and tell me I'm secretly wanting in your pants.

Which I don't. Because you never do laundry and I'm sure they smell bad.

The Good News Is I Don't Have Herpes

This post vaguely reminded me of that time I went to the doctor because I thought I'd finally caught chicken pox and it turned out to be fleas who had ravaged my body as a result of sleeping with my three dogs during summertime.

The other day, I went to the Blue Zombie with a large group of friends who were visiting from Boston and it was obvious they're not from Miami as one passed out in her rental car before even entering the club and the others left at one in the morning before things really started cooking.

After the Bostonites left, I stayed behind with these troublemakers to continue the fiesta:

... And continue we did, until five a.m. We then followed the aforementioned festivities with a beer and Colombian food fest that was as orgasmic as a happy hour at the Playboy Mansion. I happily passed out on my bed sometime between six and sunrise to dream of Josh Hartnett and my new office crush, Bitch Face (more on him to come next week).

The next day, I went to brunch with some girlfriends when I spotted a pesky mosquito bite on my right arm.

It was small, but damn it if it didn't itch like hell! I initially resisted the urge to scratch it but after a few mimosas I gave in and went at it like a dog in heat.

For the next few days I obsessed over my strange mosquito bite and its slow growth and rapid change when it dawned on me, I'd misdiagnosed myself. True to my hypochondriac nature, I scheduled an appointment with my doctor (the one that doesn't mind if I don't have insurance as long as I have cash) for the following day.

When I got there he examined my trouble spot quietly and then casually stated, "It looks like herpes."

Me: Say what?

Doctor: Not *that* kind of herpes?

Me: Um. What other kind is there?

Doctor: (Gives me a look that says, You silly little girl) We'll run some tests. It could also be some sort of spider bite.

Me: (Ohmygod Ohmygod Ohmygod) Okay.

I went home that evening deflated. And also wondering how the hell someone who isn't having sex can get herpes. On her arm out of all places.

Did I have some kinky arm sex with someone and didn't remember?

So many questions...

Four days later I got a call from my doctor stating it wasn't herpes, but that he'd still like me to return to steal more cash from me examine the spot more closely.

I did as told only to have him tell me that it was definitely a spider bite, and it should heal on its own within a few weeks.

I've been patiently waiting for my superpowers to kick in but much to my disappointment, it seems famosity has eluded me once more.

Because This Is Exactly What The Makers Of The Ab Lounge Had In Mind

Gerry: I want to buy that ab lounge chair.

Me: (raises eyebrows) What the f*ck for?

Gerry: To get abs. Duh!

Me: When was the last time you went to the gym, Gerry?

Gerry: Last week. (hesitates for a moment) Last year, okay. But if I had an ab lounge I could do them right here, in the comfort of my own home. (gestures to his living room which is currently lacking a coffee table and has enough space for a little party of twenty in the center)

Me: So how exactly does this ab lounge thingie work?

Gerry: It's simple. You just sit on it and grab on to the sides and lean back. Kind of like if you were stretching really well, then you come back up as if doing a sit up. The fact you're off the floor gives you a lot more *range*, making your abs work harder and smarter.

Me: Did you just recite that from the infomercial?

Gerry: Maybe.

Two week later...

It's a Thursday night and Gerry invites me over to see his new ab lounge chair. I throw on some jeans and make the twenty minute drive south to observe the mighty machine in all its glory. As usual, Gerry forgets to lock his front door and I walk right in. This is the scene I'm faced with when I enter the living room:

Blood Bath

They say the true signs of a relationship's status is whether you look like this:

Or like this:

John is here for the weekend and although long distance relationships leave me feeling mostly like this:

For the past few days I've been nothing but this:

Tonight, he'll fly back home and once again make our divide over a thousand miles. Yet for the weekend, the space between us was mostly negative, and who in their right mind would complain about that?

I'll be back in a couple of days when my brain has pulled it together and once again I'm all yours.

Don't worry about John.

He's not the jealous type.

Smoke Signals

Moons ago I said I'd send you my love through smoke signals on your day, but I'm no good at making fire out of nothing, so this is as close as it's gonna get at communicating without physically exchanging words.

The gift you bought me for our first anniversary sang its final song last Monday. I was lucky to have it replaced by someone I close hold to my heart, but not inscribed with "Annah's Magic Jukebox" in the back per my request. It's blank, in fact, just like the space where love is meant to be in my life but I hold no interest for. Some have a hard time coming to terms with it, but being alone has proved to be exactly what I needed.

I'm smoke signaling happiness your way today. And love. And all the things I so wanted to give you but destiny denied us. Everything I wanted to say but didn't have a chance.

Your footprints in my life are indelible. Our circumstances may be different than most, but I hear nothing is really that rare when it comes to unfulfilled love.

Different jukebox, Vin. Same songs...

Some belong to you, and that's the one thing no one can take from us today.

Nor ever.

I hope some days you sing them too.

How To Tell If She Likes You (Dannah Monthly Edition)

I realize my monthly column with Dan has been on quite the hiatus since February and I have no excuse except I'm a horrible person who's easily distracted and likes eating edamames without pants on in the kitchen much to the chagrin of my new roommate.

Nevertheless here we are, back at it again with a post about the opposite sex (does that surprise you?). You can read and follow Dan's hilarious blog right here. No seriously, go click. It's a happy and safe place there.

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For anyone that cares, sorry for the delay in our dual awesomeness. Kind of like a period, something’s wrong if our blog combo doesn’t happen on a monthly basis. Unless it’s planned, which this wasn’t. Blame Annah.

Anyway, I was sitting with my buddy Luke having a 40 the other day, and we were talking about ways we know a girl likes us. Obviously, guys are pretty fucking stupid and oblivious, so it’s tough for us to pick up on the signals. Sometimes – most of the time – there aren’t any, but we just think there are.

Editor’s Note: The 40 was followed by a can of Foster’s, followed by some wine while we saw the movie “Rio.” Yeah that’s right, two 26-year-olds got drunk and saw a G-rated movie on a Tuesday.

So I asked Luke, “How do you know when a girl likes you?” He replied, “When all the beds in the hotel are taken and she says, ‘Let’s go to the bathroom.’”

The fact that this happened to Luke isn’t a typical hookup, but yes – they went back to the hotel room and all my friends were occupying the beds, so she suggested that they bang in the lavatory. Furthermore, a girl also likes you when you’re drunken self has a moment of impotence but she still wants to get down.

“Next time, make sure your dick’s hard enough so you can f*ck me in the ass,” she so eloquently stated. Could this be love?

Moving on, I think that a girl definitely likes you when she takes the initiative. I don’t mean like “grinding on you at a club,” because tons of girls do that just because they want to dance or be a tease. Sure, some girls might do it because they want the guy, but too many times I've had women do it because they wanted attention for a song or two.

What I mean by initiative is when you’re talking to a girl, if she asks you questions about yourself. Is she maintaining eye contact and asking you more than, “So, what do you do?” If so, she’s probably into you. Granted some women – and men – aren’t smart enough to ask interesting questions, but you can see if the effort’s there.

During my conversation with Luke, my 18-year-old brother and 56-year-old father also chimed in. My brother took it a little more seriously than my dad did. For instance, my bro said that “if she laughs at everything you say, funny or not, it means she likes you.” Well said, brotha. Couldn’t agree more. It’s good to know that my bloodline has potential for profoundness.

When I asked my father he simply replied, “When your schnitzel’s in her mouth.” Thanks, dad. Glad I can come to you when I need advice. I asked him again to get a more serious answer, but my father doesn’t have a very long attention span. He replied, “Did you talk about queefing? You know it’s vaginal.”

Once again, thanks dad. Luke then said to me, “Look man, all you have to do is fuckin’ plow ‘em, and they’re gonna fuckin’ queef.” I knew this conversation was veering, and quickly. My dad tends to have this effect on life.

My father then rethought his answer and said something that kind of makes sense, even though he ended up going too far with it as usual.

If she tells you how flexible she is out of the blue – you know, like if she can put her legs behind her head.

I suppose that makes sense… I’ve definitely had women say that kind of stuff to me, but that also goes back to the “grinding in the club” thing – lots of times women are overly sexual just to be teases. So, not sure about that one. But of course my dad wasn’t convinced and went on to say, “If she says that then she gives you the pure nani-nani…know what I’m sayin? No interference, no offensive blocking.”

I’m not sure what that means, but whether or not the 40 had anything to do with it, I laughed my ass off. Let the aforementioned information further prove to you that for the most part, guys don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. Sometimes they have something worthwhile to say, but these instances are few and far between. But that’s why ladies love us so much… They live for our moments of clarity.

And our weiners.

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After wiping the incredulous grin from my face Friday night as I stared at my phone and read the above, it was confirmed guys really have no idea how to tell if a girl likes them. I can assure you that next time around we'll talk about the men, but today, it's all about the girls.

Is it even right to share this sort of enlightment with the male species for free? I wondered to myself. What are the surefire signs us women give that say, Hey, dude. I want to make sexy time with you because you're as awesome as Irish whiskey in my morning coffee.

They do exist, guys. Trust me.

But first, the warning signs you should watch out for before you get in too deep.

SIGNS WE DON'T LIKE YOU

• If our roots are showing on our first date. And by roots, I mean the area of hair that is an inch or longer in length and we didn't bother to dye to match to the rest of our lovely locks.
• If our legs are hairier than Chubaka's ass. Unless we're French. Then maybe, we just don't believe in shaving. But most likely, we just don't like you.
• If every time you invite us out we come up with an excuse that makes absolutely no sense, such as: I have to rescue my mom's pet lion who's stuck in that mango tree I told you about on our last date even though we've never gone on a single date.
• If we answer the door looking like this:

• If we mention our ex-boyfriend more than twice during any conversation without you inquiring about him.
• If you catch us staring at the hot waiter with drool dripping down the right side of our chins as you tell us the story of how your dog died last Christmas.
• If we're on the phone, and we put you on hold for more than two minutes. Unless it's our mother on the other end. A mouth like that knows no end.
• If we get sloppy drunk every time we spend time together just to be able to stomach the thought of horizontal mambo with you.
• If in the middle of intercourse we scream your best friend's name.
• If our underwear/socks/bra have holes in them and we've been dating for less than six months.
• So much more, but you don't have all day to read this. In a nutshell, if we don't make an effort to be a lady and look as lovely as possible for you (regardless of our personal style), we just don't like you.

SIGNS WE LIKE YOU

• If we laugh at all your jokes or attempts at being funny.

• If we pay attention to what you say and then remember later. For example, if you say you like Cheerios and we buy you a box with some milk at some point sooner than later during our courtship.
• If we make eye contact more than the usual person (but not in that creepy eyes-boring-into-your-soul sort of way).
• If we play with our hair while we're around you. I know it's totally cliché, but I've noticed my friends doing this when in close proximity to their crushes and have unfortunately caught myself doing the same.
• If we take care of our general appearance more than we would on the regular.
• If we talk about our future and mention important things to you, such as what we do for a living, where we went to college, what we'd like to do with our lives, etc. The boring stuff that no man is really interested in, essentially.
• If we play nice to your friends even when we know they're complete douchenozzles worthy of a heel-kick to the face.
• If we accept to go with you the _____ball game when we'd rather be napping with our dogs shopping or having margaritas with our girlfriends.
• If we introduce you by your name to others, instead of "This is my friend," or "This is dude." <---- I've heard someone say this before.

I really could go on and on about this and will probably do so on our next Dannah post but I have to go now. My mom just called and said her pet lion needs rescuing and I'm really good at climbing mango trees on a random Tuesday night.

Touchdown!

Kimmie: I can't *believe* this bullshit about the NFL lockout.

Me: The who?

Kimmie: The NFL- nevermind... Look who I'm talking to.

Me: Is this about football?

Kimmie: Yeah, it's this thing that-

Me: Please don't. I've told you a hundred times the only men in tights I care about are ballet dancers, even if they're all gay.

Kimmie: Fine, but you don't know what you're missing.

My darling friend Kimmie always says the best things to come out of her short-lived marriage were two things: a divorce and the love of football. With that in mind, she's pretty much losing her mind with this whole NFL lockout situation and driving me crazy along the way even though I'd rather get a root canal by a dentist who only speaks Latin than listen to her gibber jabber about passes and interceptions. I'm sincere when I say there's no other part of American culture I've tried to embrace as strongly as this sport but no matter how hard I try, I'm just a beer-filled heap of confusion at the end of each game.

I've had countless boyfriends try to explain the sport to me over the years, and even girlfriend enthusiasts such as Britt and Sosi, who live and breathe football and tweet about it incessantly.

Even Brick, who talks sports for a living and sat with me one evening explaining the ins-and-outs of the game, gave up fifteen minutes into it and just told me to "go shopping or something."

A few months ago, I went on a date to a football watching party (I can't believe those even exist) and this is exactly how it played out.

10 minutes later as I concentrate so hard my frown lines are quickly becoming permanent.

Me: What are those white lines?

Date: Those are the yard lines.

Me: What are yards?

Date: It's just the divisions to measure the entire field.

Me: And what are those yellow signs that read "1st down" or "2nd down."

Date: Well, the offense has four downs to advance at least 10 yards. It's kind of like, the chances they have to make the touchdown and score.

Me: And how do they paint those yellow "down" signs so quickly on the field?

Gives me a look that says You're the dumbest being alive.

My friend Carlos: Little midgets come bursting through the field in go carts and paint them real quick. They're pros at that shit.

Me: Pretty cool!

Carlos: No, Annah. They're just computer generated for the people watching at home.

Me: But they look so real.

Complete silence.

Me: What is that pitchfork looking thing?

Date: That's just a goal post. You can score three points by kicking the ball in between the post.

Me: And what's the point of that?

A few moments later:

He never called after that.