Why Clare from The Bachelor Sucks

Toot, toot! All aboard the crazy train! Your conductor this evening will be Clare Crawley from Juan Pablo's season of The Bachelor. This broad has rubbed me the wrong way since day one. She is everything I despise about being a young, single gal and here's an open letter to tell her why... 

1. Your name: Where's the "i" in your name, Clare? Did it disappear, along with your dignity, when you stayed on the show after JP pretty much told you (in broken English) that you were only a booty call? That's what I'm going to assume. And from now on I'm putting an "i" in your name because you're annoying enough without it.  And anyways, Cla(i)re is a fat girl’s name. Just ask Judd Nelson.  #breakfastclubreference

2. You showed up fake pregnant: You sure did come out of that limo with a bang didn’t you? Pun intended. The first night of the Bachelor is just like a first date in real life, Cla(ire). You can’t just show up the first time you meet a guy with a fake belly being fake pregnant because Cla(i)re, that is not normal.  Even on national television compared to someone else who shows up playing a piano bike. Still not normal. Author’s note: Although, Juan Pabs kept you around until the finale so maybe I’ll try this on my next OkCupid date.  #firstdatefakepregz

3. Your smug attitude: After your little escapade in the ocean, you skipped back to the Bachelor house and coyly made a cheers at the cocktail hour before the rose ceremony to “making love.” You thought you were so smart, escaping to a boy’s house in the middle of the night and getting back into bed before anyone noticed. Guess who does that, Cla(i)re? Thirteen year old girls.  Thirteen year old slutty girls.  #soaknpokefail

4. Your over accessorized finale ensemble: Chunky earrings with a rhinestone embellishment on the single strap of your evening gown is not the business.  Sort of like how many times you talked about your dead father’s DVD, which none of us got to see and was like when you read a book and they keep talking about a character who ends up having no relevance to the ending at all and I wonder why the author even bothered to waste my time. It’s just too much. That’s you, Cla(i)re. That’s you.  #simileinception

5. Your “honesty”: Yeah,  Juan Pablo’s a dick. We all get it. But you can’t go from zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds.  You tell Juan Pabs “Hey dude. I like love you and wanna be with you and I’m really nervous and my earrings are really heavy but it’s worth it to me because you’re like my person and you know where Sacramento is and I can’t wait for you to give me that free Neil Lane ring because like I love you and like I’m part Mexican but I don’t know Spanish so I’d get along with your family and like, Camilla gave me a high five so where’s the ring bitch?” then he tells you, “Yo homegirl, I’m just not that into you” and you’re like, “Fuck you, Juan Pabs. Don’t you try to hug me and ask me to assept your forgiveness after I told you I would have your babies in one year and two months and met your family and banged you in the ocean when you were dating 25 other girls who were asleep 100 yards away you lying, cheating bastard!” So there’s that.  #secondisthefirstplaceloser

And that, Cla(i)re, is why you are the fucking worst.

P.S. I’m back, bitches. 

Jesus, Take The Wheel...

I think I came out of the womb a woman scorned. Growing up listening to artists like Shania Twain and Wynona Judd, how could I not? But it wasn't until a few years back that I realized how bad my man-hating had gotten... until one fine spring day on my drive back up to Chico.

I'd been home for the weekend and my little sister burned me Carrie Underwood's new (first) album. Typically on road trips I like to pop in something I can sing along to, but this particular day I was feeling a little crazy. I figured "might as well" and popped ol' Carrie into my 1992 Saturn coup's top-of-the-line CD player. *Note: My Saturn had dent resistant doors. My friends loved to point that out. The CD gets rolling and I start to dig it. That Jesus song comes on and I belt it like I'm a choir member in the Baptist church. Great jam so I keep the party going. 

Pretty soon I'm cruising down the 5 and I start listening to the lyrics of this particular song. Sounds interesting so I start the song over. "I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up 4-wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seat. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights, slashed a hole in all four tires. Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats." Pardon my French but... Fuck. Yeah. This was the ticket. I listened to the song for the rest of the drive and was immediately obsessed. When I got home I called my cousin and told her she needed to listen to the song. She is a woman of my own heart so she, no doubt, would love it as well. She is also the person who called me after a CMA Awards and told me that Miranda Lambert's "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" reminded her of me. But that's neither here nor there. 

I had a boyfriend at the time and he drove a truck so when we scooted around town, I mostly drove to be more economical. He liked country music so when I went to visit him one day, I made a point to make him listen to my new favorite tune. We're halfway through the song when he turns the volume way down and looks at me. I was at a red light so I look back at him with a "what-the-hell-never-touch-a-black-man's-radio" a-la Chris Tucker look on my face. His expression concerned me. Before I could speak he says, "I need you to not listen to this song." OK, not happening. "Why?" I ask. "I don't know. I just feel like if we ever break up you might do this to my truck." Any other person/couple would have keeled over muttering "oh you!" with a friendly chuckle. Not us. We just both kind of smiled awkwardly knowing that it was kind of a joke but not really because, let's be honest, it may be true. 

Long story short, it didn't work out. 

Not long after"Before He Cheats" became a huge success, other artists like Miranda Lambert and Taylor Swift began releasing songs that made normal woman (like me) realize they aren't completely insane for thinking that MAYBE it would be nice to key a jerks car if he cheated on me. Or I'd POSSIBLY want to go home, load my shotgun, wait by the door and light a cigarette. Fellas, I'm here to tell you right here and right now: I don't care how cool your girlfriend/wife is, she's thought about these things before. But have no fear... it doesn't make her crazy. What makes her crazy is if she actually acts on it. And if she does carve her name into your leather seat, call the cops because that bitch be crazy.

I find solitude in knowing that there are other jaded women out there. I don't think I'll ever stop singing these songs in the shower or screaming them while driving down the freeway like Danika Patrick. Lord help the sucker who ends up marrying me. In the not-so famous words of this Carrie circa 2004, "Fuck yeah, Carrie Underwood. Fuck yeah." Hell hath no fury. 

*No pick-up trucks or men were hurt during the writing of this blog.

Detective Couture, On The Case

Wednesday, August 15, 2012. 4:21am:

I wake up. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes I have to pee in the middle of the night. Nothing new. As I'm about to get up, I hear something outside. I freeze. Wait 20 seconds. Nothing. I sit up. A bang. Shit. Someone is on the side of my building. Panic. Wait another 20 seconds. Hold breath. Just shuffles. Is someone trying to break into my garage? Is my car alarm on? Does a thief give a shit about my 2002 Honda Civic? What if they steal the BMW next to me? It'll be a lot easier to get out of my parking spot the next few days... I get up. Slowly and carefully I peel back a curtain and with just centimeters, bend back my blinds. I see nothing. My window is at an angle where I can't see down the building alley. Rats! It's quiet for a few minutes. I tip toe to the bathroom. Still need to pee. Done. Tip toe back to bed. I reach for my cell to call 911. Crunch. The familiar sound of a crushing plastic 2-liter soda bottle. Another crack. The smashing of a beer can. All very familiar sounds to me. It's a homeless guy. Or is it a little Asian lady? Either way, if you're not trying to steal my car, I don't give a shit. Sleep. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 4:39am:

Bang. 2-liter hits the floor and rolls. Ugh. Homeless guy/Asian lady again?? Last night was cute but tonight you're just being annoying. More cans crush. More bottles crunch. Toss. Turn. Sleep.

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 3:35pm:

Texts to/from my building manager...

Carrie: Hi Jessica. Today was the second night in a row that I have woken up at 4:30am to someone on the side of our building digging through the garbage for bottles and cans. Is there a lock on the gate that we can make sure is secure tonight? Thanks.

Jessica: Oh no! There is already a lock on the gate. I wonder if it's someone in our building? I'll send an e-mail out. Thanks for letting me know. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 5:38pm:

E-mail received from Jessica. To entire building. 

Subject of email: Trash Bandit

Good Afternoon Neighbors,

It has been brought to my attention that there has been a "bandit" rummaging through the trash late at night and waking up several people in the building. Although this is not illegal, it is quite disturbing to fellow neighbors as they sleep in several ways. If anyone has any information on who this may be, please kindly ask them to extend a courtesy to thier neighbors and refrain from rummaging through the trash. I will also be reviewing the door to the alley to ensure that the locks are in proper working order to deter any outsiders from gaining access as well.

Jessica

Friday, August 17, 2012: 12:02am:

Clanking of glass. Wrestling of trash. Ahh! Thief/homeless guy/Asian lady/neighbor is back! Grab phone. Text. 

Carrie: Our thief is back! I hear them!

Jessica: I'm on it! I'll look out my window now. 

Sit up. Single eye brow raised. Perched lips. Fingers drumming together. You've been caught. Drop our cans and hit the road, Jack. Beep. Text received. 

Jessica: It's a family of raccoons!

I'm an asshole. 

Carrie: Oh... hahahaha. Well, mystery solved. (awkward) 

Jessica: Yeah there were about 8 of them. Even a bunch of babies. 

A big asshole. 

The Dating Diaries, Story #2: Paging Dr. Douche

One vague night, clouded with vodka and cranberry juice, I was out and about with some friends consuming stiff drinks and being my typical loud self. A friend of mine eagerly introduced me to “Dr. Steve” and immediately left us alone, indicating this was some sort of unbeknownst set-up. Not above making conversation, we get to talking. Dr. Steve was a nice guy… from what I remembered. What I didn’t remember was giving him my phone number.

The next morning I woke up to a relatively pleasant text saying, “Hey. It’s Dr. Steve. Hope you made it home safe. I was thinking maybe the drive-in tonight? You mentioned you wanted to go.” Apparently Intoxicated Carrie loves the drive-in. I figured since I liked him when I was drinking, he should be a decent enough guy. Plus, The Bourne Ultimatum was playing and who doesn’t want to see beefy Matt Damon in a tight cotton v-neck? So, I agreed.

Later that night Dr. Steve picks me up in a newer Jeep Cherokee. Thank God it’s not  a Chevy Nova. He’s not as good looking as I remembered but that doesn’t mean much taking into consideration a great personality.

We roll up to the drive-in and Dr. Steve hands the teenage kid at the ticket window a $10 bill. The kid looks like he’s high and an uber nerd to boot. We’re talking braces, mouth open, heavy breathing, the works. In a voice eerily resembling Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High the kid says, “Uhhh, dude? It’s actually $6 a person.” An arrogant laugh bubbles from Dr. Steve, “No. Actually it’s only $5 a person.” Without hesitation, Spicoli fires back, “I know, it’s gnarly dude. But they just raised the prices. Sorry, bro.” Dr. Steve was not having it. “I saw in the paper this morning it said $5 a person and you’re going to honor that price.” Similar conversation ensues for another five minutes, or what seems like an eternity for myself and the three cars behind us, who have begun to honk. 

At this point, I’m starting to feel sorry for Spicoli. I’ve worked in customer service before and I know the ticket increase isn’t his fault so I start to get frustrated with Dr. Steve. I reach in my purse, pull out $2, reach over Dr. Steve and hand Spicoli the cash. “Thanks man,” Spicoli says to me with a single nod. I look at Dr. Steve expecting some kind of redemption but he grabs our tickets and drives off without a, “thank you.” It’s fair to say I am now thoroughly annoyed.

As if nothing happened, Dr. Steve continued our get-to-know-you session. “What, exactly, kind of doctor are you?” I finally ask.

“I’m a chiropractor.”

“A chiropractor? Do you have to do to medical school for that?”

“No.”

“So you’re not really a doctor?”

“Yeah I am. Well, kind of. See…”

This is the point where I start tuning him out. You may think I’m stuck up for getting irritated that he wasn’t a doctor but I felt duped. The incident with Spicoli coupled with being trapped in the car for the next two hours with Dr. Douche made me want to vomit. I couldn’t tell you what the conversation consisted of for the rest of the night because my mind was reeling. I think there were a lot of "Shhh, I'm trying to watch the movie" coming from my end. I couldn’t even concentrate on the gloriousness that is Matt Damon, which made me even more pissed.

The ride home was a blur. I don’t remember much except for when he dropped me off. I didn’t even flatter the guy with a courteous, “Thanks for the lovely evening,” since I paid for a third of my movie ticket. As I gathered up my jacket, purse and unlatched the seatbelt that felt, at this point, like a death trap, Dr. Steve had the audacity to lean over and try to kiss me. “Whoa there! I don’t think so pal,” is what I recall saying. I may have just laughed hysterically. Regardless, I grabbed my things and shot out of the Jeep.

I may not have been as big of a bitch as I portrayed because a few days later I got a call from Dr. Steve asking if I wanted to meet him for another date. I never called back. Last I heard Dr. Steve was still trolling around San Luis looking for a girlfriend. Dr. Douche, maybe you’re single because you’re a rude cheap ass. Clean up your act. But that’s just my two cents… Or rather, my $2.

The Dating Diaries: Ginger Baggage

 
I met Kit at work. He was an account executive for one of our clients. We met in person and the next day sent a few funny e-mails back and forth. I wasn’t immediately attracted to him because he was a ginger. Like, a super ginger. And I’d never dated one before. But long story short, we met for drinks, I laughed my ass off and we started hanging out. He even made me dinner at his house one night, where I was introduced to his friendly pup, Ren.

One night when I asked what he was up to he told me he had a bachelor party and couldn’t hang out. Date night free for the first time in a few weeks, I happily gathered up a few of my friends and headed downtown for some cocktails.

Frog and Peach was packed. After a few drinks, my peanut-sized bladder could take no more. I grabbed my friend Katie’s arm and dragged her to the bathroom (because that’s what girls do).

Mazing our way through the crowds, I spot Kit across the bar. We make eye contact and he immediately waves. I asked what he was doing there and he said the bachelor party took a turn for the best and decided to hit the town. Elated to see him, I told him to have fun and that we’d chat a little later.

Per usual, there was a line 3 people deep in the ladie’s. Katie and I took position and waited. Both of us still reeling from the coincidence of seeing Kit at the bar, Katie asked me how things were going. Before I could answer, the girl behind Katie asks for her name. “Ummmmm, it’s Katie.” With squinty eyes and a slight sway, the girl asked what my name was next. “It’s Carrie,” I told her. “Oh. Hi,” she says. “I’m Sarah. Ren’s mom.” Ren. As in Kit’s dog. It takes me a second to piece the puzzle together, but I soon realized the drunken aggressor was Kit’s ex-girlfriend of 4 years. The same ex-girlfriend of which their relationship had just recently ended about six months before Kit and I met. A few beats later, Sarah pipes in and says, “This is awkward,” and stumbles out of the bathroom.

I shot a quick glance to Katie that telepathically said, “What the FUCK just happened?” and we both bolted to met up with our other friends, anxious to tell them the story. Like a tennis match, Katie and I went back and forth telling everyone the craziness that just went down. Shortly after the chaos subdued, Kit found his way over to me and said he’d heard what happened in the bathroom. He apologized profusely and said he’d talk to Sarah and tell her not to approach me ever again. As if God was looking down and saying, “What a sucker,” Sarah comes out of no where and wedges her way in between Kit and I. She just stands there, looking from face to face to face of all of my friends with an idiotic grin. A good 10 seconds passed before Kit asked quizatively, “Sarah… what the hell are you doing?” Without hesitation Sarah replies, “I met your new giiiiiiiiirlfriend in the bathroom. We’re friends now!” She clanks the drink I’m holding with her brand new beer, lifts the bottle as if to say, “salude” and then chugs. And chugs. Until the beer is gone. Like a car accident, none of us could stop watching. It's as if time stood still.

Kit grabs Sarah by the arm and pulls her away from the group. At this point, I start laughing hysterically. For once in my life, I’m not the craziest person in the vicinity. There was more conversation about “Crazy Sarah” as we called her, when I got a text from Kit. Sarah had escaped from the bar and was making, what I presume, were empty threats and he had to leave to find her. I wished him luck and finished my night with a double vodka tonic before heading home.

Turns out Kit found Sarah at her house where she confessed her love for him. I think she also puked. Not sure. Long story short, it didn’t work out between us. It wasn’t all Crazy Sarah’s fault, but she was  a big part of it. I think after Kit and I parted ways, he gave another go-around with Crazy Sarah. Last I checked, that didn’t work out either.

Crazy Sarah, if you’re out there reading this, I salute you. To being ballsy, being a nut job, and most of all, to justifying that every single thing I have done in the past has not been as bat-shit crazy as you are. Crazy Sarah, this Bud’s for you.

Why Eating Is A Good Idea

Sometimes it gets really busy at work. I said, ‘sometimes’ ok? Lay off me… anyway this one day I’m SUPER busy. Like, not-even-joking busy. These e-mails are makin’ it rain and before I know it, it’s 2:30pm. I realize I have not eaten breakfast, lunch, nor have I consumed any type of liquid since the night before (and said liquid was probably wine). If I don’t get some type of sustenance in my system, there are going to be consequences. Like me, face down, unresponsive at my desk. I grab my wallet, my company badge and my last ounce of strength and haul ass to the ground level of our building for some food. 

I hit up my go-to: San Francisco Soup Co. It being 2:30pm and all, there was no line. I quickly grab my food and start heading back. Before I’m even halfway to the elevators, my phone starts vibrating. It’s vibrating so much that I thought I had a call. Turns out it was just more e-mails. Back. To back. To back. To back. Being the star executive assistant I am, I multi-task by holding my food, pushing the elevator button with my elbow, reading emails and responding (using only my right thumb, mind you). The doors open and I scurry in, trying to send a few e-mails before the doors close and I lose service. 

I take advantage of not receiving e-mails for the next few seconds as I ascend and read through more e-mails. DING! The elevator doors open. Great! I look up. I’m on the 7^th floor. I work on the 3^rd floor. Not so great. I forgot to hit the 3^rd floor button. Crap. There were others on my elevator and it was going to continue to go up. So I get off and push the button to go down just as my phone starts buzzing again. More e-mails. Seriously?

 

Feverishly responding, I get into another elevator minutes later. I’m alone. Perfect. Read some more e-mails and prep responses. DING! Finally… Only I forgot to push the button to my floor AGAIN and I’m back in the lobby. Shit. 

Not sure if you’re familiar with elevator etiquette but when the doors open at the lobby, you let the current riders out before entering. The four people waiting in the lobby to go up stood there staring, waiting for me to kick rocks. “No, I’m actually going back up. Come on in.” 

I push the 3^rd floor elevator button what seems like 17 times to make sure I don’t wind up on another floor. I continue reading e-mail. Not sure what the others were discussing when I hear one of the gentleman say, “…well at least none of us forgot to get off the elevator.” Cue uproar of laughter. Very funny.

Damn, it feels good to be hipster

Hipster [hip-ster] noun, Slang. "Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter."

I like to write. Duh. And I don't think I'm too horrible at it. So last month while on a double date at Anchor and Hope, my one and only hipster friend Casey asked if I'd be interested in participating in the Write Club series. For those of you unfamiliar with Write Club, their tagline says it all: "Literature as bloodsport. Prize money to charity." Essentially you are assigned one of two conflicting topics (i.e. left vs. right; up vs. down; dark vs. light). Each author writes on their assigned topic and the audience decides whose piece they liked better (it usually comes down to a battle of wit). The winner gets to donate a portion of the nights cover charge to a charity of their choosing.

I've never actually written anything and physically read it out loud so I was a little weary. But despite my hesitation, it only took a few "you'll do fine's" and "it's no big deals" in combination with copious amounts of wine to convince me to participate.

What I have yet to mention is that Write Club commences in San Francisco's Mission District. A little unsettling for a Marina girl who sticks out like a sore thumb amongst hipsters and pick-pockets. Shudder!

I tried to get pumped for the competition by telling myself that if those hipster elitists don't like my style, then they can go screw themselves. But I soon found out that my actual fears stemmed from the potential reaction of the crowd. A mob of hipsters is fairly unpredictable. My guess was that after my reading they would either shower me with tomatoes (certified organic, of course), or my words would resonate with a blessed patron in the crowd who would begin a single, slow clap growing into a monstrous uproar of applause. Either that or they would just snap at me.

Many of my best ideas occur to me while laying down, either in bed or when I wake up from a restless night's sleep. My idea to harness my inner hipster before entering the the writing competition was no exception. I started writing this post at 1:09 am. Good. Already on hipster-time. But instead of sitting in bed, I wished I was at a local cafe, using their free wifi and sipping a skim latte. Shit. Bad start.

To my surprise I found myself euphorically lost on my hipster journey. To start, I purchased a pair of thick framed Zooey Duchschanel-esque glasses. Who doesn't like Zooey Duchschanel?! Automatically I've got that going for me. Additionally I already had an array of patterned clothing that I could mix and match with tights or leggings, my black Toms and a mustard yellow Urban Outfitters cardigan. As it is, I'd always wanted to try color blocking.

I reach for my iPhone for inspiration to start writing my piece (I've been assigned "fast" to my opponent's "feast"). The only music I have on my phone that can be moderately considered hipster is "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People. This is good enough for me. Repeat. I love the whistling part.

I had two weeks to prepare for the competition and in true Carrie fashion, procrastinated until the night before. For lack of better words, my piece sucked. I was starting to get nervous.

I arrived early to The Make Out Room (clever hipsters) and was immediately informed that I would be up against Casey's co-Write Club founder: a guy who not only looks, but writes, like Zach Galifianakis. Thanks for the pairing, Casey.

As suspected, by piece blew. Zach kicked my ass. But he was really good so I couldn't wallow in my loss for very long. And the hipsters did laugh at a few of my anecdotes, especially the part about being elbow deep in a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos. Hipsters apparently love Flaming Hot Cheetos. Who knew?! There were no hipster mishaps, no tomatoes, and no snaps. Nothing but encouraging applause. Also, I didn't get pick-pocketed. WIN.

Participating in Write Club was a fun experience. It challenged me to step out of my writing comfort zone and do something different. I highly recommend you check out their website and not only attend a show but to be a part of it, whether you're a seasoned writer or a lone blogger like myself.

Being a hipster was a lot of fun. I still rock my Zooey glasses, listen to Foster the People, and color block. And why shouldn't I continue to enjoy it? Am I not in my 20's - 30's and someone who values independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter? My friend Justin has pegged the phrase "preppy hipster" in his efforts to categorize me. And I'm not gonna lie... I kinda like it.