I got pounded!

At the elevator bank where I work, you have to scan an ID card to get in. The elevators are also monitored by one or two security people, who make sure that nobody sneaks in without the permission of the company (to blow us to smithereens, no doubt).

As part of my new "be friendly to everyone" resolution, I say hello to the security guard every day. (And that's about as far as I got with the resolution... oh well) As I scan my card, I ask the security guy "How are you today?"

The first time, he told me "So far, so good" which struck me as funny because it was pretty early in the day. But it seemed like a good perspective to have, especially compared to the alternatives ("Everything sucks already" or "What's the point of living when all there is in life is pain?")

The second time I asked, he told me "So far, so good." Wait a minute, I thought. He told me that last time! It all felt so cheap: I imagined him using that line on everyone who walked through his elevator bank. I wasn't special.

But I finally graduated to "special." Yes, after weeks of asking him not "How are you?" but "So far so good?", he gave me The Pound:

I, of course, played it off with style by giggling and saying "Really? I'm so honored!" I decided at that moment that this meant I had "made it" in the corporate world. A promotion and some pay can't be too far off.

A night out I'd talk about if I could

On Saturday night, the second to last day of my family's trip to New York, we went out to the aforementioned dinner and came back a bit loaded. At least, I did. The night began at about 6pm in the hotel bar where we all downed two martinis (of the French persuasion - delicious, if you've never had one). At the steakhouse, I switched to appletinis. After two of those, there was the bottle of wine to take care of.

When we got back to the hotel, I was... jolly. And jolly TAB is rambunctious and fun, but most of all she is interested in drinking more. I ducked into the bathroom for a quick pee and when I came out, filled with glee, the older generation was all sprawled out over the beds.

"Aww, and I'm so not tired!" I whined. It was only eleven on a Saturday night and I was in Manhattan. Come on.

"You want to go out?" My cousin asked me.

"Yes!" I realized that I had never been to a club even though I turned 21 in January. Pitiful!

Unfortunately, my cousin is from Boston so she's not familiar with New York clubs. And since I clearly hadn't been to any, I was no expert either. She started texting her friends to ask for recommendations while I racked my empty mind. And then it occurred to me: I know a bartender!

It then also occurred to me that he hadn't called me yet, so I didn't have his number. But I remembered that when I left the bar on Thursday he said he would be working all weekend, so I found the slip of paper where I had written the place's number and dialed. After a confusing recording, I pressed an extension number and hoped for the best.

"Good evening, how can I help you?" My greeter asked.

"Hi... is Zach Braff there, by chance?"

"Zach? Yeah, hold on."

"Hello, this is Zach." I cringed as I realized how ridiculous I was being, then sucked it up and asked him for the name of a good club. Somehow he didn't know any, so he had to ask his bartender friends for me. (What New York bartender doesn't know of any clubs? Hmm...) He then remarked that he should call me soon, to which I said "You better." Smooth.

I wrote down two names and returned triumphantly to my cousin, who also had two suggestions from her friends. This not being enough, we decided to ask the concierge in the lobby for guidance. He suggested a bar, and we got in a cab and went to the first place her friend had told her about (so, my phone call to Zach Braff was not necessary at all).


Four hours later, we were at the hotel with two guys who were ordering porn on the TV, you guessed it: at my request. I went into the bathroom to check on my cousin, who was sitting next to the bathtub. When she started puking into the tub, I prepared a glass of water for her. I walked out of the bathroom, glad to see that our guests had left, and heard a crash. I returned to see my cousin draped over the side of the tub, which was now full of puke and shards of glass.

Needless to say, we both went to bed very shortly.

My aunt woke us up in the morning. I groaned and checked out the strange bruise on my hip. What the hell was that from? And why in the world did my foot hurt so bad? Upon inspection, I found a two inch puffy bruise on my ankle from... um...? Yeah, no idea.

"What's on your bed?" Auntie asked my cousin.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"There's something wet on the bed."

"Oh... huh... my pants are wet, too. Haha I guess I peed myself."

I giggled. "Hah, you wet the bed!!!"

"Well, at least I wasn't on the floor last night," She countered playfully.

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't remember? The bouncer brought you over to us and said 'She was on the floor.' I thought they were going to kick us out."

I did not remember that. Luckily, that made it less embarrassing.

"Do you remember throwing up in the bathtub?" I asked.

"Yeah... do you remember throwing up at the bar?"

"No!" Ahhh great. I had a vision of myself puking on multiple people and getting shouted at. "Did I at least make it to the toilet?"

"Oh yeah. I held your hair back for you and everything."

Sweet. My 25-year old cousin wet the bed. I ended up on the floor of a bar and was the new owner of several mysterious bruises. A job well done, I think.

The story of Zach Braff

When my friend L came to visit me last year, she was on her spring break. She stayed for two or three days and I planned the entire trip weeks in advance. I took her to a jazz club because I knew that, as a jazz musician, she would appreciate it. I took her to the Shakespeare garden in Central Park because she is head over heels in love with Shakespeare. I made reservations at a hotel that was not too expensive, not too far away from the middle of things...

You get the picture, I hope.

Well, the first night we were there I had reservations for a comedy show. I'd been to the place once before, but this time I had a couple drinks before trying to find it and I lost us (L, S, and myself) on the subway. We missed the show we had booked, so we got on the wait list for the next performance. While we waited, I saucily ordered my drink of the night. Which happened to be a "Screaming Orgasm." Yeah.

I'm sure I flirted with the bartender both to make sure he would serve us alcohol and because he looked like Zach Braff. I had a couple drinks before the next show started and Zach Braff kindly made sure we were at the top of the wait list. During the show, we had to order two items. I, of course, ordered two more drinks instead of realizing that talking back to comedians is not behavior that merits more alcohol.

After the show, we went back up to the bar to hang out with Zach Braff. On the way to the bar, we passed the comedians' table and I, feeling charitable and friendly, told one of them that I had enjoyed his jokes. It felt like when I went to high school plays and told the super cool theatre kids how much I loved their performance - except even cooler because these weren't high school theatre kids. I walked away from the table feeling a bit of a rush. I'm not usually that friendly (it took me six drinks to get to that point).

As I made my way back to the bar (about 5 feet or so), the comedian jumped up and followed me. "What's your name?" He asked. Whoa, I thought. How cool! I'm talking to the friendly comedian!

Well, that novelty wore off much more quickly than he did. When he asked me what my MySpace was (seriously, he did), I told him my embarrassingly generic name and left it at that. When he bought me a drink, I attempted to even the score by buying him one in return. He was way too eager to talk to me, especially considering that he was 36 and I was a 20-year-old with a boyfriend. L, S and I stayed at the bar until the late night show was over, because L and S had been chatting with some other performers who actually seemed normal. However, our plans to hang out after the show were thwarted when it was discovered that we couldn't get into any clubs because we "lost" our IDs.

I went to a creepy bar with the comedian instead. Creepy mostly because he was there, and whoever came with us left me alone with him, which apparently encouraged him enough to put his arm around me. To divert the attention from myself, I said: "See that girl over there? I dare you to go hit on her."

"No, that's okay."

"Why don't you want to hit on her?" I whined.

"Because I'd rather hit on you." Classy.

"But it's just a dare. What, are you afraid?"

"No, I just don't want to," he said, wrapping his arm tighter around my waist.

"Well if you don't, then I will." I broke free from his grasp and hit on a random NYU girl to get away from the comedian.

And then my knight in shining armor, Zach Braff, stole me and my friends away from the comedian and took us to his friend's club. For some reason, I thought it would be a superb idea to order another Screaming Orgasm when we got there. I flirted with Zach Braff, thanked him for saving me from the comedian, and then stumbled down the stairs to the bathroom. When I was done peeing, it was time to go. Zach Braff ran down to the corner to hail us a cab, and as soon as he turned away I threw up onto the curb and my shoes. I was done by the time he returned with the cab, which he paid for and sent us on our way like the gentleman he is.


Well, that was last year. Almost exactly, I'd guess.

This year... I did not plan out Attention Whore's trip. She said the misguided words, "Let's play it by ear," which doesn't work for me because I just end up making up plans in my mind anyway. But because she didn't tell me what she wanted to do and I don't hang out in the city very often, I mentally made plans to go to the exact same places.

Her first day, she wanted to see ground zero and Times Square. Having never been to ground zero, I got lost twice on the way and we ended up in Queens at one point. So... that was embarrassing. Attention Whore pretended that she didn't care, but I knew that she was silently judging me.

After about five minutes of talking, we were pretty much caught up. She's the kind of friend who doesn't have anything to talk about unless she has a story to tell you. And all of her stories are about frat boys. So, after telling her eight times "Stop sleeping with him," I gave up and started agreeing with everything she said, which is irritating because I almost always think she is wrong.

After hearing about every frat guy that wants to get in her pants (seemingly all of them), I steered us to the same comedy club. We sat down at the bar and waited for service. At this point, I realized it might not be a great plan to come to a bar where the comedian might reappear and recognize me. Then again, if Zach Braff was there... I took a look. The bartender had returned to his post but was bent over picking something up. When he stood up straight, I saw that it was indeed him!

"What can I get for you?" He asked politely.

And then I freaked out. I already have trouble deciding on drink orders, and now my former knight in shining armor was here. Did he remember me? How could he; it was a year ago and he probably gets drunken messes in his bar all the time. I could just pretend I didn't know him. But I would still have to order... "Can we get menus, please?"

He brought us menus and I sneaked a few peeks at him while he was making drinks. Yep, definitely him. And definitely still busy looking like Zach Braff. And then I remembered how embarrassed I should probably be. Screaming Orgasm girl? Oh god no. I hoped he didn't remember. I took a stab at conversation with Attention Whore so I could stop replaying my drunken night in my head. This worked until Zach Braff cocked his head to the side and said, "Is your name Accidental?"

Whoa. "Um, yes?" So he remembered.

"Accidental Bitch?"

Okay, how did he remember my full name? Crazy. "How do you remember me?" I asked incredulously.

"What can I say, it was a memorable night."

We chatted and he took a break to sit with me at the bar so we could talk more. I gleefully took the opportunity to ignore Attention Whore. I found out that in my drunkenness, I had given him my email address or something of the kind, which conveniently has my name in it. Hence the remembering. But still... that's pretty damn impressive.

When it was time for the comedy show to start, we left promising to return afterwards. He tried to comp our drinks, but having learned my lesson, I paid anyway.

When we came back, Attention Whore and I ordered another round of drinks. Unfortunately, though, Attention Whore told me that she wanted to leave soon (probably because Zach Braff wasn't giving her enough attention. What a whore). When I informed him that we were closing our tab, he expressed his disappointment and then said "I know you have a boyfriend, but could I get your number so we can hang out sometime?" Then said something about witty texts and a movie.

He ducked away for a second to put a glass away, so I had a moment to let my mind race. He knows I have a boyfriend? Ooooh, he must have looked me up on MySpace. How convenient that I never change my relationship status. And that I don't have to tell him that I have a boyfriend. Wait, so why does he want my number?

"Just give the guy your number," Attention Whore said in that cute, chiding, 'Don't be a meanie-head' voice. Zach Braff was back and I still needed to answer.

"Okay, sure."

I wrote down my name and number, paid for drinks that he again tried to buy, and walked away thinking "Why does this happen right after I get back together with The exEx?"

Since I've been gone, pt 1

I need to get out of my school and move into the real world.

The ratio of men to women at my school is about 25 to 75. Of those men, about 25% are gay. I'm not one to think I'm worthless just because 500 guys aren't trying to date rape me, but it's really quite sad how I've gotten used to the lack of interest here. During my five days showing Attention Whore and then my family around New York, I got more male attention than I have in all of my three years at college. And it was nice. Even when men who could have been my grandfather were checking me out it was nice. I think I'd have to be naked to get those kind of looks at school.

My aunts and cousin and I went out to dinner, and the man at the bar who I asked about the NCAA tournament sent a round of drinks to our table when we sat down. That's all it takes? A basketball question? I think I was starting to believe I was actually invisible. Or that the whole male sex drive thing was a myth.

Has anyone seen the film "Tube Tales"? It's a series of shorts about the subway, I think they're all set in London. And this one is of this woman who is basically teasing an older man on the subway because she wants to. She's sweating, so she blows on her chest and leans over, and pulls her skirt up to show off her legs... and, well, it works.

At the hotel bar I was thinking about toying with some of these men (not the grandpa aged men, but maybe somewhere in the daddy range). Not that I was going to pull my skirt up or blow on my boobs. But, you know... a little eye contact and some lip biting can go a long way. And then I had to wonder: how would the man see it? Would he know it was me teasing him? Or would he think "Yeah baby, I've still got it! She wants me."

or "What loser whore can't get a guy her own age?"

To clarify

Sorry for the confusion, anyone that was confused (everyone, it sounds like).

I am only taking a break until Sunday or Monday because I'll be staying in the city and not near a computer. And this post is a covert operation performed far (down the hall) from the prying eyes of Attention Whore.

I already have stories. They are good AND embarrassing (we can't lose, here)

I am keeping THIS blog. 1) It's prettier than my old blog. 2) It's annoying to talk about the ex-Ex ALL the time. I like this one better.


Anyway I had to clarify because the song kept running through my head: "Don't be cruel to a heart that's true."

Oh and if you want to stalk me, this is where I'll be:

The end has come

There comes a time in every blogger's life when they actually have a life. Some deal with this in different ways, either by posting less or officially quitting their blogs. Some bloggers end up quitting their blogs for fear that other people will find out about them, and some take desperate measures to keep their blog a secret.

Well, it has come to that time, my friends.

Lucky for you, I only have a life from Wednesday through Sunday, so I'll be back. And since I'm showing around Attention Whore AND half of my mom's family, I'm sure I'll have some life-changing stories when I return.

In the meantime, I should probably mention that The Ex and I got back together. Discuss.

Why commercials are better than any of Tom Cruise's movies

I love visiting my dad in North Carolina, but there are a few problems I encounter here. One is that the shower has bad water pressure and always needs Draino. Another (and one more relevant to this blog entry) is that I'm not a morning person. My dad wakes up at 5:30, and I'm not about to do that on my spring break. The trade off is that he goes to bed at around 9 or 10, leaving me hours to sit around with nothing to do. (I have no friends)

After getting kicked out of his room when my new stepmom needed to go to bed (no hard feelings, I promise), I joined my brother on the living room couch. It had been a particularly boring day, filled with NCAA tournament games and some not-so-intense thumb twiddling. I came out just as a game was ending, and watched in horror as another one began.

"I'm not going to watch this game," my brother mercifully informed me.

Nice! My heart crouched down in preparation to leap for joy, and then I realized that nothing was on TV (it was Saturday night). "What's on though?" I whined.

My brother flipped through a few channels and found that Mission Impossible 2 was just about to begin. "There ya go," he said, walking off to go to bed.

I hadn't seen Mission Impossible 2, but I realized very quickly that it was going to be a horrible movie. And I was right. It's really stupendously bad. I don't even know how to describe how bad it is. Every time something dramatic happened, some guy pulled a fucking mask off his face. It was pretty disappointing.

I didn't change the channel though. Of course not! I not only hoped in vain for the movie to get better, but wanted to have nothing to do with channel surfing on a Saturday night (with nothing on, it could get pretty frustrating). So I tried my best to weather the storm and finish the movie, which became more and more painful to do when the commercial breaks kept interrupting.

And then, BAM. I saw my friend on a fucking Quiznos commercial. "Whoa, really?" I said. I rewinded the Tivo and looked again in astonishment. "Fratboy? Is that you?" It really was. He had moved down to Los Angeles this fall, so he easily could have been auditioning for commercials.

And to top it off, I love Quiznos. And Fratboy's performance was way better than that of Tom Cruise. You know, now that I think of it... Fratboy never appealed to me, but he's slowly becoming more fuckable. Maybe it's the fame. And with the fame garnered by a TV commercial, maybe I'll find him unfuckable again in about a week or so.

Slutty sister story

Okay, so... I have a new step-sister (since September). She's really nice, she has a little bit of a
southern accent, seems pretty cool and laid back. When I came to visit my dad for spring break, I got to spend a little time with her. One night, she got text messages from six different guys, all of them asking her to cuddle with them. Every time she got a new text, she told me that another guy was trying to get her to come over. "What's with this cuddling?" I wondered. She insisted she had no idea, so I just warned her to be careful because the guys actually probably wanted to have sex with her.

A couple nights later, we had a "party" (as in, she invited her friends over while I stayed sober, went on a beer run, and tried to keep the noise down). Near the end of the night, I was talking to her two best friends in the kitchen with my brother when she stumbled in.

"Has anybody seen my cell phone charger?" She asked, tossing papers around to see if it was underneath.

"Nope, I don't know where it is. Why do you need it?"

"I ran out of batteries while I was in the middle of a call with this hot guy and I need to call him back."

"I think he'll get over it," I joked.

"Is it pre-med guy?" One of her friends asked.

"No."

"Is it Steve?"

"No, it's Carl."

Her friend looked confused. "Who's Carl?"

"Can you just tell me where my cell phone charger is?"

I tried to help. "Hun, I don't think it's going to matter that much if you call him back tomorrow or something. Don't worry about it."

"Well I have to have it with me for the morning because pre-med guy is going to call me at 7am."

"7am? Who calls people at 7am?"

"Pre-med guy."

"Why are you letting him call you that early in the morning? You're not even dating."

After a few minutes, I realized that she seriously thought she had to get her phone or face a public hanging. She ran outside in her PJs to look for her cell phone charger in the car. As soon as she left the room, I shared a moment of incredulous laughter with her friends, then turned to one of them and asked "Wow, is she a really big whore or something?"

As soon as I said it, I felt horrible. I have a tendency to say things like that as a joke and get in trouble for it. I was about to retract my statement and apologize when one of her friends said "Yeah, pretty much."

I was confused. "Wait, really?" Was she going along with my joke or...?

"Yeah, well, I guess you could call her that. I mean, she doesn't sleep with everyone she sees, but she's gone kind of crazy since she broke up with her ex."

I looked at my brother. "This is our new step-sister."

Slutty sister surprise!

OMG I just found out last night that my new step-sister is seriously a slut.

Details... coming soon.

Cuddling: the new fucking?

Hey y'all. That's right: "y'all". I'm in North Carolina now. And apparently I'm such a chameleon that I need to start speaking like a southerner.

I'm visiting my dad for my spring break, and what this means is that 1) I get to see the PUPPY! and 2) I get to see other people. My dad recently married a woman who has two kids of her own, so I have a sister who's a year younger than me and a brother two years younger. My step-sister and I were hanging out last night after the parents went to bed, and she started telling me about all these guys who were texting her out of the blue saying they want to cuddle.

Cuddle? "Is that code for something?" I asked.

"I don't think so," she replied, shrugging.

"Do you tell these people that you love to cuddle or something?" Why would a bunch of guys have the end goal of cuddling with her?

"No, I have no idea where they're getting this from!"

By the end of the night, six different guys had expressed a specific interest in cuddling with my step-sister. (I, of course, received zero calls) Seriously though. They meant "screw" or "fool around", right? Or is this a southern thing?

There is no going back

I recently bought a tube of mascara. This is significant because I hadn't worn mascara in a long time - about 3 years or so. So I bought the mascara and started wearing it to my internship, because I felt like the proper thing to do was to show up in professional attire. And that included mascara. It's what the pretty girls wear, and I'll be damned before I give anyone a reason to think I'm not pretty!

So I started wearing it to work, but then when I came back from the city I would go to my campus job wearing it.

And now I feel like I have to keep wearing it, so people won't figure out that my eyelashes aren't naturally dark and sexy. Makeup is evil.

I guess it evens out in the end

On my way to the bathroom yesterday, there were two men wheeling a cart towards the doors that lead to the elevator bank. It was a big cart. They are heavy doors.

"Can I help you with that?" I asked, since I could see that one man would have to hold open two whole heavy glass doors all by himself while the other pushed the cart through. Not even Superman would be able to manage that task alone.

"That would be great," one of them replied. I'm sure he smiled too, but I preferred not to look him in the eye because I had had my fill of visual rape for the day (guy on the train? would NOT STOP looking at me. Guy on the elevator? Constantly checking me out, then HAD to tell me that I look like Angelina Jolie as I escaped from the elevator. Seriously? I don't even know you, dude. And you're like... old).

So I opened the door and held it, then slipped back in the hallway for the bathroom. "God I'm so nice!" I thought. Here I was, with a quite urgent need to pee, and I had just opened the door for these people I didn't even know. I know, it sounds really ridiculous to call that "so nice," but it would have been "so easy" to just walk past them.

A few steps from the doorway, there was a lone glove lying on the floor. "That's probably one of the worker guys' gloves! I should grab it and run back to ask them if it's one of theirs! Hurry, before they get into the elevator!" I couldn't help picturing how heroic that would be (in the lame, office way).

But instead, I just walked past it. "Whatever, it's not my problem." I continued down the hall, but there was a pang of guilt. To the pang, I said: "I really have to pee, and they're probably on the elevator already. And my leg is still hurting, so it wouldn't be wise to run out there, and if I didn't run, I probably wouldn't make it in time. Except I totally could. Well, it's too late now!"

But, of course, it didn't end there.

"That poor man is probably going to be looking for his glove, and I could be the only person who knows where it is! What is wrong with me? I can open a door but I can't pick up a fucking glove? Oh crap. I'm going to feel guilty about this now. I'm going to feel way more guilty than I should though, because now I'm going to picture a man who has lost his glove and cries over it when he gets home or something ridiculous like that. I really shouldn't be that hard on myself... I mean, how do I even know it was his glove? ... Okay, it probably was. But... dammit, I'm such a bitch."

Accidentally, though. I swear.

Working for free is called slave labor

I'm sorry, filmmaking industry, but I'm tired of working FOR FREE.

I've been spending my time and resources on you for three fucking years. And, even after three years of experience as an intern, all I can do is more interning because I'm still in school. I have news for you: I'm better than the people you're paying right now. I'm more passionate and inspired and creative. I'm more hard-working. And fucking A, I'm funnier.

So don't give me any of this Craigslist bullshit, with your "This is an unpaid internship" and "College Credit Available." Do you think I'm not going to graduate without your help? Your college credit won't help me pay the rent in New York. Way to treat workers fairly, Fox. Way to pull out a metrocard for me while you giggle at your mountain of personal profits, Comedy Central. And how much do you think it warms my heart to read that no, you won't offer me minimum wage, but lunch is on you? Here's a clue: chilly as that cold shoulder you just gave me.

Remember when you were six years old and your parents told you to lie down and watch TV when you were sick? And, as they slid a bowl of soup in front of you they chant "You can be whatever you want when you grow up."

They forgot to mention this part.

The end of creepy guy

Being harrassed is not fun, and the creepy guy was really starting to piss me off. After almost a week of ignoring him, he was still bothering me. I confided in the Heterophobe: "I want to send him a text or something just telling him to fuck off, but I don't want to contact him ever again."

He responded that "He'll probably just think you're flirting with him." I laughed. "No, seriously. He'll think it's some kind of game."

So I ignored creepy guy, hoping that the third unreturned call would be enough to give this guy some clarity. But wishful thinking rarely works, and this was no exception. Last night, while drinking with my roommates, I heard my phone chime with a text. I was hoping it was The Ex, but instead it was the creepy guy.

"Hey... give me a call... i found a roommie, but i wanted to talk to you about the film."

I had a small outburst of frustration that attracted the interest of my friends. "What's wrong?"

"Creepy guy just texted me! Why won't he go the fuck away?!"

I then got my friend, Nice Guy, to text him for me. After a minute or two of deliberation over word choice, we came up with "Please stop trying to contact me."

Creepy guy wrote back: "Ouch. So i was a creep. But i'm not. Promise. At least let me explain how i could be such a jerk..."

My friends all drunkenly booed him, and Nice Guy wrote back "No."

Creepy guy then wrote me such a long text that it took two messages. "Lol. I deserve that, but don't blow off the job just cause i have absolutely no class. I felt comfortable w/you. Look. I'll have my website up in the next few days and you can decide then whether you'll let me make it up to you... c'mon. The website is [url]"

Hopefully he'll stop contacting me now. 'Cause this thing is getting way old.

Creepy guy is... well, creepy

Update on the creepy guy (backstory here and here):

Since Sunday night, he has called me and left messages three times. The first two times were later at night, around 11:30, and in his messages he said "Oh, I guess it's kind of late." He then refers to this filmmaking thing we discussed before I could tell he was creepy, as if that's why he's calling, and orders me to call him back.

The fact that I'm not answering his calls or returning them is apparently unimportant. I got a call today from a restricted number, and immediately thought it was him so I didn't answer. Sure enough, his message was "Hey TAB, I want to talk to you about the film thing, so give me a call back."

So, he purposely blocked his number in the hopes that I would accidentally answer a call from him?

So. Creepy.

A cavernous vagina

I was talking to my friend, Bitching Broad, about a guy she recently met. "He's really nice, he's cute, and I think we would be great together even though I don't know him that well," She confided.

"Nice! You should flirt with him more." I couldn't wait for her to get some action on the off-chance that it would make her more happy. Or at least distract her from bitching to me about every detail of her life.

"Well, I don't know. I mean, he's Irish," she said with a meaningful look.

This did not make sense to me. From her tone, I could tell that she had something against the Irish. But I had always assumed Irish was good, what with the gorgeous accents and all. "So?"

"Well... you know what they say about Irish men, right?"

I was very confused now. "They like beer? And you're not okay with it?"

"No. You haven't heard this, seriously? I heard that Irish men have small penises."

I laughed. "Really? Because they don't." In my sex psychology class, we learned all about penis size and how race is not a reliable indication of penis size because those generalizations are stereotypes based on socioeconomic hierarchies. I explained this to her, and then reminded her that a small dick wouldn't be the end of the world. Especially since she hadn't even asked him out yet.

"Well, I just can't date a guy with a small dick. It has to be big."

What was this? Bitching Broad, who constantly complains about her lack of game, refuses to date a guy with even an average sized penis? I started yelling at her, but she clarified with a story: apparently her ex-boyfriend, who devirginized her, told her that she couldn't orgasm from her G-spot because her vagina is too big.

"What does he mean, too big?" I asked angrily.

"I don't know. He said it was cavernous."

I internally laughed at this word choice, but had trouble imagining how a vagina could be so vast as to preclude sensation. I had no choice - both as her friend and as a woman in a state of disbelief - but to reject his criticism. "That's not possible."

"Really? Are you sure?"

Since I couldn't picture how this cavernous vagina deal would work, I told her I was sure. And then wondered... is that possible?

Hunters and gatherers

In my sex psychology class, we were talking about evolutionary psychology and theories of male and female mate selection.

"Evolutionarily, males are more hunting oriented, while women are more gathering oriented."

Yeah, I get it. In hunter-gatherer society predating Western civilization, men were the hunters. Woman gathered.

But let's take that theory to the bar. When at a bar, I suppose the theory is that a woman sits around waiting for the man to drop by and "hunt" her (hit on, offer a drink, or otherwise harrass). But I wouldn't say that I really gather the men. I might take a survey of the selection, yes. But isn't that in itself hunting? I mean, you're narrowing down your prey. And don't men do the same? Or do they spot the weakest one and pounce?

Guys, what do you do at the bars? How does it compare to hunting?

Ladies... would you say you "gather"?