oh my god i think i was an escort

We never made it to the frat.

I once went on a Valentine's Day date in exchange for a handle of vodka. Oh, to be 18 again. I remember
ordering a salad, because I thought that's what you were supposed to eat on dates (and because I have always been a skinnybitch). I left hungry, but more disappointingly, I left without vodka in hand. Three days later, I trekked through a snowstorm to pick up my payment. Smirnoff. Apparently, I was a cheap date. 

That handel created one of the most notorious nights of my college career.

That was probably one of my best Valentine's Days. In fact, in elementary school, I threw up 4 years in a row on Valentine's Day. I'll never forget projectile vomiting grilled cheese and noodle soup in the principal's office. Fourth grade. In fifth grade, I was lucky enough to puke before I left the house, missing my "girlfriend's" mom picking us up for an off-campus lunch date. To be fair, I thought she would grow up to be a lesbian anyway. 

Senior year of high school, I broke up with my boyfriend the week before Valentine's Day because I was afraid he was going to outdo me. The next day, my best friend brought me a bag full of gifts he had planned to surprise me with throughout the day, ending in an invitation to his school's Spring Fling. At least I was right. He would have outdone me. 

Junior year of college, my friends and I tried to attend a Cupid party at the Jewish fraternity after recreating aforementioned "Handle Night" from paragraph one. I woke up asleep on my friend who was Jewish, but not in the fraternity. So I guess I kind of completed the mission.  

I did have one Valentine's Day worth smiling about. I received a heart shaped box full of 50+ McDonald's BBQ sauces the guy had collected for a month. We broke up the next week because surprises gave me anxiety. He now lives with his boyfriend in Portland in a very chic apartment. He's incredibly happy. I'm incredibly happy for him. SO happy for him. Just...so happy. 

So, what am I doing this year? 

I decided to plan a trip to our nation's capitol to see a boy I fell for at a bar. I will meet his entire family and give him the cheesiest, most thoughtful gift a genius writer like me could think of without drinking myself into a stupor of inadequacy. I will risk everything I have to tell him how head-over-heels I feel in the hopes that he will be stupid enough to match me in said risk of diving head first into what is hopefully the deep end. 

And I will blog bout it.

And he will probably think I'm crazy because I did. 

And maybe I am. 

But luckily, he might be crazier. 

There will be vodka. 

And as long as I don't projectile vomit, this will be far from the worst. 

Tradition,

TJB: Making It

MANuscript

Do you know what's really hard?

Dating.

See? You knew that. That's something you know.

I used to subscribe to the Sex and the City mentality that we all have two great loves (Season 5, Episode 1, Anchors Away, F*ck You Charlotte). I had even pinpointed who those two people were, which - as I'm sure you can imagine - made the following relationships all very fulfilling and successful. 

But that episode was 2002. Throw in an unlimited data plan, six dating websites, an increase in the frequency and convenience of public transportation and HOLY HELL you can really go through them.

My first boyfriend was afraid to swallow pills. He battled his anxiety with venti quad Americanos and raspberry white mochas from Starbucks.

My second boyfriend used to lift me up and pretend we were in The Lion King  opening sequence. I was Simba, he was Rafiki. It wasn't as cute as it sounds. At least not after the 5th time.

My third boyfriend once snorted Prozac off of the bar at my friend's birthday party. He claimed I overreacted because he had a prescription for it, so it was no big deal.

My fourth boyfriend was a dancer. Enough said.

My fifth boyfriend couldn't eat pork. For religious reasons, sure, but it made ordering pizza really difficult. It was doomed from day one.

I'm sure there are people I'm leaving out who considered themselves my boyfriends, but including them isn't going to make either of us look better now. You're welcome.

If you can guess which of the two listed I had considered my two great loves, then you've thought far too much into this and I'm sad for you. The point is, there's a strange feeling that sinks in when you realize you're not hung up on somebody anymore. You're the melancholy meadowlark, sad to be let out of the cage until you realize you're free to discover new kinks and better ways to be tied down.

I took it from a bird reference to a BDSM reference. Dad is going to be really proud.

All 2014 has brought me so far is an increase in my student loan payments and a date where I called the boy a wrong name three times. So, I'm getting hung up on the pen and not the penis. It's time to get back to that book deal.

(My mom said to write something uplifting. I'm counting the dick jokes.)

More penis puns please,

TJB: Making It

Seasons of Awkward Interactions

There are those people in life who will always leave you speechless, somehow dumb upon sight. No matter how hard you try to sharpen your wit and turn up your sass, mere eye contact for more than a second seems to staple your brain shut.

Yet another clockwork year had passed to bring me back to fall of freshman year when I met The Boy With the Glasses. I had much less time to prepare myself this year. I was almost relieved when the meeting was nearly cancelled due to weather. However, it was only pushed back half an hour, which would now cause overlap with the best friend who is both smarter and quicker than TJB.

Shocking, I know.

I prepared my talking points, changed outfits to something that said "don't care", and even wore my own glasses as if the extra layer between my eyes and his would help deflect the numbing stare. There would be only 30 minutes to establish that I was the calmest, coolest internal 5th grader in NYC.

Just kidding. When I turned the corner on 8th Avenue, I found myself steps behind the best friend. I remained quiet with a whispered "fuck" and let him reach the doors of the Google offices before I tapped his shoulder.

The Boy With the Glasses was already waiting in the lobby. We checked in at the security desk where I managed to take the worst photo of my life for a badge that I quickly shoved into my pocket. I shook off the snapshot, slapped on some swagger, and followed The Boy With the Glasses through the security glass doors

which promptly shut on me, catching my entire body in them as I flailed and struggled to get out like a trapped rabbit.

The security guard shouted at me to use the open entrance on the left, but it was a little too late and my pride was left in the lobby.

We spent the next 20 minutes traveling through the Google offices, a distracting cavern of quirk and free food. I suppose aesthetics and perks are important if you hate your job. By the time we sat down, I was pretty sure everyone had forgotten about my embarrassing entrance...so I brought it up again.

Then, I brought up a boy I knew at Google in San Francisco. When The Boy With the Glasses asked if they should meet for coffee, I wanted to ask if I should just slit my wrists with chopsticks.

DAMN. I was losing traction fast. I had just set up a potential date, the best friend was nailing lunch, and I could only half answer any questions about myself between bites. My jokes weren't landing, I had to pee, and I almost choked on a shrimp tail in my sushi. I have never said "well, yeah" so many times. The realization that I had no business being at this lunch gathering slowly sank in. Obligatory-invitation-by-tradition was clear.

When the best friend mentioned he had to get back to work and would leave us to have a private goodbye, I almost spat up the shrimp tail in horror. No way was I going to leave myself one-on-one to risk the chance of any real emotions or honest thoughts existing. I would be getting in that elevator.

I said "see ya" to The Boy With the Glasses as if I would, knowing that if I somehow survive another five hundred twenty five thousand six hundred minutes in the pity graces of nostalgia, I will be the most single man in America. Still one of the prettiest, but very single.

I looked at the best friend talking on the way down but never listened. As we walked out into the rain, he said goodbye, and I said, "Just hug me." He begrudgingly wrapped one arm around me like the sad wet puppy I was before running off. I didn't open my umbrella for 3 blocks in some weird poetic gesture to the day.

I should have worn contacts,

TJB: Making It

You'd look OK naked.

Sometimes you sit on your bed and stare out the window, counting the people you know would like to see you naked. No, I'm not naked. No, I'm not even depressed. I was just curious.

I was having drinks with a friend (who I will be bold enough to say is quite attracted to me and I somewhat to him) who mentioned a trip home. He found it refreshing to be around people who were just excited to see him, unlike New York where everybody wants something from him. As he touched my thigh under the table and picked up his phone to text for the 6th time during the first and last drink I would allow my self-esteem to sit through, I wasn't sure I agreed.

I don't agree that one: his friends back home were just excited to see him and wanted nothing, and two: that it's better to be around people who want nothing from you. In fact, though he mentioned he was "just excited to see me", had he not held my hand or touched my leg a fifth time, I likely would have left out of boredom from watching him respond to texts. But I knew that he wanted to see me naked, so I stayed.

If you want to see somebody naked, put your phone away. At least let them believe through the first drink that you find them interesting.

This is the part of the blog where my parents call me and tell me to be "safe".

Don't worry, Mom and Dad. I stand far away from the flames when I burn my bridges.

And I keep my clothes on.

I read a great article once (shared by somebody who had already seen me naked) that everybody wants something from you. If they don't, they want nothing to do with you. We are only as good as what we can give.

What I'm trying to say is:

Sit on your bed and try to think of what you give to everyone you know. Think of what they're thankful for that you provide them with. If you can't think of anything...

they probably just want to see you naked.

and that's OK.

Keep your blinds closed,

TJB: Making It

Flight Status: It's Complicated

I just spent the weekend with one of those people who causes you to unzip the expander on your emotional baggage so much, you KNOW that shit is going to be gate checked.

I had a really beautiful blog planned all about love and loss and moving, on until he turned to me a few hours ago and made a snarky comment about my life (and my sweater).

So, I want this blog to serve as a digital reminder - shoutout to data permanence - that if, in fact, I end up married to this sway-backed buffoon in ten years, everything is his fault.

And if I end up married to somebody else in ten years, THANK YOU GOD I AM SO SORRY I EVER DOUBTED YOUR EXISTENCE.

And f I'm still sitting here alone, typing an angsty blog on a PC with a six pack of craft beer that was on sale at C-Town, well...

will any of us be that surprised?

TEXT ME BACK, MOM!

Sweatpants for days,

TJB: Making It

Trust the T, not the B

My blog just hit 40,000 views and I just watched an unaired episode of a cancelled TV show that stripped my soul bare and showed me the truth about my life in under 20 minutes.

That show is the enormously underrated, assuredly award-winning Don't Trust the B---- in Apartment 23. 

Long story short, Midwestern blonde bitch moves to NYC and has a sassy and fabulous roommate with which to have endless shenanigans that end in quirky life lessons. In the aforementioned episode, the sassy fabulous one teaches the Midwestern blonde one that she never really wanted to be with that boy she liked in 7th grade, but only thought she did because she never got it out of her system and kept asking, "What if?"

Essentially, there are a lot of awesome things going on in my life. I have my own apartment. I pay my own bills. I discovered an amazing hairstyle that over-compliments my bone structure. I have a job I thought I had no business doing but somehow ended up being really good at. Hell, I was just asked to come back to be seen by the artistic team of a Broadway show...OK, it's on a cruise ship, but still. Six months later, somebody is still interested in me.

So 24 years later, why am I not still interested in myself?

Because I let a boy get to me. Because for years, I've been treating him like the one that got away, when in reality

I let myself get away.

*clutch tissues to mouth and squint eyes*

I moved back to Chicago for a lot of strange reasons. For one, I really wanted to party here for New Year's Eve and couldn't afford a round-trip ticket. I also felt like I had to prove I wasn't wasting my brain while trying to be an actor. There's also an insane reunion of my a cappella group next weekend that I was worried I wouldn't get to be a part of because I was such a great actor and would surely be filming somewhere.

But to be bluntly honest, I sort of thought love-struck 17 year old me had some unfinished business to move back for.

OK FINE I WAS 18! I just don't like feeling old.

Turns out, America (and I think I'm big in Spain now), I was the only one who thought so. Apparently, I just needed a sassy girl on a nixed sitcom to tell me. And if I can take rejection from Broadway, I can take rejection from this.

What's next? I don't really know.

Just kidding, I have so much more bad TV to watch and a really cute outfit planned for tomorrow.

There's Pad Thai all over my pillow,

TJB: Making It