Cosmo: Fucking Up Your Love Life One Font At A Time (Part 1.)

http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/dating-advice/fun-fearless-ways-to-meet-guys

I. Adore. Cosmopolitan Magazine. 

True Story. 

Perhaps it's the way that they appeal to everyone's wholesome side with their WAYS TO PICK UP DUDES, or the simple style they keep with the look of the magazine, using HOW MANY BRIGHT COLORS AND HORRIBLE TYPOGRAPHY EXAMPLES CAN WE USE, or the way they use their investigative journalism skills to bring you 100 SEX TIPS THAT WE'VE USED SINCE '66.

Peruse their website once a month. See if you can see what I see--THE SAME DAMN SHIT. It's terrible advice, and for the life of me, I can't find an adult woman who's successful in life and love who reads that drivel.

But this one--this lovely little slideshow really does it for me. While I realize that there is a good market out there for people who really do want and need to know how to meet people, their advice is soundly...awful.

Admittedly, a couple of their ideas are not bad--complimenting a man on a piece of clothing, mistaking him for someone else, scoping his wingman for the assist, but out of 21, that's 3. For fuck's sake Cosmo. For fuck's sake.

Let's take a journey into the mind of Cosmo Girls everywhere, and learn, HOW TO MEET A MAN!

1) Join His Cheering Section

Hit a sports bar the next time a game is on. Wear a tee with the logo of the team you’re cheering for, and sit near a guy rooting for the same team. You can connect over your shared fandom.

The problem with this suggestion is that it is aimed at the "Cosmo Girl," who, if I can judge readership based on their willingness to read articles titled "VAJAYJAY-SCAPING," isn't too aware of the sports world. 

Imagined Scenario: Girl sits next to Hot-tay wearing Cowboys jersey. Hot-tay instantly locks eyes with her, smitten by her shared love of sports. They marry. Oh, he's also rich.

Reality: Girl sits next to good-looking Cowboys fan. Fan notices her boobs, and that her boobs are covered with the Cowboys Star. Fan hopes that girl truly shares a love of football. They date, and a few months down the road, she reveals her hatred of sports of any kind, and tells him to "TURN THAT SHIT OFF AND PAY ATTENTION TO ME." Fan is miserable, girl is miserable, and relationship is based on a lie. 

2) Add Him to Your Photo Album 

Ask a hot guy to take a photo while you’re out with friends. After he shoots, suggest he jump in. Look over the photos together, and get his e-mail address so you can send him the pictures.

That's the weirdest shit I have ever heard. Ever. 

Imagined Scenario: Hot-tay takes photo of you, and then takes a photo of his number on the sly. You look at the photos together, and it's adorable. He laughs, you laugh. You get married, and he's rich. 

Reality: If he doesn't steal your camera? First, your friends are going to be weirded out by the weird dude taking pictures with you (because your friend now has to take the picture). You're trying to be cute and coy, but in reality, offering to send him the pictures of you (a stranger) and him (a stranger) comes off as--stalkery. 

3) Invite Him to Escort You

Tell a cutie on the street you’re lost, and ask him how to get somewhere (in the direction he’s heading). Ask if he’d walk you there. Then before saying bye, suggest you thank him with a cup of joe.

Okay, you lying whore. 

Imagined Scenario: "My goodness sir, I'm so lost! Can you escort me to Nordstroms?" You get married. He is rich. 

Reality: He'll figure out a ways down the road that you're a compulsive liar, you lying whore. 

4) Make Him Your Target

If you have outdoor plans with friends, take a Nerf football. When a cute guy walks by, throw it at him—just don’t peg him in the head. When he brings it over, ask him to join the game.

Again, I say, that the typical Cosmo Girl is not going to be packing heat with the Nerf football.

Imagined Scenario: He catches it effortlessly, and you giggle as you return the football to your bag. He comments on your throwing arm, and you catch dinner, get married, and OH HE'S RICH, TOO?

Reality: You peg a fucking stranger in the eye with the not-all-the-way-sanded-down seam on the Nerf, which is as sharp as a motherfucking katana sword. He sues you, and your friends will stop bringing you out with them, because  of your bad habit of PEGGING STRANGERS WITH BALLS.

5) Start a Convo Between Spin Cycles

The best thing about a cute guy in a Laundromat? He’s not going anywhere for a good hour. Pretend you’re out of detergent, and ask to borrow a cup. You’ll have a few spin cycles to chat…and find out if he’s a boxers man or a briefs man.

OH HAHA, BOXERS OR BRIEFS? Well, I don't know, bitch. 

Imagined Scenario: You have a romantic encounter a la Forty Days and Forty Nights.

Reality: Do you know how Adrian does laundry? He puts everything together in one cycle and puts some fabric softener in. No lie. So, not only do you look like you're a forgetful bitch, but you're stuck using his shithole detergent on your fine clothing. Way to go, whore. 

6) Pay Attention to Detail

When it comes to meeting men, it helps to have something specific to talk about. The next time you see a hot dude on the weekend, look for a clue to his personality before starting a conversation. For example, if he’s wearing a NASCAR cap, approach him with "I noticed your hat. Are you into racing?" It’s an opener that seems natural, not contrived. Plus, he’ll feel comfortable around you because you’re talking about something he really gets.

FUCKING NASCAR? NASCAR?

The idea in this is not that it's a bad idea, per se, it's that they chose NASCAR. Ladies, If you're hunting down a hottie at a NASCAR event, here's a word to the wise--HOPE YOU LIKE PORK RINDS, HO. NASCAR men aren't known for being those to attract the Cosmo crowd. They could have chosen Titleist (not Titties, spell-check), Jordan Airs, TapOut Shirts, fucking anything. But no. NASCAR. 

7) Write Him an I.O.U.

Is it just us or are hot waiters the new men in uniform? Next time you’re out for dinner with your girls, smile and make eye contact with a cute server. When the bill arrives, leave your number on the tip line and write that you owe him a drink.

I was a waitress once upon a time, and you know what? IOU's in a tip line are a bitch move. 

Imagined Scenario: "Wow, this chick is into me, I'll take her out. Lucky for her, I've got a trust fund, and I just serve on the side. I'M RICH."

Reality: "THE WHORE AT 19 JUST LEFT ME HER NUMBER IN THE TIP LINE. MY GIRLFRIEND IS GOING TO FUCKING KILL ME BECAUSE I CAN'T PAY MY LIGHT BILL AGAIN."

8) Volunteer Your Time

Studies show that performing altruistic acts can make you more sexually attractive—all the more reason to put on your do-gooder pants. Check out opportunities at volunteeringamerica.gov, and search your zip code to find a place to volunteer (and guy scope) near you. Once you're there, strike up a convo with a guy by asking how he heard about the organization and if he’s been involved for very long.

Disclaimer: Please do go volunteer, volunteering is good. 

I'm going to jump right in.

Imagined Scenario: "Oh, yeah, I volunteer all the time. I also rescue puppies, make millions, and I'm single!"

Reality: "I'm here on work release/court-ordered community service."

9) Join His Team (Accompanied by picture of two dudes, shirtless, in khakis, touching while playing soccer).

At the beach or park with pals, find a spot near a group of guys playing soccer, Frisbee, or volleyball. After a few minutes, wander over and ask the hottest of the bunch if you can all join in.

Again, not so much on the bad idea side as bad presentation. Go click on the link, and look at this picture. Ladies, if you're wanting to join in with that group of guys, you better be packing the biggest dick of them all, or bringing your Gay-Pack with you, because those are homosexuals. Unless you are also a homosexual man, you're picking up the wrong crowd.

Imagined Scenario: Duel between teams to see who gets to date the hot chick. They are all rich.

Reality: Cosmo girl, you probably suck at sports. Joining anyone's team is not a good plan for you, unless you're prepared to be sidelined to jump around for the boob-jiggles. Also, THESE MEN PICTURED HERE ARE HOMOSEXUALS. 

Disclaimer: There is nothing wrong with homosexuals, but I am highlighting the fact that chicks are probably not going to be able to pick them up.

I'm just sayin', folks. 

Stay tuned for Part 2: Noa's WAYS TO MEET MEN! 

The Eyes Follow You.

Back when I did more than ghost hunt and martial arts, I worked at a company that was the single most terrifying and hilarious jobs of my entire life.

The job itself was really tame--I was an assistant, and the only thing I HAD to do every single day was sort the mail. I was still in college at the time, and it let me work around my schedule, earn a decent wage, and be left alone up at my desk for many hours at a time.

Let me tell you the timeline of this job. 

Day -2: I am laid the hell off, sitting on my bed watching Law and Order: SVU, and desperately need to be paid to get out of my house, because Adrian is tired of me reorganizing the office every Tuesday. I notice a job posting on my university's job listing online--"Work part-time at a small office as a president's assistant! Clerical work, filing, good pay. Will work around school schedule. Please include your GPA." JACKPOT, I'M A 4.0.

Day -1: "Come in for an interview," says Laura. Alright bitches, time to put on pants.

Day 0: I show up at this small office, only a block from my house, in my fancy red shoes and sassy pencil skirt. I can already feel that this interview is going to go well, considering I don't have cheese on my tit, like I did when I interviewed for my last job that I got laid off at. Word to the wise, Cheeseboob? Not a good idea.

There seems to be an inordinate amount of dead animals on the walls of this office. Oh well, he's an eccentric man, probably. HOW COULD HE NOT BE BADASS? He owned a great company and hunted all over the world. 

Laura is pretty, tall, and fun. She's chatty in the interview, and I can see that she's cool--this job is going to rule. 

I take a test to make sure that I'm even halfway competent at operating basic computer functions. I do pretty well until I have to calculate percentages. I never knew my official score, but can assure you, it must have been awful. 

There are even more dead animals back further into the office. Oh well.

Day 1: FUCK YEAH I'M HIRED. Time to razzledazzle. 

Day 2: I train on how to sort the mail. Doesn't seem too bad. I get a quick rundown of other things I will do: make travel arrangements, compile things into understandable packets, print out his emails in doubles so he can read one and we file one, send birthday cards. Okay, I can do this.

Wait, is that a zebra on that couch? 

Day 3: I am alone up at my desk, trying to sort the mail and keep shit straight. There are piles upon piles of papers all over the office, in every location in which there are not dead animals hanging from the walls, which is quite the feat, considering there are at least 3 dead animals in each office. I notice that the coffee table is made of real elephant feet. 

I meet Jen, who works with Laura in the back. Laura and Jen are rad as shit. 

I meet Cam, the President. Cam is approximately 80, and it his birthday today. He seems nice enough, and I am sent to get his birthday cake. Remembering that I'm terrible in any social situation, my coworkers, Cam, and I assemble in the middle of the office for beans, cornbread, and carrot cake without the icing. 

Mother of God, can a bitch get a glass of water up in here? 

I make a couple of jokes that Cam doesn't get, making me look like a total ahole, and we listen to him talk about farming. 

Day 19: Okay, what the hell is going on here? Thank God for Jen and Laura, because I would not be able to figure any of this shit out. There is a protocol for literally everything, right down to where to put certain sticky notes, because if we don't do it this certain way we are literally breaking the law, but I don't understand any of it. I look like an aneurysm patient trying to file basic things.

There are so many dead animals. There are herds of them. Herds. They line the walls, the floor, and one on the ceiling. There are two in the reception area that stare soullessly into my eyes, watching my every move. I'm sure there are cameras in them. 

Cam is codgery on his good days, and straight up WHOA on his bad. It's a crapshoot sometimes getting things done correctly, mostly because I'm completely incompetent. I don't understand a lot about farming, but Cam will make sure I do. 

Jen is funny. THANK GOD.

Day 30: I meet Kent. Kent is apparently an accountant, but I can't, for the life of me, ever recall him being in the office to work. He's dressed in paint stained jeans and a Mighty Ducks sweatshirt. He's a little sweaty and a lot out of breath. 

Jen's face immediately contorts in a failed attempt not to laugh when she sees him. I immediately IM her.

Noa: WTF is with this guy?

Jen: That's Kent. 

Noa: You say that like it's no big thing. Dude looks like he painted the lines for a marathon.

Jen: That's always how he looks, save when he's wearing a thong and pantyhose underneath those jeans.

Noa: ...ugh.

Jen: Once, he was missing for a while, and then came back 4 days later from Seattle with bruises and no explanation.

Noa: ...I don't even know what to say to that.

Jen: True story. 

Noa: Dear Kent, it's weird when you sit on the edge of my desk to introduce yourself. You sweated on my work, and you're wearing a sweatshirt in August. You're fucking weird. Love, Noa.

Jen: Laura thinks your letter to Kent is awesome.

Day 57: At this point, I have realized that working here is awesome and terrifying all at the same time. It's a veritable parade of, "Who knows what's going to happen this week?" Up to this point, here are a few snippets of joy that have actually occurred.

Cam: "OH MY GOD. Is that a tornado siren?"

Noa: "No, it's the vaccuum in the hallway. The cleaning ladies started early."

Jen: Bursts into laughter from the back room. 

Kent: "Can I speak to Laura please?"

Noa: "Sure, let me put you through."

Laura: 10 minutes later, emerges from her office, visibly shaken. 

Cam: "You know I have two fighting lions at my house?"

Noa: "What? You have two lions that just fight?"

Cam: "Well they're dead."

We just hired a new girl for billing, who is of Vietnamese descent. She is adorable, and we are all afraid for her.

Cam: "I went to Vietnam once."

Dana: "That's nice."

Cam: "You know where they have the best Vietnamese food? In Colorado. Or maybe it's Thai."

Dana: Blank, horrified stare.

It's our other billing girls' last day, so we all go to eat at a hibachi joint.

Cam: Snaps at the hostess, "SEAT US."

Jen: "Oh good. It begins."

Cam: Hands our waitress a White Paper on the dangers of eating meat that isn't cooked through.

Jen: "Enjoy your miso and spit."

Cam: Drinks a couple beers.

Noa: "Happy Birthday Jen! Here's a shitty cake with Twilight on it!"

Jen: "Might have been better if it said Sorry about your Dismemberment."

Noa: "Noted."

Cam: Farts loudly about 6 times as he walks from the front door (directly in front of me) to his office.

Office: NO ONE SAYS A DAMN WORD.

Noa: Can't do anything but laugh.

Cam: At a conference in New York. "Can you fax me a sheet of business cards? I forgot mine."

Noa: "...Sure." Fax.

Cam: Calls back. "These aren't cardstock."

Noa: "..."

Kent: "Oh, Noa, I dropped these two files that I absolutely need today behind these two crazy tall filing cabinets. You're skinny, can you get them?"

Noa: "Okay, no problem." I spend about 5 minutes dangling helplessly behind two 5 foot tall cabinets to reach them, and tear my shirt across the boob on the way up. KENT STOOD BEHIND ME THE WHOLE TIME STARING AT MY ASS.

Noa: "Fuck's sake, Jen, you couldn't have said anything to Kent about that?'

Jen: "No. I was staring in delight, anticipating the horrified look on your face."

Cam: "Do you think I could win in a fight with Noa?"

Laura: "Noa does Jiu Jitsu, Cam."

Cam: "I have a year of judo."

Laura: "Okay, yeah, well then you'll be fine."

Day 76: Jen leaves. Laura and I are indescribably sad. Life holds no meaning for me anymore. 

Day 150: I move away. Cam's last words are, "Make sure you send out those emails. Well, bye. Faaaarrrrt."

I can't make this shit up. 

iFucking Hate You

Phone.

I meant Whoa. I did not mean Shias. I have never used the word Shias and never have needed to. I do use Whoa a lot, though.

It baffles me in a lot of ways that you feel it was appropriate to switch those words out. It's like you know me, and you read my blog.

My phone has become self-aware. I have a T-1000 phone fresh from Skynet. Fuck.

WHAT ELSE ARE YOU LEARNING?

Another One.

I just started writing another blog that's not as funny, but not meant to be. The Iron Bluebonnet is my journal of being an outwardly happy adventurer who's really terrified of everything and becoming the person I want to be in the world--a woman who inspires others through action. 

Ass-Relational Graphs

http://thegloss.com/odds-and-ends/im-appalled-that-this-thong-exists/

What. The. Hell.

I am also appalled that this thong exists. 

Ladies and Gents, that's an underwire shoved up your hoohah that covers only parts of your hoohah. That's like shoving a pen up your ass and posing for a calendar shoot--these things do not make sense.

I cannot possibly imagine a need or a want for such an item. This could also be because I am not bone thin with a giant rack and an egg-crackin' ass. Ma'am, your vagina is hanging out.

Whew. Okay, now, I'm a results based person, and before I make a decision on things, I like to have as much information as possible to choose. I look at all sides, and evaluate possibilities. I need to give the c-String (I even hate the name) a fair shot.

My Hypothesis: Buying this bikini is an awful decision.

Let's first look at the basic facts.

1) I am translucently white.

2) Most people are susceptible to sunburns.

3) It is to be worn to a beach/pool.

4) Beaches have sand. Pools have concrete.

5) Bikinis are designed for sex appeal.

6) This thing looks fucking uncomfortable.

7) Gripping things in your asscheeks is grippingly unsexy. (Unless you're my phone, which is in to S&M).

Let's Test our Hypothesis! SCIENCE IS AWESOME.

Test 1: Evaluate Facts 1 & 2.

As you can see here, a normal bikini is going to aid a normal person in the toasting process, while the C-String induces large amounts of UV poisoning in your nethers. 

Test 2: Evaluate Facts 3 & 4.

Test 3: Evaluate Facts 5, 6, & 7.

Conclusion:

Fan of anuses, sunburns, and sunburns on your anus? THE C-STRING IS FOR YOU! Otherwise, stick to your tankini.

Adrian says, "Nice use of multimedia." Thanks!

Plea to the God of Adjustable Beds (NOT ADRIAN)

Fuck off, Adrian.

I have wanted a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed (the Monaco Model, to be precise), since I was a child and saw the delightful commercial for the very first time.

I DARE you to tell me who in the world would not love watching Sunday football in a Craftmatic. Reclining at ANY angle, with ANY level of foot support, with custom heating/cooling options and all-over massage. These bitches sell themselves.

Adrian dares to tell me that because I am young, I do not need a Craftmatic.

Here's Adrian's logic: "You're 23. I'm trying to think of ways to get you out of bed. People with Craftmatics have 20 years left--they need the rest."

Here's my logic: "YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE IN THIS HOUSE WITH A DEDICATED WORKSPACE WITH ALL YOUR TOOLS NEARBY. I AM PUSHED AWAY TO THE BED OR THE FUCKING GREEN FUTON DOWNSTAIRS THAT THE CATS HAVE TURNED INTO A FORTRESS OF FEAR. DON'T I DESERVE TO WORK IN SUBLIME COMFORT WITH MY 25" COLOR TV?"

I mean, really.

Have you ever even seen a Craftmatic? Can you imagine the possibilities of owning one? Sleeping in the utmost comfort all the time--it's amazing to me that they have not been mandated by law yet.

If I had my way in my own house (which I clearly don't, as I am a slave to Adrian's 'useful' furnishings), I would replace my couches and bed and dining chairs with hybrid Craftmatics/Tempurpedics.

That's like sleeping on Jesus' bed. Can you imagine?


We would be reclining all over this damn house.

Come to think of it--I think I could really innovate the Craftmatic Industry.

Imagine the laziness possibilities of a Craftmatic Personal Scooter.
Imagine the ultimate comfort of a Craftmatic bathtub.
Imagine the happiness of Craftmatic tanning beds.
Imagine the joy on a ill child's face of a videogame centered Craftmatic.
Imagine the driving comfort of a Craftmatic car.

I dare to dream in comfort, Adrian. Don't you think I deserve this, with the innovations to the industry I have provided? They're even made in the GOOD OL' USA.

I should add that this post was in no way a stab at the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed company (Elevation Bed LLC)--I tremendously endorse your product, and have written this post under no urging of anyone (but Adrian). I would be happy to review a bed for this page, if you would be so inclined. Or reclined.

IT'S GONNA GET REAL, PHONE.

What I wanted to text to Lana: "Hahahaha, that guy's picture is funny as hell."

What was actually sent, post correction: "Shabaku, those guy's picture is funny as he'll."

WHAT IS A SHABAKU, PHONE?

WHY DOES IT DENOTE PROPER NOUN STATUS?

WHY DO YOU NOW THINK I MEAN SHABAKU, AND NOT HAHAHAHA, AS I HAVE SAID HAHAHAHA MANY MANY TIMES WITHOUT YOUR FUCKERY.

I AM NOT FOREIGN.

Phone. You're making me sound retarded. I need a flowchart to demonstrate the level of fuck.

I hate you, phone. 

PS: Adrian said my flowchart was difficult to follow. My phone fucks everything up.