(UN)Acceptable Men To Date. Or, All Of The Men.

Good morning, bored childless people who still read bullshit like this on the interwebs because of all that childless, free time you've got going on. And cheers to that, amirite?

In any case, being one of you, as well as being a single female who is almost certainly addicted to Facebook, I logged on (In? On.) this morning as I have most previous mornings, by clicking that little FB app on my iPhone (because who uses an actual computer anymore? Sidebar: They still get viruses from porn! How is this still a thing? iPhones don't get porn viruses...if only Steve Jobs was here to explain his damn self...but I digress. Also, what porn? Who said that?? I'm writing this on my phone. Sigh.) What was I talking about? Oh, right. So I log onto Le Facebook, or Big Brother as it would be more aptly named, and I very quickly realize that Facebook *knows*, you guys. Facebook knows my age, my single and childless status, that I get drunk and take selfies way too often (ok everyone knows that, but still). Facebook tailors it's marketing to *your individual fucking issues* now. And Facebook thinks it's my mother.

So the first thing I see is yet another article along the lines of "The Worst Types of Men to Date", "Why You Attract the Worst Types of Men to Date", "Bitch, Get It Together", "Seriously, What Are You Doing With Your Life, Woman?" etc ad nauseum infinitum.

I would love to lie to you and say I laugh and scroll past these articles. I really would. And most of the time I do. Sometimes I click on this crap. And (spoiler alert) these articles are malarkey. Mostly because "don't date an abusive guy" is not good advice. It's common fucking sense.

Here's the thing: The men we're dating (or the vast majority of them, at least) are not bad. They're not psychos or sociopaths. They're just frustrating. And we're impatient. Because we're turning 30 and most of them are kind of stupid about women. That's why they're still single.

So, ladies, here is the only list of Safe Men To Date. You tell me if you'd actually be into it...

1. The Virgin
Let's be real, here. If you give a man his first sexual experience...you own that man. And you could be the actual worst lay in world history. The great part is, he won't know the difference, and he'll be just as terrible as you are. But at least he has an excuse.

2. Any Close Male Relative
Ok, stay with me on this one. If you can get past that whole icky incest thang, this guy already loves you, and would never hurt you! Be it your dad's cute younger bro or your hot first cousin, this one is a clear win. (Sidenote: Exception being a younger brother. Because...annoying.)

3. Pedophiles In Hiding
Look, as long as they're not throwing it in your face. I mean, you won't know until the boys in blue come for the guy (or the SWAT team, depending on level of perversion) and then boom, you're just an innocent victim. Plus, his internet porn addiction will keep him busy and he won't pester you for all the sex, since you're just his cover. Excellent choice.

4. Gay Men
Obviously. Do I need to...Good. Glad we're on the same page. This is the clear choice.

5. Donald Trump
Because that makes as much sense as any of the above.

6.

6......

Nope, these are your only options. Deal with it. Or just be bitterly lonely forever. Your call. Either way, can we all agree that Facebook might actually be the brainchild of my mother...

Kanye4President
X

Sometimes You and Your Gay Best Friend Just Need to Text Obsessively About Your Ex Boyfriend From Like 8 Million Years Ago. Because He Was Perfect. The Prick.

I miss my crazy wonderful ridiculous gay best friend. A lot. Like, a LOT a lot. 

Today he texted me with some truly delightful news on his end. He has a new boyfriend. Well, bully for you, old chum! But, seriously, I could not have been happier for him. No one deserves a great guy more than Liam. (Except me. Obviously, me. Because, duh.) Still...happy times. 

So, there's this thing I've noticed where Liam and I can talk about our Boyfriends Past, like, ad nauseum, in a way that no girlfriend I have ever had will EVER put up with such nonsense. No way, NEVA. A girlfriend will put AN SWIFT END to any discussion of an ex that pushes a drunk 5 minutes (equal to roughly a sober 15, incidentally). Liam will let me go on about a guy I dated for 6 months 4 years ago for...oh...longer than I dated the guy, basically. Not to mention he will never be judgmental, sarcastic, harsh, or anything less than fully supportive and understanding of my complete and utter lunacy. What follows is an excerpt of one such conversation:

(Obviously I'm leaving names out of this.)

Marisa: So ******* is in a relationship!

M: I may drive my car off a cliff.

M: That's a joke, kind of.

Liam: Do not do that to me!!

L: It better be. I would not survive without you.

M: Well, he hasn't really been in a relationship since me. Wtf.

L: Wait for real? Ok, well no wonder this is distressing you.

M: Car. Cliff. Nuff said?

M: OH shit! By the way I'm gonna be in town for New Years Eve!

M: And I have to find a killer dress.

L: YAYAYAYAYAYAY!

L: We have to arrange for you to meet ****** [new boyfriend]

M: Obviously.

L: Brunch?

M: You took the word right out of my mouth.

L: I would expect no less.

M: Anyway, back to me needing a fabulous dress.

M: Like the kind that when you run into your ex randomly, his jaw hits the floor so hard it leaves a hole halfway to China...

M: Preferably.

M: Aaaand if his new girlfriend is with him she gets mad and says something along the lines of "YOU COULD'VE TOLD ME YOUR EX GIRLFRIEND LOOKS LIKE AUDREY FREAKING HEPBURN!"

M: Ideally.

L: Ok so first off I screen capped that.

M: Duh.

M: I'm hilarious.

[five minutes later]

M: [sends random photo of ex bf...stop judging me, this is what girls do with their gay best friends I swear]

M: I mean...

M: I'M ONLY FLESH AND BLOOD, LIAM.

L: He's the Angel to your Buffy.

M: WHY IS HE PERFECT

M: I HATE EVERYTHING

L: Ok he's NOT. He treats you like crap.

M: One day I'm gonna write a book and the title is going to be I HATE EVERYTHING.

M: By Marisa Rachel FUCKYOU Mandich

L: You really need to pick up the blog again.

M: I'm just gonna post this conversation. I haven't publicly humiliated myself in awhile.

M: But without that photo maybe.

L: Yay! I'll be featured!

This one's for you, Liam! I love you to the moon you little weirdo. 

xoxox

It Is Entirely Possible To Make Someone Stop Loving You Via Walkie Talkie

We're just going to pretend I haven't neglected this blog for about a million years and jump right back in.

So, you just moved your entire life from New Orleans to Colorado Springs via one 14 foot Uhaul and a filthy Kia Sorento....

Oh wait, no, that was me. And my long suffering boyfriend, Clinton. But mostly me. Me is the important part here, obviously (Just ignore Clinton, he's a bit of a whiner). In any case, we had been planning this little (20-ish hour) road trip for the better part of the past 6 months, so we felt fairly well prepared for what was in store for us. Yeah. This is the part where we can all laugh about it now that the horror is finally over.

First of all, if you have never moved out of state before, you think you know, but you have no idea. And I have moved out of the COUNTRY before. That was actually easier. There was less furniture moving and more men speaking to me in lovely British accents. Uhauls are stupidly expensive, and apparently even the manliest of men will grow vaginas and start PMSing when forced to drive one (Incidentally, if you casually mention this fact to your boyfriend over your walkie talkie somewhere in the middle of North Texas, he might threaten to leave you at a very inconvenient rest stop. WHICH IS RUDE).

Sidenote: Never ever ever ever EVER drive through Texas if you can avoid it. When they say "Texas Forever", they are NOT KIDDING. I truly did not think we were ever going to get out. That state does not end. We spent the first night in Wichita Falls, TX, in a charming La Quinta, after driving for roughly 13 hours. I trudged into the motel room, landed flat on my face on the bed, cradled my new pillow friend tenderly, and softly muttered to Clinton, "We live here now." I was ready to give up and move into the La Quinta Inn. Texas had won.

Or so I thought, until my Nazi Boyfriend woke me up at the butt crack of dawn and made me get back on the road in spite of my various and colorfully worded protestations.

"FINE," quoth I, "but I demand that we stop at Starbux forthwith for a Venti Peppermint Mocha with Soy (no whip)!"

"OK, weirdo, just get dressed, I'll go put stuff in the car. Hurry up." Said the Nazi.

Five minutes later, I was in the Kia and Clinton knocked on my window with a pathetic cup of La Quinta coffee in hand. Ironically, having not had my coffee, I was having NONE of this bullshit. I rolled down the window and screamed brattily "DO NOT WANT SHITTY COFFEE! WANT STARBUX!" He stormed off to the Uhaul looking murderous.

I am pretty terrible. I considered trying to make up for this by using the walkie talkies as my own personal karaoke machine, but quickly realized my rendition of Neil Diamond's Brother Love's Travelling Salvation Show would probably just make things worse. I am nothing if not a quick thinker. I opted for the soundtrack to Les Miserables instead.

Just Kidding.

I think that's enough for now. More on the move later, kiddos  ;)

"Haha. Hilarious."

So, it's possible that I've already over-sold this blog post with that title, but it is actually an homage to a friend/reader who greatly enjoys (or at least reads) the blog, and also likes to occasionally be a massive wiseguy and make pithy (and only marginally amusing) comments on my Facebook wall. In this case, I "shared" some random picture on FB that I felt was relevant to my recent interest in ridiculing the Occupy Wall Street URCHINS in that snarky, capitalist way that I have about me (For realsies, if someone could literally radiate capitalism, it would be me. Or my mom. But she does it in a way that makes everyone uncomfortable and mildly itchy. So there's that), and his comment read simply, "Haha. Hilarious."

No exclamation points. Not even a smiley face. Just periods. Who does this, I ask you??

Upon reading this seemingly UN-enthusiastic response, I spent at least AN full minute lost inside of my head, questioning my entire worldview while slowly curling into the fetal position and fighting the urge to suck my thumb or take up biting my fingernails again. Holy balls (quoth I), how could someone be so unfeeling as to post a response that would make any sane person immediately think "OMG DOES HE THINK I'M FUNNY OR IS HE BEING SARCASTIC?? AND WHERE DOES HE GET OFF BEING SARCASTIC IN MY GENERAL DIRECTION. OTHER PEOPLETHINKI'MAWESOMESOSCREWYOUBUDDY!!#@%@$"

Did I say any sane person? I may have been reaching a bit, there. That happens when you attain a degree of self-awareness that teeters just on the brink of rampant narcissism. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

In retrospect, I doubt that he was being remotely sarcastic, and I'm almost certain that I should probably just rein in the crazy just a tad and try not to fly off the handle whenever someone fails to use the proper punctuation to convey their obvious approval of all that I do or say. Then again, you people know I'm neurotic, so stop doing these things to me. It's perverse.

Yikes. I just had to get that out.

In other news, it's been a minute, so I'll catch you up on current events. This won't take long. Still bartending, still unwed (both to the everlasting shame of the Family). Moved out of my parents' house, AT.LONG.LAST. I am now living in Mid City with my friend Jamie, who I've come to realize is absolutely my heterosexual life partner and the ideal person for me to share a magnum of cheap hooch with. Jamie and I are both chronically single, wine-guzzling Cancers. This means that unless we are working, we feel little need to leave the house, and we prefer to spend our evenings on The Veranda in the company of Beaux the Tiny Yorkie, Humbert the Indifferent Fish, and Wanda the Booze-Addled Pumpkin. Did I mention that we have also named most of our household appliances at this point? We have a coffee-maker called Louis. We spend many an evening contemplating why we're both still single. Shocking, I know. I'm faintly aware that this behavior will become less and less adorably whimsical as we get older, and more of a cause for concern and institutionalization. Then again, we've both reached the ripe old age of 25 and it ain't slowin' us down yet, dagnabbit!

Which is a total lie. I'm so tired. Goodnight, cruel world!

Mardi Gras Madness, 80s Hair Bands, and General Poor Life Choices All Around...

It's round about time for a new blog post, methinks. Welp, here goes nothing.

So, I'm not saying that I hate Mardi Gras. But I'm also not not saying that I hate Mardi Gras.

But I kind of hate Mardi Gras. Now wait just a hot second before you start stoning me in the streets! I think if you're honest with yourselves you will be forced to admit that MG hasn't really been fun since high school. Back then, french kissing relative strangers, smoking Marlboro Reds, and drinking straight 151 from a coke bottle were pretty badass things to do. Especially on public street corners. We were teenagers. Bless our hearts. Those were simpler times...And, OK, maybe if my MG this year had been akin to any of that, it would've been more fun (Aside from the kissing strangers part, because...gross). Sadly, I basically worked the duration of MG, back and forth between two bars, one of which was right in the middle of the French Quarter (Which is obviously Mecca for douchebags everywhere during Carnival season), and let me just tell you, all work and bad tips makes Marisa aggressively annoyed. Also, very, very tired and curmudgeonly. Have I mentioned how much people just collectively suck? I mean, get it together, for chrissake.

(Transition) WITH THE EXCEPTION OF EVERYONE EVER IN AN 80s HAIR BAND. Well, they probably suck now, but honestly I can watch me some 80s music videos anytime. This is a recent development, so let me attempt to explain my latest flight of lunacy. This week during 45tchoup's trivia night, the most blessedly awesome 80s song pretty much ever was played between rounds, and consequently lodged itself into the deepest crevices of my mind, to the point where I have spent the last two days humming it out loud morning, noon, and night without even realizing it. So, yesterday I decided to do a youtube search for the music video, and that was hands down the absolute best decision I have ever made. Like, literally ever (I wish I were exaggerating right now, but you know that episode of Friends where Rachel agrees to let Monica make ALL of her decisions for her? If I had AN single friend who wasn't just as much of a disaster area as I am, that's exactly what I would hire them to do. Alas...youth.) (That's not entirely true. My Best Friend is a surprisingly together lady, but I don't think she would touch that with a ten foot pole. If there is any job with more stress and less payoff than my personal life, I've never heard of it.) But I digress. The song in question is called Can't Live Without Your Love and it is by Nelson. Nelson consists of two "men" (we use that term loosely around these parts under the best of circumstances. With the exception of Lee Pace, because that, my friends, is a Man.) with long, flowing golden locks. These two flaxen-haired beauties are named Gunnar and Matthew Nelson (hence, the name of the band, which I assume were the Hanson brothers' earliest influence), and just watch the video now please, because...I can't even talk about it.

Yeah. I'm not saying that video is the highlight of my every waking hour. But I'm also not not saying that. If you can't admit that that is the best thing you've ever seen, you don't deserve the gifts of sight OR hearing. And you're just plain wrong, and your parents likely don't even love you, and you're probably adopted and a redhead. You're just horrible.

Ok, I'm a little out of steam now. I have to go watch that video again. Come on, try to watch that and not crack a smile, I dare you.

I am just so sorry right now. If you need me, I'll be snorting cocaine off a public toilet seat with Gunnar Nelson. Or just googling him. Yea, I said it.

What Has Two Thumbs And No Time For Your Shit...

Raise your hand if you, too, loathe and despise the rest of humanity as a collective. As I can't see you, I'll just assume that we are in full agreement. Good? Good. Glad that's settled.

Seriously though, people. What is going on? I can't remember the last time someone asked me a good question. Honestly, I can't remember the last time someone asked me a question that didn't make me want to simultaneously backhand them, burst into tears of frustration, and nosedive off of the nearest cliff. We all know that I work in the service industry these days, so it naturally follows that I am forced to occasionally interact with my fellow 'humans' (note that I am using that term in the loosest sense of the word, and picture something between a gorilla and Fred Flintstone, though either of those would probably tip better than most of these assholes). Not that I don't love the service industry, but I think about death a lot more now than I used to. Just saying.

Actually, I think everyone should be required to wait tables or bartend at some point in their lives. It's very easy to spot those who have not had the pleasure of spending and hour and a half running back and forth refilling drinks, answering asinine questions, and laughing at terrible jokes, only to find a $3 tip on a $60 check. It never fails to shock me how absolutely wretched people are. For example, I recently had the honor of waiting on a trio of middle-aged women who proceeded to get mildly tipsy over the course of two hours and a few pomegranate martinis and somehow lose their car keys. After searching the entire bar high and low to no avail, the keys were finally located by one of the ladies, who had washed her hands in the bathroom and accidentally tossed the keys into the wastepaper basket along with her trash. As I was, at this point, attempting to shut the bar down and go the hell home after a particularly gruesome day, I was elated at this news. Alas, my joy was short-lived. I walked into the ladies room a few minutes later to find the entire contents of both trashcans strewn haphazardly ALL OVER THE FLOOR. I mean, that shit was everywhere. AND they had the balls and gall to still be at the bar when I came back out after cleaning up their mess! Who does that, I ask you?! Were you people born in a barn, for Chrissake?! Ugh. I just...I can't. People are the worst.

To be fair, I do actually like my job most of the time. It's been 'A Week', so cut me some ever-loving slack, here. Really, you could say it's been 'A Month' for me. A month of blinding torture, emotional terrorism and undiluted frustration which I don't particularly care to elaborate on in a public forum (which, if you've read this blog before, may be somewhat shocking. My apologies). I will try to update more often in the future, hopefully when I'm not feeling quite so grim. Until then, good night and good luck. If you need me, I'll be mixing drinks. My secret ingredients: Pure Evil (Not From Concentrate) & Sparkling Human Tears. Mimosas, anyone?

P.S. That photo has naught to do with anything, I just assume you've all missed Lee Pace as much as I have. Don't judge me.

How To Please Your Maid Of Honor: A Bride's Checklist

Salutations, friends! I would like to take this moment to announce the engagement of my oldest and dearest friend, Caroline (of previous ostrich post fame) to her charming boyfriend, Christopher, and offer them congratulations and best wishes. I would also like to give Caroline major kudos for her excellent taste in bridesmaids, as she has wisely requested that I serve as Maid of Honor. She had little choice in this matter, as I basically threatened her continued existence on this earth should she elect another, plus I exercised the always-apropos "I CALL MAID OF HONOR" method of bridesmaid-pickin'. I was all "SO-I'M-YOUR-MOH-RIGHT?! RIGHT." And she was all questionable grunts, awkward coughs, and finally, sighs of resignation.

So...You're welcome, BFF. Now that that's been settled, I'm told that being a MOH comes with many, many responsibilities (and, as we all know, I'm awesome at responsibilities). In fact, there are MOH checklists to be found all over the interwebz, and I have been super on top of that. Upon googling my duties to the bride, I found a few that were understandable, a couple that were hilarious, and a handful that were downright untenable. For instance, I am perfectly amenable to handling all cake and liquor tastings that might be deemed necessary (liquor tastings are a thing, right...?), as well as planning the bachelorette party (Penis cake, sex toys, midget strippers, hotel rooms, bars, booze, prison. Done. And. Done.). Continuing down the list, I did a double take at the sentence "Make sure the bride arrives to the ceremony". D'oh, what now? So if she decides to pull a Graduate, that's somehow going to be construed as MY FAULT. I think not. Then there's the one that says on her wedding day I get to field messages back and forth between her and the groom and anyone else who's got something to say. Heh. Did you guys ever play telephone when you were children? If so, then you can imagine how this could get real in a hurry, Amiright?! Oh, giggles...

Also, I get to be keeper of the groom's ring. Combine that duty with the maturity level of your average Marisa and you get a grown ass woman doing impressions of Gollum from Lord of the Rings. All Day Long. Talk about your fairytale weddings.

Then, of course, we mustn't forget that I get to give a toast. Woof. So, that will go on for about 90 minutes, at least 20 of which will be unintelligible between the drunken slurring and the hysterical weeping and hyperventilating that usually comes hand in hand with public speaking (if you're me, at least).

One of my favorites has to be the one where I'm in charge of the "money bag". I don't know who's writing this list, but the only time I've ever seen that go down was in The Godfather. In any case, it begs the question once again of why on earth people want to keep putting me in charge of large amounts of cash. The mind reels.

Last, but certainly not least, the list reminds me that I am to be a QUOTE "Fluffer (!)" for the bride. A FLUFFER. Like in porn. And weddings. Am I on glue...?

It goes without saying that Caroline will now be the fluffiest effing bride this town's ever seen. People need to be more careful when they make bulleted lists. Think about what havoc your harmless little list could do in the wrong hands, folks. Hands like these.

So, those are the highlights of what I'm expected to do, and honestly, I had no idea the Maid of Honor is basically in charge of Absolutely Everything. Can I quit now? No? Fine.

However. I do feel that since I'll be handling all the stressful stuff like fluffing your damn dress, you should be aware of a few things I will require as well:

1. Alcohol

2. Cake

3. A bridesmaid dress that doesn't make me look like a member of the Insane Clown Posse and that elegantly hides a slightly protruding belly full of cake. Also, more cake.

4. Horse tranquilizers on hand for my inevitable "WHY ARE ALL MY FRIENDS GETTING MARRIED AND HAVING OFFSPRING AND CAREERS AND I'M STILL LIVING WITH MY MOTHER?!" complete and utter breakdown. This could happen multiple times between now and your wedding day, so just be prepared is all that I ask.

5. Oh, so much more alcohol.

6. If you could manage to throw me a Patrick Dempsey somehow, that would be pretty sweet. Just sayin'.

See, that's not so bad, right? I think you should be able to handle that, Caroline. Once again, you're welcome. Congrats, Poodle!