Tuesday, August 27, 2013


It's no secret that guys don't know a good picture of themselves. 


Look at the hottest guy you know in real life's Facebook profile picture. You know you wouldn't hit that!


Facebook isn't real life. 

However, there are some guys who do need to know what a good picture of someone looks like. And those people are PROFESSIONAL PHOTOGRAPHERS. 

Life lesson #43257346273: Never go on a date with a professional photographer and then cut it off. 

Don't do it. 
Their lens will punish you.

Here's the story:
I met Mark, a freelance photographer, and we went on exactly one date before I realized that he was an angry guy, and not the type of angry guy that I find hilarious. 
The kind I find annoying. 

But we still talked about work - me writer! him photographer!  Looks so good on paper….ha. (Pun intended.)

Mark told me that in addition to photograph-ing sports for the NBA (whaaaat) and The Associated Press (whaaaaat) he also did small side projects for local schools for their brochures and websites.

But he was still angry and shat on everything (the bar is dirty, the river is ugly, I hate people who walk slow)

So, after our date, I made a point not to return his calls or text messages. I mean, did I owe him anything?? Is it better to remain silent or is it better to break the news that you're an angry little man?? 

I knew I made the right decision when I started getting messages from an anonymous person telling me he had a girlfriend and that he was a cheater hahahahahaha. 

(I sure can pick 'em)

To be honest, I forgot all about Mark until I was recently asked to attend a career day at a local elementary school. 

I get asked to do a lot of career days because I have a job that children can understand. 

I've done about 15 career days in my illustrious career.

Meeting in the library before our presentations to children (WHICH YOU DON'T GET PAID FOR) it's always me (the "newspaper lady")  the police officer, the lawyer, the firefighter, the dentist.

Can you imagine: "Hey kids! This is Holly. She sells unnecessary medical devices to doctors for a ridiculous markup! Say hi to Holly everyone!!"


So there I was, giving my spiel to the kids about what a newspaper budget is (it's where you plan what stories are going to be in the next issue, it has nothing to do with finances) when the door opened and everyone stared at the principal entering the room…with Mark. 

And his big camera. 
He was frowning, go figure.

It had been four months at least since I had seen/remembered him, and then suddenly I froze up there in front of everyone. 


He did not acknowledge knowing me at all, even as I tried to make eye contact and started ClickClickClickClick-ing with his fast-ass shutter and I got red in the face and tried to continue my discussion on deadlines. 

I was nothing but professional about the awkward encounter, and I assumed HE was going to be professional. 

...Even though I left him hanging with a bunch of unreturned text messages. 

Put all your biases aside, right???  

Not for Mark. 

For reference, this is from another career day years ago, taken by NOT an asshole:

(Can't blame the photographer for unflattering pants)

But I guess perhaps now, instead of newspaper advice, I should start instructing students to NOT to go on a date with, and promptly end things with, a photographer. 

That's a more useful lesson.

Don't do it kids!!! Because one day you'll see him again, and he'll be taking professional pictures of you and there's nothing you can do about it, and while everyone ELSE who had their picture taken at career day looks happy and normal, your picture--- emailed to HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE marked CAREER DAY 2013!!!!!, will look like this:


UGH times infinity.


Of course Mark chose this picture to include in the roundup. 

Is there anything flattering about this photo??? 



Did he NOT notice that half my face is asleep, like a stoke patient? 

That he made me look cross-eyed and have FOUR CHINS??? 


I think he absolutely noticed.


At least it looks better than his Facebook profile picture.


Tuesday, August 20, 2013


One of the most obnoxious things about being single is that there isn’t anyone obligated to pamper you when you’re sick, or worse, hungover.

It doesn’t help when you live 800 miles away from your twin sister so now you really have no one to make you Kraft Mac and Cheese as you lay in bed crying.

This has been my life for two days.
Laying in bed. STARVING.


But I suppose life is even worse when you DO have someone you’re dating, but who doesn’t care that you’re alternating between cold sweats and hot sweats and seeing spots.

It reminds me of my friend Jessica when she was in college.

She was more hungover than she’d ever been in her entire life and all she wanted was a Coke Icee and a Hershey’s white chocolate bar from the gas station near her house.

It was her favorite combination.

Since she could barely lift her head, she asked her boyfriend at the time, Tommy, to buy them for her after he got out of class.

“Sure, no problem,” Tommy sad.

Jessica watched bad daytime TV and waited anxiously for her cool treat and sugary bar.

But Tommy showed up an hour or so later empty-handed, and he sat next to her flopped out on the couch.

“What the hell?” Jessica asked. 

“I tried to get it for you but the ICEE machine is broken,” Tommy said. (This was a legit argument; OUT OF ORDER is a regular sign on those machines.)

Jessica’s face fell.

“But…what about the Hershey’s bar?”

“No, they don’t make them anymore,” Tommy said. “Can you believe it?”

“WHAT???” Jessica asked. “What do you mean they don’t make them??? Not at all??”

“No, I guess people don’t like white chocolate that much,” he said. “I’m really sorry. Hope you feel better.”


 Jessica was already feeling like she was going to puke and now THIS.  Who shows up empty-handed when their girlfriend is feeling -1000 on a scale of 1-10??

Why couldn’t he have gotten her a Blue Gatorade and some soup??? Empty-handed????

Thankfully, Jessica felt better the next day and forgot about it.

But two weeks later, Jessica and Tommy were at WalMart when Jessica saw a big industrial-sized bag of the white chocolate bars on the shelf. (It must have been near Halloween).

“OH MY GOD, LOOK!” Jessica screamed. Screamed.

“They’ve still got the white chocolate bars here! WE SHOULD BUY THEM ALL since they’re not making them anymore!”

Jessica started putting bag after bag into the cart, when she noticed Tommy smirking and laughing next to her.


“What’s so funny?” Jessica asked.  “Help me get the big bag on the top shelf!”

“Yea, they still make them,” Tommy said. “I never stopped at the gas station.”





Jessica wanted to puke again.

What a jerk. Of the very few requirements of being her boyfriend, that one was mandatory. 

Not to mention she would have spent $100 in white chocolate bars had he not been with her that day.

She shunned him for the next several days…until he bought her an ICEE and a white chocolate bar as a sorry.

Was that so hard Tommy??? WAS IT????

No, no it wasn't.

Now someone please come over and make me some Kraft Mac and cheese.


Tuesday, August 13, 2013


Today, male readers, I'd like to ask you a question: Are YOU a toolbag?

Do you have a #WanderingEye? Are you #GoneByMorning? 

I'd worry if I were you.

Everyone might soon know these things about you personally, and specifically. 

Not through my blog, of course. 

See, I change names and details in my Toolbag Tuesday posts. A Fourth of July party will be written as a Christmas party, for example. 

"He's in real estate" could mean he…works for a hotel. 

When I write, he was 29 and too old to act like that, he was probably actually 34.

If a guy's identity has been revealed as a Toolbag in any of the 163 posts I've written (woah), then the guy did that DUMBASSERY on his own. 

Several guys have actually called themselves out as a Toolbag on Facebook and then got mad at ME about it. 

Like I'm the one who told my girlfriend I was out of town, and by out of town I meant "at the strip club downtown." 

"THANKS FOR NOTHING! SINCERELY, 'GREG', a guy named Aaron commented on the Facebook link to his particular offense. 

You know, the post where I changed his name to Greg. 

Hahaha stupid Aaron Greg.

But alas, my blog is the least of "Greg's" worries. 

For I discovered a new APP called LuLu that has chicks anonymously rate guys on a scale of 1-10 with particular emphasis on their toolbag-ness.

You're on it!!!! 
You have no choice!!!

I know, it gives me the creeps too. 

Basically this is what happens: You (ladies) get the App on your phone and it logs you in through Facebook where it automatically brings up EVERY MALE friend you have. 

And no, guys can not access it to check themselves out. It only works if you've checked on Facebook that you are female. (How. Does. It. Know.???)

The APP reassures you that it's super anonymous and no one gets so much as a SNIFF that you're using it, but damn, within two seconds it brings up EVERY MALE you're friends with on Facebook. 

Every one. 

Even guys you forgot existed!!

Look! There's the guy who I had a crush on 11 years ago from my college Spanish class!!! 

And look...he's a #GreatCuddler. (Te amo.)


But then I scrolled down some more and saw my best friend's little brother on there with a score of 8.8 and I was like GROSS!!!! and logged off because last I checked he was in MIDDLE SCHOOL and much too young to date. 

(He just graduated college).

I don't need to know about my friend's little brother's bedroom skills. 
No one needs to know that information. 

The official Lulu website states that it's supposed to be "amusing" and fun, and a NEW AGE of dating where you review guys to either warn or encourage others to go for it. 

Like Yelp for men.

One of the founders of the Lulu App told the Los Angeles Times that women share information about guys all the time and how the F is this different? yadda yadda yadda. 

…but I don't know. It creeps me out. 

I don't like thinking about a guy giving great #BedroomEyes to another chick.


And it's anonymous!!! Which totally breeds lying.

When a girl "reviews" you, she is asked to pick the box that best describes you and her's relationship. 

Friend? Hook-up? Ex-girlfriend? Crush? Together? 


Let's use "hooked up with" as an example. 

If some chick claims that she hooked up with you and decides to rate you -- COMPLETELY ANONYMOUSLY-- she'll be asked to check boxes about your sense of humor:

("If this person did stand-up comedy would he be dodging beer bottles or on tour with Chris Rock?") 

How did the first kiss with him make you feel? 
1.) hopeful? 
2.) Like you should invite him in for a nightcap (wink wink)? 
3.) Or did it make you feel a sore…on your mouth." 

Hahahahaha…..no, really, that's an option.

Does he burp and fart? How often?
(This is for the "personal hygiene" portion of the ratings)

At 50, will he have all his hair?

I shouldn't be laughing. All of these reviews are directly attached to guys' Facebook profiles.

"When it comes to commitment, he's..." 
1.) better than he used to be
2.) a one-woman man
3.) got a few restraining orders against him
4.) The reason I cry at night



After that super deep line of questioning, Lulu then asks you to pick the best and worst qualities about him from a variety of hash tags. 

Lulu's founder said using the hash tags instead of having chicks be able to write whatever they want makes it more "fun," since the hash tags are funny and not too terribly insulting. 

And before clicking on "his worst qualities," you're prompted to click on his positive qualities via hashtag:

#big.feet  (Ed note: groan)
#danceslike MJ
#HotFriends (hahahahaha)

…..it goes on and on and on.

But the bad qualities…oh man

#DoesntAskQuestions (wait, that's a bad thing?)

again, it goes on and on, it's just too ridiculous to type any more. 

Except for this very big, important offense:



(This goes against my hope that hashtags will just disappear, I MAJORED IN JOURNALISM, SPACING COUNTS.)

This is what the Lulu Screen looks like when you log in. All your male Facebook friends on display with their scores and/or hash tags: 

(I tried to pixelate as much as I could. Whatever.) 

But really! 

Those are my friends' Facebook profile pictures! 
YOUR friends' Facebook profile pictures! 

I can click on any of them and read what a former hookup has to say, like it's ANY of my business!!

The App even shows you other people "in your area" along with their reviews, which I'm sure is some sort of privacy violation.

So there's that. 

Happy Tuesday fellas!!!!!

I guess this is another reason why you shouldn't scorn the ladies. 

They WILL write about how you #ownCrocs.

I'm surprised the co-founders of this thing are actual adults, because this is TOTALLY HIGH SCHOOL shit. 

As in, this is what high school girls write on the bathroom wall about guys. 


Just stick to changing names. 
...And key details. 

Haha I can see this showing up during an employer's search of an applicants' Facebook page. 

"Well, Mr. Jones, you WERE the front runner for this job but a NUMBER of ladies reported that you #CantTakeAHint. And I don't need someone like that on my sales team."


It's only kind of funny. 
Good luck guys. 



Wednesday, August 7, 2013

How New Orleans pitches a tent

Last Saturday, as I was sitting in the park with my friend Dylan minding my own business, a soccer player wandered over at halftime.

"Ok, I just have to ask…." he said between sips of his water bottle. "What exactly is going on over here?"

I looked to my left.

"Oh that," I said, as six people wearing FlorBAMA outfits scrambled to assemble a tent.

"I LOVE KID ROCK!" one of them screamed.

"Oh, it's a scavenger hunt thing," I said. "Teams have to come here and put together a tent for points."

I was surprised that the player noticed what was going on 100 yards away from his game.

But then I remembered that a team had just come by with a guy wearing a squirrel head and a dominatrix actually whipping her teammates.

The whole soccer team probably noticed that, even with New Orleans' weirdness standards.

"It's…really fun," I said.
"Ok." the soccer player said and quickly walked away without asking any more questions.


As a volunteer at my kickball league’s annual scavenger hunt, I had the great pleasure of seeing dozens of friends and teammates from the league scramble (scramble really is the best word for it) to pitch a tent in various states of inebriation, in various states of clothing.

The hunt had teams - 14 teams I think, with a maximum of six players - each go around to various locations completing tasks for points and they got extra points for taking photos on the way (a picture in front of a streetcar, a picture all chugging a beer, a picture of someone petting a duck).

It was also hilarious psychological experiment.

There were some teams that showed up that were all business, people yelling at the rest of their teammates (hahahahahaa) to DO IT FASTER, GIVE ME THAT POLE!!!


(Dylan and I gave these teams extra points for pitching their tent the fastest.)

On the other hand, there were teams where at least one person scoffed at pitching a tent, and left the rest of their team to figure it out.

"I. Don't. Camp." one guy said when he heard the task, opening another beer as his team ran around in circles.

"Someone else is gonna have to figure this one out," said a girl on another team, throwing the poles down and taking a break on the grass.

And there was everything in between. The team made up of the squirrel and dominatrix had one player who announced he was still drunk from the night before, and instead of helping assemble the tent, chose to twerk against a large oak tree for several minutes.

Maybe that was what the soccer player was confused about: A guy dressed as half guy/half girl, still drunk, twerking on an oak tree. (Welcome to New Orleans.)

Kickball is all about teams, and with a tight-knit group of 400 in the league, I wasn't entirely surprised by people's mindset for this challenge.

I even knew which guys would ask if it would count if they pitched a tent…in their pants.

"I can do it, NO PROBLEM!" a guy said looking straight at me, and for some reason I turned red in the face.

"Well, everyone has to fit into the tent, and I don't think your pants are big enough," Dylan offered. Ha

(Dylan was a stickler. He deducted points for teams not repacking the tent properly.)

The location of the tent-pitching was in City Park, the place where the kickball league has twice-weekly practices, but since not everyone goes to practices, some scavenger hunt teams got terribly lost.

And they got even more turned around when their next clue was supposed to lead them to Morning Call coffee and beignets in the park.

"You want us to bike to Cafe Du Monde in the French Quarter?" an Uptowner asked, and I almost said yes.

Like any competition among this group of people, style and personality played. Teams wore elaborate costumes and had thought-out themes.

The wild goose (booze) chase team, for example, all dressed as geese with orange noses "beaks", and if I was the judge, I definitely would have given them extra points for taking a picture petting a duck while dressed like a duck.

The team called "horny hermaphrodite hyenas" had fuzzy nipples attached to their shirts, as they should.

On the personality front, after each tent was properly pitched, I was supposed to take a picture of everyone inside of it. 

While some teams - the all-business ones - crammed in quickly and told each other not to FART, other teams got more creative.

The ducks did a human pyramid, for example.

"What am I supposed to do? Just hop on top of everyone?" the top tier duck nervously asked.

"YES! HURRY UP! YOU'RE WASTING TIME!" a bottom duck replied.

Another team, all dressed as their kickball teammate who was NOT on their scavenger hunt team, decided to do the classic 69 position in the tent, so basically it looked like that guy was 69-ing himself six times over.

(Extra points, duh.)

So, no, I can't imagine what the soccer player was talking about when he asked what was going on over here.

I cracked up as people rolled their eyes when their teammates yelled at them to hurry up (hahahahaha), smiled big at all the fantastic two-person bicycles that were used and had a blast coming up with ways we could use the squirrel head costume to scare drivers in the park.

“YOU SHOULD CLIMB A TREE!” The dominatrix suggested.
“Uhhh…those are big trees,” the squirrel said.



No. Nothing to see here.

Carry on.



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