Hungry girls

A. Just be straightforward with me. Then ask to borrow my unicorn to ride back to Narnia.

May 16

Ask Lulu: Do you like guys clean-shaven or some facial scruff?

Remember when you were a freshman, and all of the girls in your grade wanted to date the seniors? And this really pissed you off — until you were a senior and all of the freshmen wanted to date you? Well, this is because girls like older guys. Why? I’m not sure. Maybe it’s some deep-seated provider thing, or maybe you just look better once you pass the pizza face phase. Regardless, we don’t like guys who look like little boys, and unless you’ve got the bone structure of Draper, your clean-shaven face probably does.

I’m not crazy about how my own boyfriend looks clean-shaven (which he says means I’m not crazy about his face) and there used to be one day a week when he would shave his whole beard off and look five years old before it all grew back. But then he got a beard trimmer (Norelco, I just asked) and now he always has stubble. So there you have it boys; do that.

EXCEPTION: If you can’t grow stubble yet, do not attempt this! If your facial hair at its grizzliest is a bunch of peach fuzz with a few wiry black hairs sprinkled throughout, stick to shaving.

I did some research to make sure my feelings are shared by my gender at large, and not just the two girls I hang out with every second. And they are: According to Ask Men, “in a study by psychologists at England’s Northumbria University, women looking at photos of men’s faces in various phases of hair growth from none at all to full beards far and away preferred the look of some stubble.”

May 02

Someone I remember

Leila swept into my freshman acting class one morning, all worn leather and vintage lace.

She’d come to get the audition sides for the school play, but for the moment, she was just looking around with this peaceful half-smile. It was like time didn’t exist for her. Her intrinsic warmth dissolved all my usual fear of rejection, and I walked right up and introduced myself.

When I held out my hand to be shaken, she smiled, amused, and hugged me instead.

She was indisputably the best actress at auditions and she got the lead. Her pauses were as significant as her tears, and she kissed her stage-husband so truthfully that it looked like she loved him.

We talked a little, here and there, and then one night after rehearsal, Leila offered to drive me home. When I got into her car, she rolled down the windows, lit a cigarette, and sang along to Ani DiFranco’s Brief Bus Stop:

I pointed out my house, but Leila just nodded, passed it, and parked way up the block. Then she reached into the back seat and grabbed a fat, spiral notebook – her journal.

Leila read me bits of her poems, breathless, beautiful, and even hiked up her yellow slip to reveal a line of poetry she’d jotted on her inner thigh, “just in case.” She told me that she wanted to hear my poetry. When I told her I didn’t have any, she assured me that I did.

I brought her gifts sometimes: a vanilla sachet; fuzzy slippers; a postcard with a fairy on it. The other kids in the play started saying we were lesbians. Leila liked that rumor, so I did too. She would lay her head on my shoulder and stroke my fingers, one by one, just to induce the whispers that amused her so much.

But when Leila wasn’t there, the theater was not a pleasant place for me. The other girls left me out of everything, and they weren’t subtle about it. Leila maintained that their cruelty was born out of jealousy, and quoted Ani to back her up:

Of course, she was just trying to make me feel better. Leila was absolutely stunning, and everyone still loved her. She was just trying to make me feel better. It worked.

At the end of the year, Leila graduated and left the country. For a while, she sent me postcards. One came from Thailand, where she was using massages as currency. Another, from India, was written on the back of a photograph of her hennaed hands forming a heart. But by the time I graduated, the letters had stopped coming.

Years later, Ani DiFranco came to town, and I went to the show. Her throat was sore, and her voice was scratchy.

Apr 24

Ask Lulu: Rules for texting

Question: So, I’m torturing myself about whether or not to text a dude. And if I do text, what to write… Should I just let the crazy out there and not hold back? I don’t want to turn anyone off. But I also don’t want to misrepresent myself as fully sane.

Hey guys! So, although Ask Lulu was originally conceived of as a place for guys to ask me questions, I just got this stellar one from a girl, so I’m changing the rules!

Girls, boys, mid-opp trannies, you can all now send me questions if you so desire, at asklulu@onlulu.com.

Now on to the issue at hand… Texting. I decided to bring in the big guns for this one: my brutally honest friend/relationship guru, Jennifer Grossman. Her answer below — but be warned! It’s not for the faint of heart…

Answer: Never, ever let the crazy out there – unless it’s in front of girlfriends or your therapist. Do not initiate any contact with a man, you can reply to his text, but best to wait a couple of hours. If he is not calling you, texting you, emailing you, then you are not on his mind, and he is not interested. Or if he is interested he is otherwise committed, and not in the right place yet for a relationship. Trust in the universe. Do not waste time pretzel-brain-twisting about a man if he is not actively pursuing you. He doesn’t exist. Focus on the things in your life that do. Give your love and attention to them. Give your love and attention to yourself.

Apr 22

Don’t mess with Texas

A few late-twenties emotional breakdowns back, I was in search of some form of structure, not to mention disposable income, and applied for a job at a 24-hour coffee shop near my house. The clientele was questionable and the bathroom was disgusting, but the music was good, the vibe was chill, and it gave me a place to go and pretend to be a person for a few hours a day.

The clientele was divided up thusly: nonthreatening crazies, like the lady who thought we didn’t know she lived there, even though she stashed her toothbrush in the bookcase; threatening crazies, like the slam poet who came in on meth one night and tried to rob us; normal girls, who wandered in accidentally and never returned; and normal guys, who were sick of writing at Starbuck’s, and didn’t mind a tranny come-on or two with their morning coffee.

John was of the latter variety. He’d come in early, set up shop in the corner, and stay for hours, sometimes meeting with various agents or managers. He looked like a 1990’s heartthrob of the Rider Strong variety – cute, but in a dated way, with floppy hair, plaid overshirts, and a black cord around his neck. I learned that John was from Texas, which explained the style. I learned a lot about him, actually, because he started loitering by the register, telling me I made the best cappuccinos in the world, and giving me the sleepy eyes of the newly smitten. I had a boyfriend, so it was nothing like that on my end, but he was sweet and easy to talk to, so he became my work buddy.

Once, on my day off, I came in to do some writing and saw John in his usual spot, meeting with an older blonde lady. The next day, I mentioned it to him.

I was stunned. The fact that John had never mentioned his wife wasn’t a lie exactly, but it was a big fat omission, and a peculiar one, since he knew I had a boyfriend – I talked about him all the time.

“It’s not what it sounds like, though…” He explained, which is what people say when it’s EXACTLY what it sounds like.

John stuttered out something about how they’d gotten pregnant young (yes, turned out was a father), and gotten married immediately. They still loved each other, but they had an “unorthodox” way of doing things now. It took a lot of back and forth before I understood what John was saying: they were into threesomes.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said, either feigning embarrassment or genuinely embarrassed — I wasn’t sure which. And then, he mumbled, “we’ve never been with a couple before.”

The weird thing about all of this was that John was not weird at all. I know I probably sound incredibly naïve right now, but he really was a totally cool, normal dude, who apparently had this relationship… quirk… that he wanted to share with me. What else he wanted to share with me, or my boyfriend and me for that matter, I wasn’t sure.

Now, I live for this kind of awkwardness, so I rushed home and told my boyfriend the whole hilarious story with theatrical flair and scrupulous attention to detail. He found it NOT AT ALL hilarious, which I probably should have anticipated. Unlike John, I had not yet learned the skill of the artful omission.

The next day, John brought his wife back in and introduced us. He looked excited, nervous even, as I shook her cold, spray-tanned hand – I think he was hoping sparks would fly.

Instead, John’s wife gave me the most terrifying glare I have ever received, eerily coupled with an icy, fake smile.

“John has told me so much about you,” she said. “What’s your sign?” I told her I was a Libra.

“Libras are very loyal,” she said meaningfully. “Very trustworthy.” She held eye contact with me for a freakishly long time without blinking, and then took her boba tea and walked away.

The next day at the café, John told me how much his wife loved me! How she thought I was just adorable!

And I had to admit, I was impressed. The girl knew when to tell her man the truth. And when to lie through her perfect white teeth.

A few days later, I quit my job. I didn’t feel like seeing John much after that, and I sure as hell didn’t want to see his scary ice-queen wife.

Apr 04

Dating tips for the digital age: iMessage, email, video chat and more…

If your email signature contains any version of the phrase “Sent on the run. Please excuse typos” change it immediately!

I understand the impulse; you want me to know that your phone autocorrects, and you meant “fucking”, not “ducking”, or that Suri is the dummy who mixed up “their” and “there”, not you.

Here’s the problem – you sound like a narcissistic jerk. When I read: “Sent on the run. Please excuse typos.”

I hear: “Sent on the run. Please excuse typos. I did not even reread this email before I hit send. I am that busy and important. In fact, emailing you is the lamest thing I’ve done all day.”

The dot dot dot is a major problem. Why ya gotta play us like that, iMessage? Basically, when you start to write me an iMessage, an ellipsis symbol on my phone indicates that you’re typing.

Why is this a problem, you ask? Well, let’s say I text you, “what’s up?” You type a novel back to me, reread it, realize you’re being too intense, delete it, and then just type “nada, u?”

Dude, I saw the “…” for like a minute and a half! Even the My Left Foot guy didn’t take that long to text “nada, u?” So, be aware! Do your drafts in the Notes app, if you must.

I’m guilty of this one too, but the buck stops here! I receive a lot of emails typed all lowercase, presumably to give the impression that the sender is too cool and busy to bother with the exertion of holding down the shift key.

Let’s all stop with the lowercase emails, tweets and status updates. We’re not fooling anyone.

You probably know that when taking photographs, the most flattering camera angle is slightly above your face, right?

So why are you letting your computer shoot you dead on?! Here is the trick to look hot on videochat: simply place your laptop on a dictionary or two (or three if you are PMSing…) and tip the screen slightly toward you. Lookin’ good…

If somebody calls and you don’t feel like picking up, you cannot tell them, later, “my phone died.” If your phone died, it would have gone straight to voicemail!

You thought I was going to say no emojis allowed, didn’t you? Well, you thought wrong! Used sparingly, emojis can really kick your text up a notch.

Here’s the problem – there is one disgusting emoji that dudes should never use, so of course, it is the only emoji that dudes do use. I can’t believe I have to type this sentence, but: Boys, do not send girls the emoji of the smiling pile of shit.

Mar 23

Who cares?

{Originally posted on onlulu.com.}

Last weekend, my best friend slept over, not so much out of retro adorableness, but more out of drunken necessity, and the next morning, I held her captive to complain about something or other. She trudged through the trenches of my despair for a few minutes, offering up various reasons why things would all turn out okay in the end, but I wasn’t having it. I harped on my “problem” until she finally just shrugged and said…

“Who cares?”

It was hilarious and earth-shattering to hear in that moment — and seemed the only answer that would fit most any situation. The circumstances of our lives only have as much power as we give them, so if we can look at both the petty annoyances and big life stuff with the same “que sera sera” attitude, it really does open up a lot of brain space for having fun!

Your jerk dad canceled dinner again? Who cares! Your haircut looks like vintage Bieber? Who cares! You slept with him and he never called? Who cares!

So in celebration of my willfully indifferent bestie, I’m telling you, it’s all good, baby. It’s all okay. I mean, at the end of the day… Who cares?

Mar 06

Lost in translation

It was a small house party, and I barely knew anybody, so I did my usual awkward party move: walked in circles. Bar, bathroom balcony, bar, bathroom, balcony…

Around three circles in, I noticed a new gentleman on the balcony. A little slip of a man, dressed impeccably, smoking a cigarette alone.

He had a sweet smile, a thick French accent, and spoke almost no English. His name was Cyrille, which he repeated many times before I understood it, because his pronunciation involved no consonant sounds whatsoever. We giggled through a handful of miscommunications, ignored everyone who tried to join our conversation, and then, before I left, exchanged numbers. Our verbal communication was a lost cause, but the nonverbal vibes were flowing. Which is why when Cyrille texted to ask me out, in a very confusing manner that I suspect involved Google Translate, I said yes.

He chose a French restaurant, a charming, intimate place I’d never been. He looked cute, I looked cute — it was going to be a good night. We got the ordering out of the way, and then it was time to chat. Once again, each of us understood about one tenth of what the other one was saying. Only this time, Cyrille seemed more annoyed by that than charmed.

When I could not understand Cyrille, which was every time he spoke, I had two choices: say “what?” yet again, or just let it go, smile politely and move on. The times I said “what?” he grew visibly frustrated, either with me or with himself – I wasn’t sure which. The times I feigned understanding, I always seemed to react incorrectly. “That was question,” he replied once, when I chuckled pleasantly at something I had not understood.

After approx. 5 years, our fish came. I ate mine with desperation and gusto. Cyrille took one bite, put down his fork, drank his body weight in wine, and then smoked half a pack of cigarettes. They don’t tell you about that in “French Women Don’t Get Fat” – I guess cuz it would be a really short book.

Finally, mercifully, the check arrived. I reached for it, but Cyrille pulled it away.

“If you do this, I am very cross!” he announced. I giggled at the term “cross,” clearly learned from some English language textbook that had not been updated since 1950.

I quickly dubbed it the worst date of my life (dethroning the guy with the shoebox full of sex toys in his car), but for some reason, Cyrille didn’t seem to think so. He kept texting me, so I kept avoiding him, too immature to just tell him the truth.

Eventually though, Cyrille got the message — and sent me one to tell me as much. It was not kind, but for once, it was clear. He was very cross. And his English had improved by leaps and bounds.

Feb 23

Famous people parties

My ex-boyfriend had a job that required regular “hobnobbing with the stars,” and although it was cool at first to go to glamorous parties and get ignored by glamorous people, the thrill soon wore off. You can only text your friends – “Jessica Simpson’s here! And she’s totally not fat in person!” – so many times.

So I was less than ecstatic that New Year’s Eve, when I wound up at some pop star’s Hollywood Hills party, pretending not to recognize various actors whom I totally recognized. Less than ecstatic, that is, until I saw him – Jon Brion – awkwardly sipping champagne solo on the patio.

Jon Brion may have been the least glitzy star there, but he was the absolute coolest one to me. For the uninitiated, Jon Brion is a musician himself, but also the mastermind producer behind Aimee Mann, Fiona Apple, and pretty much every soundtrack that rules, including but not limited to “Magnolia,” “Punch-Drunk Love,” and “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.”

I gushed to my boyfriend and his friend Socrates (yeah, really…) that Jon Brion was my freaking idol. I’d seen him perform once, and left believing in magic – it was one of those deeply powerful, transformative nights that made me want to change my whole life. (Didn’t stick.)

Socrates, cocky as always, laughed at my effusions. “I know Jon. Do you want me to introduce you?”

“No!” I squawked. Obviously that was not the answer! I had to meet “Jon” as an equal, not as some sycophantic fan.

Lucky for me, my boyfriend was amused by my giddiness (and, I later learned, quite high on cocaine) so he let me go do my thing. Which was to stand in Jon’s vicinity with the absent expression of a regular partygoer, way too content in her own world to be a creepy stalker-lady. One of us started the chat (me, it was probably me) and before I knew it, Jon and I were engaged in a full-on conversation.

I asked about his New Year’s resolutions, and he about mine. He said he’d had a rough year, the kind you are happy to leave behind, even if the stroke of midnight on December 31^st is pretty arbitrary when it comes down to it. He seemed wounded but hopeful.

Jon feigned familiarity for a moment, but then admitted… “I’m sorry, how do I know you?”

Socrates’ face fell, humiliated – and then an evil smile crept across his lips.

“Oh good, you met him!” Socrates said. And then to Jon: “She’s been dying to meet you all night.”

Jon processed this, and then turned to me with all the disappointment and loathing I deserved.

Socrates sauntered off, Jon excused himself, and I was left to contemplate Jessica Simpson’s physique — and my own boundless dickishness — in solitude.

Ask Lulu: How do I know if you like me?

Sifting through your Ask Lulu emails has been very informative. I’ve learned a lot about how guys think — and how MUCH they think about their man parts.

Me? Well, I guess you know I like you if I take forever to return your texts and ignore you at parties.

Unfortunately, however, that is also how you know that I don’t like you! I can kind of see why guys find us so confusing now…

So, how do you know whether a girl is ignoring you because she’s playing hard to get or ignoring you because she’s genuinely avoiding you? Trite as it sounds, it’s in her eyes. Do you see a little spark when your eyes meet? Do you ever catch her looking at you from across the room?

I know, I know… guys aren’t great at reading the subtler signals of the fairer sex, so I’ll list a few more blatant indicators that she’s into you:

If she calls/texts/emails/carrier pigeons you for weird reasons, she’s hoping you’ll transition the conversation into asking her out.

If she remembers things about you that you barely remember about yourself, that’s a very good sign.

Of course, the best — and perhaps even, only — way to really find out whether or not a girl likes you is to ask her out.

I have a feeling you are not going to try that, since you emailed me about this whole debacle, but in the event that you do, here’s the breakdown: If she says no, she does not like you. If she says yes, she does.