{bazima.com}

The Cringe TV pilot taping thing this past Saturday at Crash Mansion was pretty fucking awesome, I think. (For those of you who don't know from Cringe, it's a monthly reading series that my friend the irrepressible Sarah Brown founded, in which people read from their adolescent diaries. It was featured on Nightline, got lots of press, and now it's being turned into a book and a "reality series" for TLC.) Comedian Seth Herzog was in the audience. I couldn't tell if he was enjoying the show. He'd laugh and then mumble to himself a lot. Next thing I knew he was napping on the pool table. I'm sure he was really tired. And just needed to stretch out.

Lindsay informed me in the green room (really the women's bathroom, which was out of paper towels) that at Nick's Halloween party last month I asked her if she knew who I was. I have little recollection of this. Since we do know each other she naturally thought I was asking her who I was supposed to be for Halloween. She replied, "Um, a pretty girl?" To which I apparently responded, "NO! I'M BLAISE!" (It's amazing that none of the TLC producers at the Cringe taping approached me with an idea for my own situation comedy.)

There was a hot camera guy named Kenny. He said he had to "get me mic'd up" and explained in great detail exactly how he was going to do it.

I asked, "Are you telling me all of this so I don't sue you for sexual harassment?"

"Yeah," he said.

"I would never do that, " I said.

And then I winked at him.

I. Winked. At. Him. I should be put away. I'm like a horny suburban housewife who drinks too much, owns lots of wigs, and keeps a stash of lip gloss in each of her purses and her SSRIs in her hope chest.

In related news, the boy I like doesn't even know I exist. That's not true. It's worse. He knows I exist and he knows he is the boy that I like because I told him as much one night when I was heavily under the influence and convinced that the bartender slipped me a mickey. (Way to dodge a drinking problem!) The boy was also drunk and dressed as a twinkie. He wrote his phone number on my forearm with my sharpie. It was hot and so 1987 except that it was obviously a cell phone number, and also in 1987 he was only eight years old.

Whenever I see him in the neighborhood now we chit-chat awkwardly and we pretend that numbers and feelings were never exchanged. I try not to look at him for too long because I'm afraid I might get the verbal diarrhea and shit out something about adopting his babies in Malawi or getting fingered to Metallica's "One." He always smiles and waves and says, "Hey, Blaise!" ever so super-sweetly, and all I can hear in my head is, "Hey, Older Drunk And Flirty Weird Lady!"