Friday, February 25, 2005

why i love my co-workers...

Margot:

(in Margot’s voice, which is very innocent and girly) “Hey Beth. Guess what? On Dateline the other night, I saw this thing about a woman in England who was having twins. And one twin came out white and the other twin came out Africa American.”

Margot refuses to say “black” and after I fell off my chair laughing, in all seriousness she amended her statement to say “African English.”

Ben:

Ben only works Tuesdays and Thursdays, and on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Margot and I have taken to playing a daily prank on him. From decorating his desk with photos of unicorns and Brad Pitt after he asked us to keep it “utilitarian and man-like” to e-mailing him fake box-office problems involving screaming customers, Ben seems to fall for it 60% of the time. Today was a doozy and I sent him this in response:

“Friday’s prank brought to you courtesy of Bet-Go!
Founded in 2005 by Beth and Margot, Bet-Go! is a non-profit pranking service focusing on one client. Preying on the client’s devotion to his job and tolerance for the hijinx of his co-workers, Bet-Go! strives to keep the client on his toes, never knowing where the next prank will rear its hilarious head.
Thank you for using Bet-Go!”

my own personal science project...

My beloved co-worker and friend Margot is getting seriously pregnant. My god, she’s not even at 4 months, and I’m already resting files and Chinese food upon her unborn child, who we have named Coco. Everyone now refers to the baby as “Coco” and when her in-laws were in town, Margot and her husband Marc kept talking about Coco’s room and Coco’s kicking.
“What’s a Coco?” asked Marc’s mom, shocked to learn that Margot’s bizarre co-worker, “Bethy” had already named her first grandchild.
The fabulous thing is, the name Coco is growing on everyone. And Coco’s growing like crazy inside of Margot. Everyday she walks in, twice the size as before. She’s got elastic waist pants, maternity tops, and morning sickness. I mean, Margot is legitimately pregnant. I can’t believe it. We’re planning baby showers and picking out furniture. My boss and I were shopping in downtown Mill Valley yesterday, and stopped in a designer baby store to pick out presents for Coco. Margot and Marc are really having a kid.

And while thrilled for them, I’m most fascinated by the fact that my good friend has got something noticeably growing inside of her, moving around and making her barf. As the only time I feel my biological clock ticking is when I see a well dressed, well behaved child for short periods of time, I’m living vicariously through my knocked up friend. Most importantly, I’m learning about the miracle of life, the miracle of unprotected sex and the miracle of elastic waist jeans…

Margo's having a boy! We've re-named Coco with the more masculine, Niblet.  Posted by Hello

Thursday, February 24, 2005

you're going to need that soul one day...

I tried not to watch it. But everyone kept talking about it. On and on, they went. “Are you watching? Who do you think will win? I hate Wendy!”

I’m speaking of course about Project Runway. We’ve all heard the buzz, particularly if you hang out with metrosexual fashionistas who aspire to Tom Ford-like status (read: Jason) and speak of little else. Being that my old design school chum, Jay, was one of the last three finalists, I decided to plunk down in front of the TV last night and watch the marathon, all leading up to the 2 hour grand finale.

Hooked immediately, I had to text Jason with my never ending opinions on who sucks and who rocks, who wears too much make-up (the sprite-like Austin) and who doesn’t wear enough (the villainess, Wendy.) Jason could merely text back his impending excitement for 9pm, which is when the much-anticipated finale would begin.

Finally, amid cat fights and broken accessories, we made it to Fashion Week, where the three finalists would present their collections and the world would finally know who the next great American designer will be! Judged by the fashion director of Elle, designer Michael Kors, and a sunglasses wearing, afro haired Parker Posey, finalists Kara Saun, Wendy, and Jay presented their masterpieces.

Kara Saun, while talented and consistent throughout the previous episodes, had a really off collection, inspired by the snooze-fest, The Aviator, with trains that were too long and sneaky access to cheap shoes. Wendy, who sucks the positive energy out of everything, presented the reject line from Jessica McClintock and exploited her poorly dressed child at every opportunity. And Textile trained Jay, well, he rocked the catwalk and blew everyone’s mind.

Needless to say, my fellow alumni was presented with his tiara, so to speak, and while shocked, was beyond gracious in his neon knit cap and Tijuana poncho. Wendy was sent back to Appalacia, where she belongs, and must now go back to making debutante dresses and 50th anniversary gowns for the gals down the block. Good riddance.

The reality of Runway is that while a fabulous look into the making of a collection, it’s really just an extended version of The Real World, The Apprentice, and Big Brother. The only benefit here is that we have fabulously dressed gays chain-smoking, downing Cristal, and providing one-liners such as “Finally, something happens to Miss Fucking Perfect. Love it!”

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

you have to read SFWeekly...

So remember Katy, whom we met at The Monkey Club. Well, she wrote about it. She actually wrote about us! We're the last half of the article, but this is fucking hilarious...

http://music.sfweekly.com/issues/2005-02-23/music/bouncer.html

Monday, February 21, 2005


(thinking to self) "I bet I'm going to feel like ass tomorrow..." Posted by Hello

how spots met her husband...

Having spent last night enjoying the never-ending Olympic Club buffet with Kelsey, Andy, Bonnie and Alex, and then meeting Amanda at Mission Bar for drinks, I’m truly paying the price today. It was all worth it, really, as Kelsey played the baby grand for the fancy folks and I drunkenly turned down a seriously hot guy who insisted upon taking me home, but fun like that has a downside. After we stumbled though a lovely brunch, Amanda, Bonnie and I found ourselves at home watching The Parent Trap and nursing our aching bodies. Thus, we came up with the following:

CRAIGSLIST:
Hungover, Hideous, and Hungry-27 (mission district)

We partied a little too hard last night. And now we're paying the price. We're three girls, all normally fabulous and stunning, who could use a little help this afternoon. This might sound a tad strange, but bear with us. Here's what we need:

We would like 1 to 3 gorgeous men to bring over the following provisions...
1 12 pack of Bud Light.
1 eighth of decent weed
1 bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken (Extra Crispy, all the trimmings, and don't forget the biscuits)

Keep in mind, we don't look so hot right now, we're curled up on couches and pillows watching the Hallmark Channel, and arguing about when plastic was invented. But we promise to be charming and grateful when you show.

Please e-mail us with an approximate arrival time.

Thanks a million,

Amanda, Bonnie, and Beth

RESPONSES:

If we can all get naked and fuck, I'll be right over with what you seek. -”grant”

I'm gay and totally not interested, but I wanted to drop you a note and say I LOVED your Craigslist ad. Well done, very amusing. I hope you score men with chicken in the next few hours.
Good luck!-“Dave”

That was the funniest post that I ever read. Who won the argument about plastic? Hope the three of you are feeling better!!! -“Jay”

Saw your posting...I can bring my boys with me (all 3 attractive, single men) with all that you requested on your list. I can double your requests if you send me a pic of you 3 ladies. Let me know... -“Patrick”

and are incentive is...? really we've got to have a couple pics first. but save for a few formalities, you three should be finger lickin’ in no time.- “nilo”

hey girls, i can be over with your 3 requests plus a portable turntable. i'm
5'7" and skinny. i also look like hell being hungover and unshowered.
i will be taking a taxi and i might need a baby sitter because i just
took 20mg celexa, 20mg valium, and 180mg of dextromethorphan
hydrobromide. the last time i did this i had a priapism for 7 hours. give me your phone number if you are serious... don't send directions
to your place over email plz.-"andre"

...and they're still coming...

Girls can't stop chasing Alex on the O Club dancefloor... Posted by Hello

i believe at this point they were playing chopsticks... Posted by Hello

going clubbing with my boys... Posted by Hello

Friday, February 18, 2005

"put me on the blurb!"-greg

Last night, I met Bonnie and Greg at the Monkey Club for drinks. We were soon joined by Joe who immediately met Katy at the bar and invited her to join us. Katy is delightful and writes a column about San Francisco nightlife for SF Weekly. Katy also works with developmentally disabled adults in Marin, whom she affectionately refers to as “my retarded friends.”
We were hanging out, having a marvelous time, when I suddenly got the bright idea that we needed to prank call someone. Katy riffles through her bag and produces a phone number she got from “some guy.” Scrawled on a post it with “You’re a winner!” printed on the back, there appeared to the name “John” and a phone number. I pulled out my phone and immediately called “John.”
After attempting to remind John of our life-changing one night stand, he rebuffed my advances. “Well, maybe you were drunk and that’s why you don’t remember me.” I screamed into the phone.
“I haven’t had a drink in 20 years!” he screamed back.
“Bullshit. You were wasted and you know it.”
Finally, John was ready to end our conversation. “All right, John.” I screamed over the reggae. “You’re a winner!”
I slam down my phone as Katy leans over. “I just remembered where I got that number. I was at the Salvation Army with one of my retards. I was buying this futon and I needed to someone to carry it home. My retard knew of a guy named John who might be able to help me. So, basically, John is a friend of a retard.”
Well, Katy, my new best friend, welcome to the circle. Care to add some more retards to the mix…

Thursday, February 17, 2005

bob your head like epilepsy...

On my way to work this morning, I was forced to once again suffer through “Let’s Get it Started,” the censored version of the Black Eyed Peas “Let’s Get Retarded.” This is complete bullshit and the music executive that forced BEP to sell out in such a fashion should be drugged and thrown in a Mexican coffin.
The worst part about “Let’s Get it Started” is watching people sing along, oblivious to the original lyrics. I actually spotted a gentleman in the car next to me, dancing along to the gay station as I was, and when Black Eyed Peas sang the line, “Let’s get it started, IN HERE”, he actually threw his hands up in the air and then pointed down for the “…in here” part. As if his car was ground zero for getting it started.
Nope.
His car is obviously ground zero for being retarded. If only he knew…

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

love letter...

Dear Mill Valley Fireman currently rescuing someone right outside my office window,
I am so in love with you, I can barely breathe. Maybe it’s your clean cut, Republican appearance, maybe it’s the way you flipped open that gurney with ease, maybe it’s your tight fitting navy blue uniform. Any way you cut it, I have just fallen hard.
Any old person can rescue a little girl choking on a grape. But you do it with such authoritative style. Even my boss said, “That’s one hot fireman!”
I can’t wait to tell the wacky story of how we met at our wedding. I can’t wait to tell people I’m in love with a super fine rescue worker. I can’t wait to bake lasagna for the entire Ladder Company.
Oh, Mill Valley Fireman rescuing someone right outside my office window, ditch that victim and come rescue me…

i think they're weird, too...

I was watching TV talking with my cousin Michael last night. Michael and I have grown up seeing each other once a year, and his trip down here is the first time we’ve ever really gotten to know each other. We were reminiscing about our annual Christmas gathering, breaking down the holiday event and how we both dread it. I was going on and on about how it doesn’t matter how one acts at “Cousin’s Christmas” because you won’t see these people for an entire year and you can show up next Christmas as an entirely different person.
“I mean, really, Michael. Everyone things of everyone else as vaguely weird, anyway. Who cares?”
“Is that how you think of us?” He asked. “Vaguely weird?”
“Well, that’s how I think everyone else views me.” I casually responded.
Michael thought about it for a minute, then smiles and says, “Yeah. That’s true.”
“What!” I scream, appalled that my own family (whom I barely know) openly find me weird.
“You’re a character. That’s the buzz about you. Not really weird. But a character.”
Hey, as long as there’s buzz…

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

weddin' bells...

Congrats to Hannah and Greg. Apparently, instead of going out to dinner with their cousins, like some people did on Valentine's Day, they got engaged. I think it's safe to say, their kids will be stunning...

Monday, February 14, 2005

this nametag really takes away from my gown...

What a weekend… Sorry (Jason) it’s taken me so long to write. I know. I suck. But I had 2 Galas in a row and while awesome, it wiped me the fuck out. The first was some big dinner dance, the highlight being that my dear friend Michael was there, and we schmoozed the night away together while drinking all the shitty Merlot we could get our hands on. The low light was when the bartender hesitated serving me because he thought I was some sort of worker. Michael had a heartattack, and began screaming at him while wildly waving around a Blood Orange cosmo.
Afterwards, I met up at the Monkey Club with Big Chris and two of his friends, and then Jason and Brendan. Brendan bet me $5 I couldn’t get some hot chick to come sit with us. Needless to say, “Flora” joined us not 2 seconds later and I took my payment in the form of vino. Apparently, Flora, while stunning, isn’t exactly Einstein, and Brendan dismissed her soon after. Or she left because I mistakenly kept calling her Fauna. Who knows. And more importantly, who cares?
Saturday was my big fundraiser for work, and if I do say so myself, it was a smashing success. The only mishap was that the caterer brought pork into the Kosher kitchen, but the Jews were pretty laid back about it. Alex helped bartend, sneaking in a six pack for him and Ben. Apparently, the donated wine and Champagne wasn’t doing it for them. Lex and I then ran off to go meet our cousin Mike, visiting from Arcata. We swung down the block for a couple drinks and then crashed at home.
After Sunday brunch, Mike, Alex and I headed over to Clothing by the Pound and tried on hats. I don’t want to worry anyone, but I’m pretty sure I have hobo lice. We also saw the hilarious Shawn of the Dead. Watch it.
Big Chris came over and the four of us drove to the Pelican Inn for pints and darts. It was actually really fun, and Michael was highly entertained by the shenanigans of my censor-free sidekick. The Pelican Inn is in the middle of nowhere and is pretty much Ye Olde English Restaurant. The pub section is tiny, and on rainy Sunday evenings, it’s packed with hippy hikers and Marin millionaires. It also has a really hot Irish bartender, who is so adorable, I’m too chicken to even speak coherently to him. I merely bat my eyelashes and ask him to put more drinks on Chris’ tab.
Finally, we drove back to my parents, sat by the fire, ate steak and played heated games of Scatagories. It was hilarious and Big Chris and mom are trading e-mails today, still contesting the official language of Indonesia. (Don’t ask.) Dad, true to form, pulled out weird liquor after dinner and made everyone taste his bizarre libations.
I’m getting way too old to go out every night, and the fact that I regard dinner at my parents as “going out” is yet another indication that I’m practically 1000.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

go to the back of the line...

I hate the Hall of Justice. I hate it.
Yesterday, I arrived there at 7:15am, knowing full well that the doors open at 8. However, on the many occasions that I've had the displeasure of conducting business at the HOJ, I found a line at the front door by 7:45. Thus, at 7:15, I was the 3rd person there. And of the 3, I think it's safe to say I was the only one without a criminal record, the only one drinking a chai latte, and the only one reading about Marc Jacobs in Vanity Fair. My other 2 companions seemed to have all of their worldly possessions packed into ancient duffel bags, overflowing with such items as Nerf footballs, women's panties, and an obscene amount of condoms. I'm not kidding. I'm that nosey. I totally looked.
By 7:55, there were 40 people out there on the steps, with several assholes inching their way up to the front door. We weren't really formed into a line, which was pissing me off. We were just a big group of people. But, having made such an effort to get in there first, I was willing to fight these fucking cutters.
At 8am, a huge and filthy security guard opened the doors and had us all file into the foyer, where he stopped us. Still at the front, I eyed the metal detectors to my left, planning my sprint the second this guy was done with his stupid speech.
Mr. "I'm not a real cop so my daily speech is the only thing that makes me feel important" Security Guard went on for 15 minutes. He announced repeatedly that if he's forced to unzip any pocket in anyone's bags, they go to the back of the line. If anyone gives him any "backtalk", they go to the back of the line. Anyone who's carrying any weapons, well, they don't go to jail. They just go to the back of the line.
At this point I thought we were done. Nope.
He then asks who's going to traffic, to which most of us raise our hands. Room 101, then. Yeah, we know. Who's got probation? Room 105. Who's got Jury Duty? Room 307. He goes through 6 floors! Room after room, number after number, department after department. He'd mention the most obscure office, including a place where you can apparently choose to get your mugshot taken for 5 bucks. And the entire time he's going through the complete building directory, I can see from the corner of my eye that people are inching their way closer to those metal detectors, cutting me! As I'm trapped smack dab in front of this Security Nazi, I can't do a thing about it.
Finally, his daily self esteem exercise ends and the entire group makes a mad dash for the metal detectors. Filing into one line, I note that there are 2 metal detectors and dive into the second one, the only person before me being one of my duffel bag compatriots from 7:15am. I was thrilled with my luck until I realize that the Security Guard has to go through the entire duffel bag, removing the Nerf ball, the panties, and about a thousand condoms. The hobo moves on, having opened all of his bag's zippers, giving no backtalk, and possessing no weapons.
It was finally my turn. He didn't even look in my bag. He didn't even care that I had carefully unzipped everything, was respectfully silent, and have never even owned a weapon. He waved me on, and I was free. I kicked a Filipino line cutter out of my way and was second in the traffic room line. How ya like me now? I was out of there by 8:20, unheard of in HOJ circles.
I did get one thing out of my experience, though. The next time Andy and I are looking for a wacky adventure, we'll be dressing up, spending 5 bucks and getting our mugshots taken...

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

crawling out of the woodwork...

Because I work in the dark depths of the suburbs, news travels fast. This Sunday, the local paper ran half a sentence on my new job. And so begins the trouble...
This past fall, I worked at a Film Festival, managing 400 volunteers I've long since forgotten about. Tonight, one of those volunteers called me at HOME, having apparently read every corner of this stupid gossip column and found the well hidden blurb about me. She is now, of course, looking for a job for her "friend".
First things first: Ben gets to hire this new person, not me. Secondly, I've made it perfectly clear to Ben that this new hire be a straight, hot, single guy - not a middle aged woman with a Ford Taurus. Finally, the best way to get your friend NOT HIRED is to call me at HOME during the fucking West Wing. Like we say at auditions, Next!
I am noticing that my job is a little more public than I'm used to. This may be reflected in my having to censor my blog. That sucks. But fear not. I have to go to the goddamn Hall of Justice yet again tomorrow. Why? Because I ran a stop sign on May 26th, 1972. You know, if Miss Film Festival Volunteer bails me out of jail, we just might have to hire this friend of hers...

who died....

My father likes to collect locals whom he then hires for odd jobs, along the lines of the Elizabeth Smart family. As 916A needs a little work, dad informed me some guy from Mill Valley would be calling to arrange a time to do some odd jobs here. Fine with me.
This morning at 7:03am, my phone rings.
"Oh, hi there Beth. My name is Phil and your dad told me to call, but before I go any further, is it too early?"
"What time is it?" I grogilly answer, knowing full fucking well it's 7:03.
"I'll take that as a yes." he chirps. "What time should I call back?"
Dear God. I don't care. "How 'bout during, like, business hours?"
He agreed to call me at 8am. Who are these people? And of course, I am now wide awake, fuming from the idiot handyman who thinks 7:03 is a perfectly normal time to call a stranger.
Needless to say, Phil works from home, and thus I have his home number. I hope he's looking forward to a scheduling meeting at 2:03am, because that's when I'm up and ready to chat.
7:03am! I thought someone died...

Friday, February 04, 2005

can you feel it, baby...

Lest you think my life is the least bit glamorous, let me describe for you my night tonight, a Friday night. Upon returning home late from work, I decided to make dinner. Having no money and no food, I opened a can of tasteless Campbell's soup from the Bargain Bank, where food is sent when it's too old to adorn the dusty shelves of ancient corner stores. I then took my soup and week-long opened bottle of wine to the living room where I re-watched the Marky Mark episode of Inside the Actor's Studio.
And I have this to say: Why does the world refuse to honor the genius of Renaissance Man? It's a fantastic movie and no one clapped for it when Lipton started talking about it. They clapped for Basketball Diaries. They clapped for Three Kings. You know they clapped for Boogie Nights. My God, they even clapped for Fear. Why must you disrespect Renaissance Man?
My favorite part of the entire episode is when James Lipton starts naming rappers who became these amazing actors. He looks over at Marky Mark and says, "Isn't it amazing how many rappers have become such screen talents. There's you, Ice Cube, Mos Def, Will..."
Will? Is he referring to Will Smith? Like, they just had dinner last night? Like they talk on the phone every day? Like Jim and Will, best friends forever?
Please.
George Clooney, Marky Mark's co-star in Three Kings, the Perfect Storm and the Italian Job, was never mentioned. Nor was the Italian Job mentioned at all, an incredibly fabulous movie. Something's up. They must be fighting. It's very weird not to mention Clooney. I mean, I've never met the man and I bring him up hourly.
Marky Mark is of course adorable and has some sweet guns. But the boy is full of shit. For crying out loud, he takes himself so goddamn seriously. He claims to feel such a responsibility to the kids from the 'hood because he went to jail for 60 days when he was 16. As if he possesses this ridiculous baggage of life experience none of us could possibly understand. Hello? I've had like, 8 therapists. Don't talk to me about baggage.
Finally, to add to my shitty soup and trashy TV misery, I was forced to watch a commercial in which this hot guy goes to Hallmark, buys 3 greeting cards and as a result, gets a free teddy bear, which he then gives to his stunning girlfriend who appears thrilled by this appalling gift. I don't even know where to begin with this one...

Thursday, February 03, 2005

soooooo predictable...

Today I worked in San Rafael attending an all day conference for non-profits who need to jazz up their promotional materials. I was seated in between a woman from a Rape Crisis center and some brain injury network lady, both of whom couldn’t find my company (a non-profit theater) less worthy. They were unable to stop themselves from rolling their eyes when I talked about cultivating theater-lovers and expanding our audience to young singles. Apparently, if you’re not counseling the sexually abused or heli-vaking helmet-less motor cycle riders somewhere, you’re just a dilettante.
I immediately befriended a woman who works with severely emotionally disturbed children. When I attempted to lighten the mood by loudly proclaiming, “Oh, I think I dated one of them!” not a soul cracked a smile. Tough crowd.
Needless to say, my one and only friend was the guy from the Gay Center. Charming and hilarious, he stood with me in the corner and made fun of people’s outfits. We named each other “The only other interesting person here” and are having lunch next week.

You don’t have to say it. I’m well aware.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

things i find funny...

The gals in the office got in a huge fight the other day over Hugh Jackman. I hate him. Margot and my boss LOVE him. And I figured it out. You know why I hate him? He's not funny. At all.
Last night, the highlight of my day was watching "Television's Most OUTRAGEOUS Live Moments" (TMOLM), which is the greatest show ever. As a child, I was obsessed with bloopers shows, and the gag reel is my favorite part of any DVD. Even at 27, I find TMOLM is genius, filled with evening news blunders and sporting mishaps from every English speaking country. Do yourself a favor and watch it.
Every day, the workers right outside our office stop at exactly noon, pull out lawn chairs and coolers, and set up a picnic in the middle of the road. Ben and I are fascinated by them, making up life histories and inter-personal relationship stories. We have grown to love everything about them, from their safety vests to their handlebar moustaches. Yesterday, Ben and I hatched a plan that next week, we'd bring our own lawn chairs and coolers, wait till noon and then walk right over there, set up shop, and make some new friends.
And finally, I have many, many funny friends. But Big Chris wins the "cracking me up at my desk" award for the day. His ability to compile lists on all subjects, the most hilarious being all the men I've ever dated, once had me spit water all over my computer. This is what I received today:

so I'm sitting on a the couch between you and zoe and
this skank is walking to the bathroom and stops on the
ramp and starts smiling at me and checking me out.
you observe what is going on get fucking furious and
start going off about how does this bitch know we're
not together, girls can't pick up on me when we're out,
and how in the future all girls I date/hook up must have
the beth seal of approval. also the next night I'm pretty
sure I told kelsey an exaggerated version of the previous
evenings events where you went crazy and I was basically
restraining you and you're yelling at girl for smiling at me.
all in all its good of you to look out for my best interests.

I have absolutely no recollection of this, but I'm pretty sure it's true. I think it's safe to say that any skank Big Chris dates will never have my seal of approval because how could I approve someone whose thong is visible, can't spell, and doesn't vote.
He might be offensive to everyone he meets, he might call my best friend a "Queer Bag" to his face, he might make fun of every detail of my personal life, but goddamn it, Big Chris is the funniest 8 foot tall straight Filipino I know.