the end of an era...

Not only did we spend a fortune, but we cooked, we cleaned, we carved 20 goddamn pumpkins. So it is with a heavy heart that I inform you…my Halloween Party sucked.
Sucked is a strong word, as I had a great time from 10:30-12:30. And really, I didn’t mind the girl passed out on my bed. She wasn’t bothering anyone. For me, the party came to a crashing halt when I was informed that the girl passed out on my bed had peed. On my bed. Through my down comforter. All the way to my featherbed.
It went downhill from there.
In addition to a pair of newlyweds getting in an obscenity-laced screaming and shoving match, we had a guest so inebriated and obnoxious, my ever-polite roommate lost it, prompting her peaceful boyfriend to attempt to throw the drunkard out. The two of them gave up and decided to leave themselves, driving Sybil, the gigantic Latina drag queen home on their way. That left me with the domestic abuse duo and a drunk asshole. Not only that, there was pee all over my bed.
A parade of people came through my perfectly decorated doors last night, all of whom seemed to have a shitty time and few of whom I actually knew. As my earrings got repeatedly stuck to my costume, I washed what was left of my sheets, attempted to dry the spilled and staining vodka from my dead grandmother’s dining table and scraped candy corn off my rug, it suddenly occurred to me.
This is no longer fun.
I am too old for this madness, to mature for these alcoholics and too pissed-off to stay at my own hellish party. I wanted out.
I’ll admit, the thought occurred to me. I was one of the few sober enough to drive, and Rhonda the Honda sat mere feet away. I could sneak out and drive to the airport, hopping a flight to somewhere less insanely violent and upsetting, like the Sudan or Rwanda.
But how does one get a giant pair of scissors through customs?
I simply retreated to my room/toilet and waited it out.
With everyone finally gone, even my wonderful boys who stayed to make sure I wasn’t gang-raped on the sun porch or calling 911 on redial, I locked my house, crawled onto my uncovered mattress and prayed it was all a dream.
When I awoke to a beautiful vase of flowers knocked sideways on my kitchen floor, spilled wax on the hardwood and a gigantic stain covering the dining room table, I knew it’d actually happened. Zoe soon arrived back home and within an hour or so, the place was sparkling. So disgusted by the previous nights events, we got on our hands and knees and scrubbed, marveling, “Who raised these people? Have they no sense of shame? My god, she peed in my bed!”
We realized that we’d much rather spend that money and time and effort on having 10 people over for a fabulous dinner, with real wine and expensive meat. Maybe we’re getting old, but all I know is that we both had way more fun when my parents came over. What does that tell you?
There was only one thing that could make us feel the slightest bit better.
A little slice of civilization called The Nordstrom Café…

rock, paper, scissors...

stalking the mayor, part 673...

So, you know how I’ve got a “Man on the Inside?” Someone with fairly regular contact with Gavin and his flunkies, who just happens to be one of my oldest friends? This was our conversation via text last night, as I sat in my living room carving pumpkins and watching Forensic Files:

Man on Inside: I’m three seats away from Gavin.

Spots: SHUT UP! You lie.

MOI: I’m closer than you’ll ever be.

Spots: I’ve met him, you idiot. And it was magical.

MOI: He just asked about you.

Spots: You’re an asshole. Where are you?

MOI: 5 blocks away from you.

Spots: God, you’re so stupid. Where are you really?

MOI: Uh, 5 locks away from you. Medjool.

Spots: Gavin wouldn’t be caught dead there.

MOI: Well, he would and he is. Are you coming?

Spots: I don’t believe you.

MOI: I swear on Bob.
(Now, this is serious. Man on the Inside would never lie about this. He might swear on God, he might swear on the Bible, he might even swear at the dinner table, but he’d never swear on Bob, my wonderful, late grandfather, unless it was truer than true.)

Spots: OH MY GOD!

MOI: How fast can you get here?

Spots: I look like shit.

MOI: How fast can you get here and not look like shit?

I was already ignoring his texts at this point, fervently pulling pumpkin seeds from my hair, throwing on cute jeans and rapidly digging through the pashmina pile, hoping to cover myself in any way possible. Uh, my hair. My hair is disgusting! Would a beret be too much…

MOI: Where are you?

Spots: He’s still there? I’m getting ready.

MOI: Have you left yet?

Spots: I’m halfway out the door.

Bag, beret, pashmina, glasses…I looked like an over-accessorized, undercover cop. So it’ just as well when…

MOI: And he’s gone.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

for spending this much time at a gym, i should be hotter...

I might as well write about nothing else. GhettoGym is just one adventure after another. After spending some time on the treadmill next to Vin Diesel’s foxier twin, I took that Vanity Fair I’m still working on over to the stationery bikes. Suddenly, a vision of appalling natural highlights appeared on the bike to my left, and I looked over, delighted to discover Jason.
After a chat and Jason announcing he had to go work on his abs, I congratulated myself on doing extra cardio in preparation of Halloween, gathered my belongings and headed to my car. Parking at GhettoGym can often prove a challenge, and I had a little trek to Rhonda the Honda.
As I exited the gym and made my way through the indoor parking lot, a sleazy white Corvette pulled up next to me. The tinted window slowly lowered and literally, the most gorgeous man I have ever seen in my life (other than my stationery bike neighbor, of course) attempted to ask me something over his classless rap music.
“What?”
“Where are you parked?”
Anywhere you want me to be. “Um, kind of over there, against the wall.”
“Cool. Can I snag that space?”
His shockingly light blue eyes nearly blinded me. “Of course!” I screamed, far too enthusiastically.
I then had to walk, carrying the Vanity Fair, a water bottle, my bag and a good quart of sweat and ugliness through the parking lot, with a white Corvette following me at 2 miles an hour.
I kept turning around and smiling, forgetting that my t-shirt proclaimed the embarrassing “Billabong” and the bobby pins that once contained my fly-aways were collected around my ears. I just kept thinking the entire, endless time, ‘This is officially the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life, beating out his predecessor - a ferry operator in Venice, circa 1995.’
Hey folks, that’s a big title, and a tough one to take while sitting in a car. But I mean it. This guy was THAT hot.
I finally came close enough to point to my car. “That’s me. Right there.”
He smiled. “I’m such an asshole.”
“What?”
“I’m such an asshole. I should’ve given you a ride.”
Obviously, he’d already fallen madly in love with me and my sports-bra created uni-boob.
“Oh, that’s okay!” I giggled, like a complete idiot. There are few strangers I’d get in a car with, much less a white Corvette. This was one of the few.
“Anyway, uh, thanks for the space and, uh…”
Oh, fabulous. Awkward silence. This is where he’s supposed to proclaim me stunning ask me for some type of personal contact information, preferably e-mail as I’m better with the edit-able written word than I am with my unstoppable mouth.
But as much as I wish it would be, my life is not a Nora Ephron film. He just smiled and waved as I got in my car, exhaled through my never-ending lack of confidence and drove away. He honked a thank you, and I peered through that rear-view mirror, wanting one last look at, and it can’t be said enough, the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.
Tune in tomorrow, gang. Zoe’ll be dragging me to the gym before the designated day of party/costume planning and I’ve come to expect mayhem, bizarrities and madcap, blog-worthy adventures at this bastion of spandex and judgment…

dj vs. band...

Do we want to talk about the cover of the Chronicle today, or do we just want to title it:

Beth’s veiled view of Gavin, looking at the priest and saying,
"Are you kidding me? Of course I do."

Obviously, he’d be wearing a different tie…

and i don't think he means waves...

As if finally fitting into my littlest jeans weren’t reward enough, I’ve once again enjoyed an unbridled freak show at the gym. Next to me on a treadmill was a wildly unattractive, middle-aged gentleman sporting a dingy tank top. It appeared he’d taken bright green electrical tape and created a message across his sweat-stained chest. It took me a second to be able to read it, and when I finally made it all out, I was appalled, disgusted and slightly amused.
“If it swells, ride it.”
Buying a shirt, much less a tank top, proclaiming this offensive phrase is one thing. But creating it from a $2 wife beater and some green tape is entirely another.
Kudos on grossing me out, Treadmill neighbor. Try not to trip on your biting wit…

As I was also working out next to the smallest, skinniest woman alive, thus making me feel huge, fat and Amazonian, I decided to dramatically up my incline. This athletic move proved too much for my Vanity Fair and it went flying down to my feet. Leaping over it, I watched my huge magazine ride along the treadmill and land in the middle of the walkway. Another frighteningly toned woman stood right there, looked at me with disgust, rolled her eyes, picked it up and attempted to hand it to me. Because I still didn’t feel stupid enough, thousands of subscription flyers dropped from the magazine, littering the gym and further annoying size 0.
I’m well aware that it’s challenging to be charming at 6:30 in the morning, but her angered and purposefully slow handing over of the magazine, while I essentially climbed Everest was unwarranted. It was all I could do not to hit pause, turn around and say, “Hey, lady. If it swells, ride it…”

really. i live in queens...

Because I adore my father and because my mother could use a hearty laugh, I took my folks to see Kevin Pollak on Friday. To know me is to know that The Usual Suspects is pretty much my favorite film ever. My god, it’s even the basis for the title of this blog. And the fact that Kevin Pollak is not only one of my favorite impressionists, but one of the Usual Suspects had me booking my tickets months ago. Kate and her boyfriend Steve jumped at the chance to join us, and the five of us convened in front of the club Friday night, excited as all get out.
“Now, where would I know him from?” My mother asked for the third time. “He’s the nerdy guy from ‘A Few Good Men,” right?”
Kate took this as her cue to perform lines from every movie Kevin Pollak’s ever been in, one of my personal favorites being “Indian Summer.”
“But does he do comedy?” Steve asked.
“Yes!” I screamed back at him. “Are you kidding me. He’s does the greatest Christopher Walken impression on earth. Trust me. He’s really, really funny.”
With that, I suddenly worried I had built this show up too much.
“I wonder who is opening.” I innocently asked.
“What!” My parents were shocked. “Someone comes on first?”
“Uh, yeah. Probably two people.”
“Oh, god. We have to sit through 2 strangers?”
We’re going to need some more drinks at table 37. Brent Weinbach was up first, and I think he’s a genius, so I was delighted. I could get into a whole intellectual diatribe about how I think Brent Weinbach is really on to something great, but I’ll just recommend that you go see him with an open mind. Next, we had to sit through some guy my parents loved and Kate and I hated. He was very, “Why don’t they make the whole plane out of the black box???” which annoyed me.

Finally, Kevin Pollak took the stage and killed. It was truly one of the best comedy acts I’ve ever seen, with a hearty Walken bit and some surprisingly original takes on the ever popular airplane subject. Also, I tend to laugh harder at those whose work I’ve worshiped for years.
We all were in hysterics, my parents having a particularly grand time. As Ma and Pa take me out constantly, to lovely dinners and fancy shows, it was nice to show them an evening out-Beth style.

We hugged them goodbye out on the sidewalk and Kate, Steve and I headed up to the WashBag for some cocktails.
Having no reverence for the “Noses!” photo theme Kate and I so charmingly invented in Florence, Steve captured that night’s version, managing to include a image of George Wendt in the background.
We moved on to some shitty bar in the Marina, meeting up with a myriad of friends, including Jenny and Pete. Jenny came running over.
“Oh my god! I’m buying you a drink. What do you want?”
“Well, I want wine. But is it okay to order that here? I mean, will it be in a box?”
“This might be a dive bar, Bethy, but this is the Marina. Half the bitches in here get wine.”
I truly did have a glorious Friday night, spending half of it in the presence of Todd Hockney and the other half watching my god-sister get shit-faced and perform movie lines no one understood but me…

the lovechild of oprah and tiger...

inquiring minds want to know...

I have yet again received an e-mail from an unknown blog-reader requesting answers to some questions that have popped up over the course of their reading. This has greatly made my day, as I am always shocked and a little concerned, but none the less delighted to find those I don’t know reading this nonsense. Also, this is the most wonderful question ever asked, and it took me some time to regain my composure…

Is Big Chris your boyfriend?

Answer by Spots: To dare, but to dream. Actually, no. Try and I might, I don’t meet Big Chris’ qualifications of illiterate, underage, and panty-less. Big Chris is my platonic life partner because he meets my qualifications of reading my blog, being on time and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Tiger Woods…

Answer by Big Chris: Beth not my girlfriend. But, she does hold a very special and important role in my life: burrito buddy. Beth and I enjoy eating burritos together, getting drunk, telling each that we're both out of our fucking minds, and going to high society events. I've also hooked up with Beth's friends and her friend's friends. Good times.

Answer Part Two by Spots: You asshole. I never even order burritos. I usually get quesadillas. Then I put my leftovers in the bottom of my designer knockoff before we go to Beauty Bar. And all of my friends and friends of friends that you’ve hooked up with all unequivocally deny having ever met you…

Answer Part Two by Big Chris: You lying sack of monkey shit, I've seen you eat half a burrito, say how disgusting it was, wrap it up, put it in your purse, then eat it the next day for breakfast and send me an e-mail telling me you have a tummy ache. Also what can I say ( drunk ) chicks dig me.

Answer Part Three by Spots: Not this drunk chick. Tiger, Tiger Woods, Y'all...

rps is my life...

You won’t believe this.

I went to Pleasanton today. (I know. I know. It gets even more unimaginable.) Amazingly enough, I was shocked to find the front page of The Valley Times featured an entire article my new favorite subject, where the reporter not only included the history of Ro Sham Bo, they announced that first annual “Rock, Paper, Scissors Tournament and Dance Party” would be hosted this very night by the Rotary in the Veteran’s Hall.
Have you ever heard of anything more wonderful? A Rock, Paper, Scissors Tournament and Dance Party!
First of all, let’s break this tournament down. Are there skill levels of competition? Am I willing to fork over $25 to enter, even if I get a free participant t-shirt? Would I be considered beginner or, as I consider myself, intermediate? After all, I don’t use terms like “cloaking.”
Oh, yeah. That’s right. The paper contained an RPS dictionary.

RPS? It took me a second, too.
Rock, Paper, Scissors.

And what about the “Dance Party” element of this event. Sitting at lunch in historic downtown Pleasanton, we looked out the window and immediately next to our table was a huge, glossy poster announcing this exciting event. Not only will “The Crisis” be jamming out tunes from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s all night, but booze is $2 and the food is free!
Does life get any better?
Uh, no. It doesn't.
Sadly, previous engagements kept us from actually attending, much less entering, but I envisioned winning the competition and being crowned Pleasanton’s RPS champion. They’d call me “The Golden Hand” and speak of how I’d swept the tournament with my last minute “shadow” of paper, forcing the disqualification of international RPS icon, China‘s Lester Ha.

Actually, there IS an icon, a guy who’s referred to as one of RPS’s “all time greats,” calls himself “Master Roshambollah” and expects this exciting "sport" to take off next year.

Next year? You’ve got to be kidding me. With the RPS buzz I’ve been independently creating with my blog, we’re talking any day now. I hear Bravo’s got a celebrity version in the works.
Needless to say, I had to have one of these posters. They were up everywhere, so it wasn’t hard to rip one from a window and peel away before the Rotarians discovered my theft. Us RPS folks live on the edge. And apparently, 800 of us attended the annual international tournament in Toronto.
I think it’s safe to say, it got pretty crazy in that Toronto Radisson.
I don’t doubt it was off the hook at tonight’s Veteran’s Hall tournament and dance party. But I don't think they'll get Toronto-level turnout. We swung by the hall. It’ll hold no more that 100 RPS aficionados. 120 max. None the less, sounds like the makings of a serious scene.

I never thought I’d say this, but I wish I was in Pleasanton right now…

You have to register, but it’s worth it. Scroll a little more than halfway down. I’m serious. You’ve got to read this: rps is my life

in lane 2, of romania...

I’m delighted to report that I witnessed a bizarre and amazing occurrence this morning. Yet again, I’ve found that if I’m able to drag my ass out of bed at 6 and take it to the gym, I’m rewarded with not only the satisfaction of having burned my calories for the day, but the pure joy of a gratis freak show.
My ghetto gym contains a pool, a pool which was the very reason I joined my ghetto gym. Turns out, the pool has 2 deal breakers which keep me from ever using it. The first is that when I go swim laps, even at 4am, there’s an array of obese, middle-aged Asian men in Speedos who sit in the adjoining hot tub and stare. They make no bones about it, unapologetically eyeing every inch of every woman as we rapidly enter or exit the pool. These men make no consideration for our discomfort or self-consciousness, nor seem to mind the blatant obviousness of their rude gawking. We’re women, after all. This is why we’re here.
The second reason I won’t use this pool is because it smells unequivocally of feces.
Had you been in the lobby of GhettoGym this morning, peering through the dingy windows onto the pool below, you would have found what appeared to be a swim meet. Two gentlemen, complete with competition swimsuit, swim cap and goggles, vigorously raced, cheered on by a mildly enthusiastic beer-bellied man with the San Francisco Giants logo tattooed across the enormity of his torso.
The apparent seriousness of this race was lost on no one, and I found myself one of about 15 standing at the window watching the madness.
The race abruptly ended, the winner going so far as to pump his fist in the direction of Giants logo. Had I been like the rest of the spectators and taken that moment to be the end of the spectacle, I would’ve missed it. But the gods were with me and the stars aligned. I remained peering through that window just long enough to see the winner offer the loser his hand. With great seriousness and sportsmanship, they shook and exited the pool. I was hoping for a trophy ceremony, flag raising and national anthem, but they’ve yet to organize their Olympiad to that degree. None the less, it’s 7:56 am and my day is made…

paper beats rock...

My never-ending search for an awesome Halloween costume continues. I’ve been discussing this at length with various experts on the subject and have been carefully weighing my options. My latest concept: Ro Sham Bo.
Someone goes as “Rock.”
Someone goes as “Paper.”
I go as “Scissors.”
This idea came up twice in conversations last night, once with a friend who’s favorite past costume was “Slutty Beer Wench” and another who went as a Ninja 3 years in a row. Clearly, these are not experts in genius and witty Halloween costumes. Both thought my Ro Sham Bo concept was clever, but challenging to pull off.
I could go the tacky yet topical route and force someone to go as “Rita” and I’d go as “Katrina.” But I’d rather not burn in hell for all of eternity and really, how cute could I look with a row boat on my back and poor people on my roof?
Too much? Too soon?
The pressure is on and the expectations high. I’ve got to pull off the costume of the season, much less the party. If I can’t come up with anything else, I’ll be relegated to throwing on some faux diamonds, finding a small dog and some sleazy Greek guy and going as Paris Hilton…

rhubarb...

It was Alex’s last night in town, and as Pa’s been desperate for a dinner invite, Zoe and I threw a little dinner party. Dick, Joanne, Alex, Judy, Dani and Richard joined us last night and for the past week or so, Zo and I have been planning the dinner menu.
“You know what would be fabulous?” piped up dear Zoe. “Like, a rhubarb pie.”
“Okay. Great. No problem.”
The house was as immaculate as it gets, spectacular food smells wafted from the kitchen, and every candle within a 5 block radius was lit. The wine was breathing, our hair was bouncing and we enjoyed a pre-party drink before our quests arrived.
“I can’t wait for that rhubarb.”
“Me neither!”
The gang appeared, my mother’s laughter providing the doorbell, my father handing off an array of pumpkins, wine and sunflowers. Mom and Judy marveled at how adorable everything looked, Zoe and I agreed, and Dad and Richard engaged in a bizarre discussion no one else paid attention to. Alex found me and asked how Dani was doing. “She’s on her way!”
“What? She’s not in New York?”
“No! She’ll be here momentarily.” Delighted, Alex found himself another glass of wine and enjoyed some brie. Our party was a smashing success.
We gathered around the dinner table, laughing, eating and drinking for hours. It was marvelous. I felt like such a grownup, having my family over to my house with my fabulous roommate and my expensive wine glasses.
After dinner, we popped that rhubarb pie in the oven and Richard took a Vanity Fair photo shoot of “The Trifecta”, which is how Zo, Dan and I refer to ourselves. We were thrilled as we served up pie and coffee and conversation, and I surveyed the dining room. Filled with people I love and adore, I could not have been happier.
The gang piled out and Zoe and I attempted to clean.
“We did awesome.”
“I know! How fun was that!”
I snuggled in my cozy bed, full and drunk and felling wonderfully blessed. As I drifted off to sleep, there was a timid knock at my bedroom door.
“Beth? Are you asleep?”
“No. Come in here. What’s going on?”
“Something’s wrong. Richard’s on his way over.”
“What are you talking about?”
You won’t believe this, but Zoe ended up in the emergency room at 4am this morning. Why?
She’s allergic to rhubarb…

subject line...

I have a friend that fancies herself “Satan.” She’ll gladly encourage you to have one more round, add extra cheese to a burger or sleep with the bartender. This is a great friend to have, because you know that you really want that drink, that extra cheese and that sex, you’re just too chicken to admit it.
Well, the tables have turned because dear “Satan” doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. After an afternoon of excessive drinking, I forced “Satan” into discussing her work crush at length, drafted a flirty yet professional e-mail on the back of a Safeway receipt and then made her send it.
In a perfect world, I’d have the confidence to be this charmingly forward myself, spouting off saucy missives and calling up old flames in the spirit of which I encourage “Satan.” But I only possess this gift when perfecting the love lives of close friends.
Work crush and “Satan” are having lunch next week.
Thus, dear readers, I offer you my services. Need to send a witty e-mail? Got a big date? Still obsessing about that ex? Well, obsess no further. I’m your gal. For the small fee of being able to live vicariously through you, I will draft any number of adorable pieces of correspondence to whomever you wish.
Seriously. Ask “Satan.” I’ve got mad skills…

lousy blog warning:

I've got nothing. Paranoia prevents me from writing about anything interesting that's been happeneing, because it's all about my job, I've yet to embarass myself as profoundly as I did the other night and I've taken today off work to hike around Pt. Reyes and buy West Marin cheese. Like I said, I've got nothing.
Thus, for those tremendously bored and desperate for obnoxious, self-serving commentery, allow me to direct you to the following:

www.dlisted.blogspot.com
www.veryverygay.com/elijahwood/vvg.html
www.perezhilton.com
www.foxnews.com (i had to. i set myself up for it so beautifully.)

I'll be back tonight or tomorrow. But seriously. This shit is harder than it looks...

i'm going to die alone...

I give up. I’m throwing in the towel. I’ve officially screwed myself. I hope you all enjoy it.

We arrived at the Comedy Club Benefit last night, and after Zoe made it clear that we were VIP’s, we were ushered into the club. Immediately, we stood before a backdrop and had our photos taken, Big Chris looking like a linebacker and refusing to stand next to anyone. The photographer’s assistant took our names as I screamed at Chris through gritted teeth that he was fucking up my chances of appearing in PaperCity.
“Screw you. I don’t give a shit.”
“I do! How will Gavin ever know who I am if I’m not in PaperCity.”
We wandered upstairs to the bar where I enjoyed a hummus plate with Kamala Harris and sipped some specialty cocktail. The photographer came around again, attempting to capture Zoe, Richard and I in a moment of fabulousness. That is, until Big Chris stepped right in front of her, cockblocking our fabulous photo. Even Zoe was pissed. “Chris! You just screwed up our photo. Again.”
“Whatever. Get me another drink.”
The photographer wandered away, frustrated and wondering who let Big Chris in. It was finally time to head down to our table and as Zoe’s boss paid top dollar, we were right in front. But there were two empty seats. “Oh, I recognize those names.” Zoe said. “I think they’re with Gavin.”
Sweet.
I soon found myself engrossed in a conversation with fabulous Marin people at the next table, chatting about the Junior League and the single life. In the background, I heard Zoe attempt to introduce me, but I didn’t really pay attention. “This is Beth. She’s busy schmoozing…” Whatever.
I finally turned around to meet my new table mates. “Hi, I’m Beth.”
Zoe leaned in. “They’re with Gavin’s office.”
“Oh!” I screamed. “So you work for my boyfriend.”
Dead silence. I took another swig of Hangar 1 and continued. “I mean, Gavin’s numero uno on my top 5.”
“Top 5?”
“Yeah. Top 5 list of celebrities I plan to bed. Gavin’s number one.”
“Wow. Number one." They looked concerned, confused and frightened.
“Absolutely. I mean, he’s the most geographically desirable.”
Zoe, Richard and Big Chris just stared at me. You’d think I’d stop. Nope. Still going.
“Oh, yeah. Gavin and I are destined to be together. He’s just unaware. But I’m working on it.”
“You know, he’s still married.”
(dramatically, rolling eyes.) “Whatever.”
My friends still stunned into silence, I then engaged our tablemates into a discussion of my Top 22, getting a few chuckles here and there, but for the most part, acting like a huge, pathetic asshole. Which, you know…I am.
They offered some Ashton and Demi gossip, politely acted like I was mildly entertaining and then silently thanked the tech staff for dimming the lights and starting the show.
Afterwards, we stood on the corner and recapped. “Jesus Chris. I can’t believe you fucked up my PaperCity photo.”
“Hey, at least I’m not the psychotic stalker.”
“I know.” Richard said. “I couldn’t believe you were saying all that.”
“What are you talking about?”
Zoe sighed. “That was Gavin’s Chief of Staff, Beth.” *
“WHAT?”
“Yeah, I tried to stop you but…”
It was too late. Before she could finish, I ran into the street, attempting to commit suicide by cable car.
Security has no doubt been alerted, the mayor’s staff had a good chuckle around the coffee maker this morning, and I went home with $15 worth of crappy Indian food and slit my wrists. But hey, at least he knows who I am…


* -upon further research, it wasn't his Chief of Staff. It was his Senior Advisor. Not so bad, right?

accompanied by big chris...

To: BigChris@copymachines
From: Beth@fabuloustheater

What are you doing tonight? Can you be free at 6:30?

To: Beth@fabuloustheater
From: BigChris@copymachines

Maybe. I just have to go to the gym tonight that's about it. Why?

To: BigChris@copymachines
From: Beth@fabuloustheater

Well, can you meet me (dressed appropriately) in front of Joe’s Comedy Club at 6:30? Zoe’s boss (insert name of socialite, owner of insert name of fancy hotel) is co-chair of a (insert name of controversial national cause) benefit there and can’t go, so she’s giving us her ($250 a head) tickets. Free food, booze, and comedy, plus we’ll mingle with the socialites. Zoe, Richard and I are meeting there at 6:30 for the VIP reception. And we have an extra ticket. You get to be my date!

To: Beth@fabuloustheater
From: BigChris@copymachines

Sweet. I love (insert cause)! Birth control for all the ladies !
Joe's is right next to slutty's bar right? What does dressed appropriately
mean? Like I'm going to a night club? So are you saying nikes and
baggy jeans are out of the question ?

To: BigChris@copymachines
From: Beth@fabuloustheater

Try to find a shirt with sleeves. I’ll be in gold stilettos. And act like a grownup. It’s for Zoe’s work. If you were dropping $250, what would you wear?

To: Beth@fabuloustheater
From: BigChris@copymachines

Cool. I'll be on my best behavior but I will probably get really
drunk and eat a lot. Also, I'm taking off work early so I can go and
do the party pump so I'll look buff for the high society ladies.

To: BigChris@copymachines
From: Beth@fabuloustheater

Fabulous. Where will you meet me? In front of Joe’s at 6:30? Be on time, bitch!

To: Beth@fabuloustheater
From: BigChris@copymachines

Compose yourself, butt-head. I'll be in front onJoe’s @ 6:30.
I'll be the guy wearing a shirt w/ sleeves which by the way
is disservice to the world because I won't be able to show off
the pythons that escaped from the city zoo.

down a notch, part 2...

My fabulous evening last night, spent at a cocktail party at Katherine and Shawn’s followed by a bonfire on the beach can be summed up in this e-mail, to be sent today:

Dear Ken,
I understand that you hate everything about me with all of your heart, assuming that you have one. Oddly, the feeling is not mutual, but whatever. However, I'll point out that I find myself in your shoes with great frequency, trapped in a social situation with someone who makes my skin crawl. I choose to inwardly seethe and bitch about them behind their backs, as opposed to publicly ridiculing them and shooting verbal daggers in awkward and embarrassing mood-killers. I'd appreciate it if you'd do the same. Because, you've managed to make me feel like an idiot and an asshole on several occasions, and while I certainly have the capacity to be both, I'd be very grateful if you cut me a little slack.

Warmest Regards,
The girl in the fabulous beret.

God, I hate Ken…

My last run-in with the dreaded Ken...

you, sir...

I went and saw Capote at the break of dawn, this morning. This is the movie about the book that I’m currently reading and the author that I’m currently obsessed with staring the actor that I love and the soundtrack which already haunts my soul. I’ve been desperate to see this movie since I read about it in Men’s Vogue, and could tell this this is the kind of flick I need to see alone. I’m way too into the subject matter to allow anyone else to intrude upon this experience.
I booked it out to West Portal, of all god forsaken places, and popped into the theater just in time for the 11:30am showing. The film was spectacular, amazing, perfect and fascinating. I could gush for pages about everything from the camera angles to the costume details to the moment Capote enters a Kansas police station, sees an officer staring at his scarf and responds, “Bergdorfs.”
It’s all fabulous.
But far more interesting to the readers of this blog is the appalling altercation I found myself in as I left. Parked in a small municipal lot behind the theater, I’d made it to Rhonda the Honda with 4 meter-minutes to spare. I took those minutes to secure my seatbelt and open a Diet Snapple. This was too much for the unnoticed anal retentive asshole in the “I’m not gay because I have a truck” truck behind me, his embarrassing Scottie dog yapping through the window as he screamed at me.
“Your reverse lights have been on for fucking hours, you idiot. Are you coming or fucking going?”
“Um, oh my god. Who are you and what is your problem.”
“I am smart and your stupidity is my problem.”
Deep breaths, deep breaths. This is the kind of altercation that can piss me off for the rest of this beautiful day. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I was in such a good mood after my movie, too. And now this?
“Hey, pal. I was putting on my seatbelt. If you’re going to be an asshole about it, I can stay right here in this highly convenient parking space and go get my nails done.”
But I could tell that he could tell from my Jackie O sunglasses and my cashmere cardigan, I had places to go and people to see. Unlike him.
“Give up the goddamn space. You were just about to go.”
Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I pulled my car out, spun her around, and pulled up alongside him. He leapt out of his disgustingly clean and unnecessary truck and approached my window, beginning his rant as I marveled at the t-shirt tucked so purposefully into his generic denim. “You’re such a fucking idiot. Bitches like you don’t need brains. You get everything you want because people think you’re pretty.”
Having no idea that he just made my day, I smiled, placed my fabulous sunglasses upon my face, and in an uncharacteristically confrontational move, responded with, “You, sir, are a dreadful human being.”
With that, I pulled away, ignoring his incoherent screaming and delighted that this horrible, sad and poorly dressed man thought I was pretty…

the third floor...

If you’ve been reading, you’re aware that my grandmother has been slowly losing it. Grandma has lived in a swanky old folks home for years, residing in a perfectly appointed apartment with my Grandpa until he became too sick and old and was thus moved to the Second Floor Health Center. My grandmother would spend all day visiting him, and then occasionally go upstairs to the Third Floor Health Center and read the invalids selected articles from TIME Magazine.
“The third floor is where they put the ladies who’ve lost their marbles, dear.”
As my grandmother has gotten more ill, she’s been moved from her dear apartment down to the Health Center, and my mother’s gone to extremes to make her Second Floor room as familiar and comfortable as possible. Pewter frames and Limoge boxes surround my grandma as she struggles with the remote control and attempts to speak in broken French to her Haitian nurses. A week ago, I drove over to meet my saintly mother and visit with Grandma. Normally, one can hear them both talking from blocks away, but I wandered the Second Floor Health Center and couldn’t find a trace of mom or Grandma.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Mrs. Peterson.”
“Oh, well she be moved to da Tird Floor.”
“What?”
(screaming) We move her! Tird Floor!”
Oh my god. Acceptance slowly crept in. I mean, I’ve always thought she was nuts. But the Third Floor? That means medical professionals agree.
Yesterday, my mother promised to ply me with wine if I’d meet her in Grandma’s (third floor) health center room and visit. Turns out, the Third Floor is a pretty appropriate place for dear Grandma these days, and my miraculously patient mother smiles through mood swings and constant confusion, bizarre demands and insistence on highly unnecessary re-explanations. To make matters worse, a nurse came in and remarked that my mother and I could be sisters. I won’t tell you how old Joanne is, as I’d be disinherited, but we could not be goddamn sisters.
It takes decades to say goodbye to Grandma but we finally made it into the elevator, and escaped the dreaded Third Floor Health Center.
We walked out to the front door check-in area, manned by a old dame we’ll call Jill. A little background on Jill: Late in life, Jill’s con-man boyfriend swindled her and violently and dramatically murdered her rich elderly aunt, hoping to cash in on Jill’s monetary windfall. Jill was quickly on to him, busted some detective balls and eventually got the asshole arrested. She then wrote a true crime book about it (including the gruesome crime-scene photos), was on Dateline NBC, runs a victims rights organization and works the front desk at my Grandmother’s retirement home. Jill is a fucking tough broad in a floral blouse and silver perm, and needless to say, a character.
“Oh, Jill. Thank God.” My mother announced. “Can you find us one of those lists of TV channels for mother?”
“I got those right here, dear. How’s our girl doing?”
“She’s confused.” Mom sighed. “And she’s pissed about it.”
“Aw Christ, Joanne. We’ve got those gals all over. In the apartments, in the Health Center, and Lord knows, in that Third Floor Nut House. I had one gal, a real cookie. A real great lady. Went on cruises in her heyday. And she’d wander around, thinking she was strolling around the deck of a cruise ship. And I’d walk with her. On and on, she’d go. She’d want to have dinner with the Captain? Fine. We’ll need to clean your good dress, then. The Percer is being rude? I’ll speak to someone about that. You’re mother’s waiting to meet you and we need to hurry? Well, hell, ladies. She’s 91 years old. Old mom’s been dead since 1957 but I don’t need to tell her that. So I says, Oh, your mother, phoned. She’ll be waiting for us. You see, Beth? You got to get in their space, is what you got to do.”
With that, an emergency buzzer blared on Jill’s desk. “Oh, shut up, you.” Jill rolled her eyes and flipped off the sound. She patted her bouffant and continued. “You don’t need to be the one who tells ‘em Sister died in the 70’s. They don’t remember anything but they’ll remember you’re the one who told them that sis was dead when they’re sure as sunshine she wasn’t. They’ll forget it all in 20 minutes anyway.
You get in their space, Joanne. Now, your mother’s not quite that loony yet. But she will be. I’ll go up and see her tomorrow. I’ll check on in on her, don’t you worry.”
Jill had us in hysterics, performing a routine so perfectly dry and deadpan and horribly blunt, I instantly wanted to make a movie about her. Years of trying to get someone executed will do that to you, I guess.
Mom and I finally bid Jill adieu and headed to our respective cars. Mom exhaled loudly and looked over at me. “Let’s go get drunk.”
Welcome to my gene pool. Don’t judge. We learned it from the lady on the Third Floor…

here comes trouble...

In a disturbing and quite frankly, unexpected new twist, TomKat is with child. (For those with lives, that’d be Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.) I don’t know what’s more upsetting: The fact that Tom Cruise has purportedly had sex with a woman or the implication that Nicole Kidman is barren.
Any way you cut it, I think it’s safe to say this shall be one fucked up looker, denied all necessary psychiatric care and raised in an uncertain environment led by a closeted, fanatical, bi-polar patriarch.
And now, we all wait with baited breath for warm remarks from dear friends of the couple, including Oprah Winfrey, Dakota Fanning and James Van Der Beek…

dusty!

After brunch on Sunday, Amanda and I went over to Golden Gate Park to join Gia and Rick at the Bluegrass Festival. Instructed to get snacks (as Rick was bringing the beer) we popped into some shitty convenience store and purchased supplies, including a loaf of bread and some mustard that had been sitting on that shelf for decades. Informed that parking would be impossible at the 22nd and Fulton entrance, we pushed our luck and found what appeared to be a spot on 21st. Amanda got out to guide Rhonda the Honda in.
“Oh, that’s perfect!” She smiled as a woman leaned out her window and screamed at us.
“Actually, that’s not perfect.”
Ewwww. Screw you, lady. Not wanting to risk a tow, we got back in and drove around some more. Well the joke was on her, because we found even better parking. Where? Oh, at 22nd and Fulton. Deal with that!
It’s amazing how stellar parking in San Francisco can brighten one’s mood. As we hiked along the park to the “Rooster Stage”, we marveled at the hippies and bumpkins gearing up to see some banjo playin’.
“I can’t believe we’re bringing that decrepit mustard.” Amanda cringed.
“Whatever. If we were a Bluegrass band, we’d be called Dusty Mustard.”
And thus, the catchphrase of the day was coined. All day long, we’d ask people, “Are you hear to see Dusty Mustard? Did Dusty go on yet? I can’t wait for Dusty Mustard!”
Once we found Gia and Rick, camped out with blankets and chairs for us, we sold them on our Dusty Mustard concept, evolving it into “Dusty Mustard and the Deli Meats.”
“Smoked Turkey on the banjo, Hot Pastrami on the washboard…”
You get the idea.
Every time a band would finish some lonesome, down-home tune about dogs and gin, we’d scream, “Dusty Mustard!”
It was pretty packed amongst the five different stages and my big plan was to hold out and stay for Dolly Parton at 4:30. But Rick pulled out his jug of beer at noon, Big Chris showed up with his typical Tecate and by the time 3 rolled around, I was sleeping in the grass surrounded by patchouli and dreadlocks. The place got packed. So packed, in fact, hippies were dangling from the trees. Suddenly, some chick with an abundance of armpit hair approached us and offered us organic, raw energy balls. That was my cue to go.
Mandy, Chris and I packed up our crap and split, but not before screaming one last time, ”I fuckin’ love you Dusty Mustard!!!” to which some hippy responded, “Fuck yeah!”

shhhh!

It was time for another roommate night on Saturday, and Zoe and I decided on the standard dinner and a movie. I’ve been trying to drag people to Mykanos for ages, finding this hidden little Greek joint on Polk Street a wonderfully under-rated treasure. Zoe was all for it, and we squeezed in the tiny restaurant and waited for a table. Over moussaka and lamb and dolmas and spanikopita and lots and lots of Greek wine, we laughed and analyzed and befriended Will the waiter. Suddenly, I looked at my watch.
“Zoe, our movie’s in fifteen minutes.” I panicked, as the incorrectly tallied bill arrived.
“Relax.” Zoe said as she took another sip of wine and threw an extra $20 on the table. “We’re playing it by ear.”
Oh, are we? Fuck that. I hate missing the previews. We booked it out of there and made it to the theater with barely enough time to pee. “Shit, Zo. We’re missing the previews!”
As we ran into the theater, we were shocked to discover it was packed. Apparently, everyone in San Francisco went to see Flightplan on Saturday night. In my youth, I’d be perfectly willing to sit in the front row, craning my neck and ruining my eyes and throwing popcorn at my friends. I’m 27. I don’t do that anymore. And I don’t think Zoe ever did that in the first place. We climbed the stairs, attempting not to distract from the coming attractions, as we discovered there were no pairs of seats available. Shit.
“Psst! Psst! We can scoot over!”
A charming, delightful and no doubt attractive woman and her date made room for us, and in a move that upset hundreds, Zoe and I shimmied all the way down the aisle as people moved their handbags, shifted their legs and rolled their eyes. I stepped on three toes, all the while, whispering, “I know. I know. I’d hate me too.”
We fell into our seats just as the opening credits began. I leaned over to Zoe, “Nice timing.”
“I know. And guess what? I brought snacks!”
With that, my beloved roommate pulled out a huge box of Whoppers and attempted to fit it within the cup holder on our shared armrest. The film began and soon, our neighbors in the theater forgot about their hatred of us and began to get engrossed in the movie, already creating a dramatic aura of suspense in the first few seconds. Delighted with our timing and thrilled to be so cozily stuffed in our seats, Zoe opened the box of Whoppers and took one, bending the box to fit within the confines of the cup holder.
With that, the entire box of candy flipped over, sending all but one lone Whopper cascading loudly down dozens of rows of stadium seats, reigniting the collective hatred of us and prompting exasperated sighs from everyone within earshot. Unfortunately, we were unable to stifle our laughter, finding this the most hilarious event imaginable, and maintained the giggles throughout the entire movie. Worse, we didn’t even get any Whoppers…

there are some pretty fabulous things about berkeley...

If dear Laura braved San Francisco for me, I'd most certainly venture across the bridge I loathe for her. After all, she IS divine and promised me a night of fabulous food, fabulous drinks and fabulous people who read my blog. Fabulous!
As I stood outside her apartment waiting for Laura to come let me in, a stunning environmentalist approached. "Hi, Beth!"
"Uh, hi."
It was Tara, aka "the roommate" I'd heard so much about. She knew who I was, which both frightened and excited me. The three of us ventured inside and hunkered down with some cocktails and conversation. Tara hopped in the shower, off to Japanese food with the legendary "Funmaster" and Laura and I booked it down to Breads of India.
Over wine and na'an, I got the scoop on the pals I'd soon be meeting. Knowing in advance that the strangers you're about to meet already know everything about you is a strange feeling. I mean, what kind of freaks read MY blog?
Turns out, spectacularly marvelous ones! We were greeted at Beckett's by Leslie, who screamed my name across Berkeley as she enthusiastically hugged me hello and shifted her flawless Coach bag. Soon we were joined by Tara and the Funmaster, who prefers to be called Kevin, and their friend Vaughn. With Leslie and I planning to crash on Laura's couch, we began to enjoy the people, the music and most importantly, the bar until the wee hours of the morning. I dig Beckett's, finding the hot bouncer and the abundance of limes in my cocktail highly enjoyable. Also, Laura's friends are hilarious, friendly and possess excellent taste in reading material. I almost forgot I was in the East Bay...

and benji lives there...

I don't know that Ben actually believed me when I called him after dinner, screaming, "Guess where I am!?!" into his voicemail. And I didn't quite believe Ben when he said he was coming to meet us at Beckett's. Nor did I believe it when Ben started knocking back gin and tonics and discussing psycedelics with people I barely knew. Um, who are you BCFS? Are what will the other hippies have to say about this?
I was beginning to dig this Berkeley place. But then...

friends don't let friends live in berkeley...

This is why I'm opposed to Berkeley and many of those that reside within her judgemental borders. My big plan was to go buy a huge Frappuchino and dump it all over this shitty truck. But that'd be a waste of a high quality blended coffee beverage. Ugh, I'm still pissed off about this...

i made it home safe, but the same can't be said for everyone...

So, if you've spoken to me in the past week, you know that Zoe and I have been traumatized by Cracker, a mouse that happilly lived within our pantry and possessed a particular food fetish for Carr's water crackers. After several run-ins with Cracker, we simply couldn't take it anymore. Thus, we inlisted the help of our house boy.
Richard not only takes out our trash, kills our bugs and carries our luggage...he's now in charge of pest control. I walked in the door from Berkeley, dropped my bags and checked out the pantry.

So long, old Cracker. I hope your heaven is filled with an array of high end appitizers...