Monday, April 30, 2007

nevermind. love it...

So, remember back in the day when I bitched and moaned constantly about being excluded from the Nob Hill Gazette's Most Eligible List and then shut up about it? Well, that's because they offered to pay my loser ass to write about the Eligible Soiree they threw to celebrate those that made said list.
Obviously, there's not a lot I wouldn't do for a free cocktail, much less cold hard cash. So I went.
It was fun. I made friends. Drinks were temporarilly free.
And a few days later, I submitted my report.
I always say "Edit away! I don't care. Rip it apart. It's total hogwash."
But I think that's because I'm used to Eve, my editor at the Chronicle Culture Blog who brilliantly adds links and fixes glaring grammatical errors, but otherwsie, leaves my crap untouched.
Guess what?
The new Nob Hill Gazette is out. And here is mostly what I wrote. It's probably 90% me. But that 10% is making me slightly insecure.
By the way, I was stalking the DJ with Matthew, not Matt, but maybe Gavin made Matthew put the kibosh on any Spots related activity. One can't be sure.
Whatever. I got my gratis cocktails, a gift bag filled with See's and really good body scrub, the ladies of the NHG were actually laid back and lovely and I somehow garnered a ton of invites to a bunch of swanky parties.
But just know, I have never held my head high in my life. That would only make me taller...*

There IS a photo of me in the paper version with C-Big and Matty G! I can die happy. I'll scan tomorrow...

on the real tip...

You know when old married couples talk about each other and say crap about what a wacky character their spouse is, like, “She always keeps me on my toes!” or “You never know what he’s going to say next!”
That’s how I feel about Big Chris.
Yesterday, Chris calls, forcing me to rouse myself from the couch and my viewing of Wildlife Wars (which I HIGHLY recommend.)
“Wanna get lunch?”
“Sure. I’m still in my jammies, tho.”
“Cool. I’ll be there in 15.”
I returned to the couch and to Wildlife Wars, looking at my roommate happily vegging with no intention of doing anything anytime soon. Conveniently, it takes 30 seconds to convince Mikey to do anything.
“Stab yourself with this knife.”
“Come on.”
After a quick shower, I threw open my bedroom door to find Chris standing there, pounding Gatorade a la Napoleon Dynamite. After a lengthy discussion, we agreed on Gordon Biersch and headed down to the water.
Chris prides himself on “keeping it real.” Here are ways in which Chris keeps it real:
1. “Damn woman, you need to clean up around here. What the shit? Company’s over.”
2. “What the fuck happened to your car? It looks like something exploded.”
3. “Jesus, that chick is fat. Hi. It’s called a sit-up.”
4. “You are an idiot for ordering that. Mike, I hope you want two beers because there’s no way she’s gonna drink that.”
5. “Let’s go somewhere we don’t usually go. Like some shit dive bar in Chinatown.”
That last one was a stroke of genius. Instead of hitting our standard Sunday afternoon boozy haunts (Sinbad’s, Trad’r Sam’s, etc.) Chris decided the three of us needed to broaden our cultural horizons. So after lunch, we booked it to Chinatown’s Buddha Bar, where Animal Planet blared from a corner television and the bathroom was basically within the most shady, hardcore, basement lair in all of Chinatown. I half expected to see indentured stowaways hiding out with a pee bucket and a rice cooker. I rarely take the time to utilize the “Rest Assured” or “Neat Seat” toilet seat covers, but I doubled up yesterday. I was taking no chances down there in Mr. Wong’s House of Smells.
It was at Buddha Bar that I perfected my newest concept, a local television show called “Keepin’ it Real, with Big Chris.”
Chris would host his show at a different crappy bar every week and Mikey would be his sidekick, laughing along as Chris keeps it real with his guests.
“What would you say if Gavin came on?”
“I’d say, ‘Hey pal. We all like to get underage chicks drunk and bang like bunnies. But just because I can do it, doesn’t mean you can.’”
“Can I be on your show?”
“Hell no. No one would watch. There’s only 2 people that have ever read your blurb and you’re looking at ‘em.”
“Actually, Mikey doesn’t read. It is a major point of contention.”
“Okay, so one person knows who you are. Now you can really NOT be on my show.”
“Your show was MY idea.”
“Hey, I’m just keepin’ it real…”

Friday, April 27, 2007

Thursday, April 26, 2007

you'll thank me...

Just like me, you've probably being going into withdrawl. It's been absolute ages since Project Runway. Well, I apologize for dropping the ball because there’s been a temp taking Tim’s place and she rocks.
I’m speaking, of course, about Shear Genius.
Shear Genius is exactly Project Runway and Top Chef, but not about clothes or food.
It’s all about the hair.
Seriously. It’s exactly the same.
Tim Gunn/Chef Tom: Rene Fris, the friendly, foreign gay.
Heidi Kum/Padma Lakshi: Jaclyn Smith, who is approximately 1000 years old.
Michael Kors: Sally Hershberger, who could not take herself more seriously. She cut Meg Ryan’s hair, like, once in 1992. Big deal.
Nina Garcia/Gail Simmons: Michael Carl, the bitchy, domestic gay.
And of course, when you get kicked off, Jaclyn says, “This was your final cut.”
The best part, however, are the ridiculous contestants.
My favorites:
Tyson, who approached the models and said, “Can I touch your hair? Mmmm. Yes. Very nice. And you, your hair? Okay. MmmHmm. Yes.”
Tyson also creepily whispered to his model as he stuck hideous feathers in her ratted hair, “Birds of paradise for a lovely dove.”
I was curled up in the fetal position just watching this little troll molest the hair of desperate not-hot-enough-for-runway models.
Then there’s Dr. Boogie, who dresses like a surgeon and makes Luther Vandross look like John Wayne.
Theodore is 22, sucks and the gayest gay in the history of homosexuality. For the “art” challenge, Theo was hugely stumped with his $75 allowance in the craft store as everyone around him grabbed flowers and feathers and similar. So at the last minute, he buys a big, brown jewelry box.
Smart move, Ted.
He sticks it on top of his model’s head, throws some beads and net on and calls it a treasure chest.
And then that bitch won.
Nice call, Hershberger. I’d like to see you pull that shit with Meg.
Paul-Jean is uber-French, wears an ascot and uses really cheeseball catchphrases. He’s basically Malan Breton from Taiwan.
Evangelin is the emotional, small town mom with punk rock hair. She’s cried in each of the first three episodes.
Tabatha is clearly the villain and is basically Satan with scissors. We hate Tabatha. She can’t stop talking about her “art.”
Jim is the old gay, so basically Vincent. He does shit hair, has no confidence and keeps talking about how he’s been in the business for 30 years. I’m willing to bet he’s been running a Steel Magnolias salon out of his mom’s basement in Trenton.
Ben is the hot straight guy and we love him. He’s very laid back and too cool for school. Ben is now our boyfriend.
And everyone else is boring.
Oh, and lest I forget, there’s always a celebrity judge. Last night, it was “one of the most celebrated names in hairstyling,” Frederic Fekkai.
So just to clarify, we’ll be watching and discussing Shear Genius. Program your TiVo’s and trust me. This is really, really great television...

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

don't hate me vacaville...

Today's Chronicle Culture Blog is a little bitchy. But at least it's not about Gavin...

this is why she's my bff...

One evening in college, when I was unfortunately absent, my friends sat around and tried to think of one word to describe each of us. One person was caring and another was motherly. Someone else was driven and a fourth was friendly.
You know what I was?
Obviously, I wasn’t there to defend my one word with an intricate diatribe and emotional speech on how my one word should be fabulous or cosmopolitan.
I’ve always been a little pissed about that complex thing.
Well, I’ve finally come to the realization that “complex” is a hell of a lot better than “nice” which is how Swiss Miss was recently described by her fellow cast member, someone my BFF knows well.
Beth: So tell me everything! What did he say about her? Did he talk to her? Are they friends? What’s she like? Start at the beginning. Oh my god, I can’t wait!
Zoe: He definitely spoke with her and his initial report is that she was nice.
Beth: Nice?
Zoe: Yes. She’s apparently very nice and sweet.
Beth: 'Nice.' Jesus Christ. Who the hell wants to hang out with nice?
Zoe: Apparently Gavin.
Beth: Are you kidding me? I can’t think of anything worse.
Zoe: I know. Nice means boring.
Beth: Exactly. Ugh, nice. I can’t get over it.
Zoe: It’s the worst word in the world.
Beth: Not interesting, not funny, not smart, not bitchy, not obnoxious, not effervescent.
Zoe: And certainly not complex…

Monday, April 23, 2007

i'm back, bitches. and i've aged 10 years...

So, I went to Chico this weekend.
Yeah, Chico.
It’s like Vacaville, only worse shopping.
My roommate, Mikey attended Chico State and I’d been promising for over a year that I would make my way up there and hit LaSalle’s, his college-era Peach Pit, for their Saturday 80’s night.
I’d put it off long enough. I was due.
We went to Scott Howard the night before, just so I could have once last night of civilization before heading up to Kegtown, USA.
The drive was uneventful, other than passing “Guns, Fishing and Other Stuff” which I assume was a store, but could have been a redneck’s MySpace title. I’m not sure.
I made an awesome mix CD for the 3 hour drive, consisting mainly of Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable.”
Hey, if I’m going to Chico, Mikey’s listening to Beyonce on repeat for 3 hours.
I’m not exactly sure of the Chico-worthy occasion, but I figured we were really going to see Kim and Becky. I know Kim and Becky well. They’re fabulous. I figured if I was going to Chico, at least I’d be in good hands. I mean, these bitches drink me under the table.
Which is hard.
That being said, Becky proudly drinks white zinfandel, so obviously, I brought my own wine. We sat around Becky’s, snacking on brie with Kim, Jon and Renee until it was time to get ready.
Prior to leaving civilization, I inquired as to what one wore to LaSalle’s.
“Um, like jeans and a t-shirt or something. It gets hot, so something you can tie around your waist.”
“So, a skirt’s not cool.”
Mikey looked at me like I was nuts.
None the less, I packed a skirt. Thank fucking god, because once I saw how dolled up and foxy the other chicks were, I busted out the skirt, the heels and the Marc Jackass T. Had I listened to my roommate, I’d have been the only bull dyke in that place.
Skirted up, we made our way to LaSalle’s where Kim had the hardcore bar hookup. As we walked in, I looked over to my left.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, that’s the stage. You can get up there and dance.”
Say. No. More.
I grabbed my drink, found my friends and watched the bar fill up while eyeing that beautiful stage. Come hell or high water, me and my skirt were taking over that goddamn platform.
By the time the place was packed and the Madonna was blaring, I was sauced enough to march myself up there and bust my moves. There is nothing so pathetic as a 29 year old in a Marc Jackass t-shirt rocking the middle of a stage in a college bar thinking she dominates. I envisioned all of the 22 year old ladies gazing up at me and aspiring to my elderly greatness. I was even screaming “I fucking love Chico” to my new friends and fellow dancers out on the floor, who in turn were politely ignoring/pitying me and my skirt.
The next thing I new, I was regaining consciousness on Kim’s couch, washing down 34 Tylenol and wondering what the hell happened to my shoes.
I have never been more ill in my life.
I don’t know what LaSalle’s puts in their drinks, but to quote my roommate, “I think I was overserved.”
Tune in later for the scoop in the 3 hour drive back, involving an insane Banana Republic outlet, some beef jerky and the worst soup I’ve ever had in my life…

before and after bottom shelf liquor...

Thursday, April 19, 2007

do they have to use the word 'arraignment'?

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the DMV rocks.
I’ve been dodging the law and for all intensive purposes, “pushing my limits” in terms of being street legal. I have a rather tumultuous relationship with DPT, on top of which there was an unfortunate “misunderstanding” regarding my car registration. I won’t get into details, but the word ‘warrant’ was used.
So scared about my pending cavity search, I’ve actually been having dreams of flashing lights pulling me over, and in my dreams, I considered making a run for it.
I couldn’t tolerate the knot in my stomach any longer. I had to deal with the bureaucratic and financial hell I was due. If I know anything about dealing with the government, and I assure you, I know very little, it’s that one should always do business in the suburbs. And do so in the middle of the day. So yesterday, I took my folder of paperwork and headed over to the Marin DMV.
The hardest part about parking at the Marin DMV is the fact that you have to wait for extremely elderly people to get the fuck out of the way. Once I parked, I booked it past the walker and cane contingent to what appeared to be a concierge.
“I have some, uh, registration issues.”
“Okay. You’re number B046. Here’s your ticket. Your number will appear on these screens when it’s your turn.”
“How efficient. Any idea on how long we’re talking?”
“I guess about 5 minutes.”
Bull. Shit.
I brought a magazine and everything. I sat down and cracked open an interview with Joan Rivers. All I could think of was that Joan probably drove a registered car and never got parking tickets. Every once in awhile, a voice would announce another number over the loudspeaker, in addition to the 57 TV screens letting us all know which numbers were at which windows.
“B043 to Window 4!”
B043? Cool. 3 to go.
Obviously, I had to check out my fellow criminals. The only one of note was a 19 year old sporting Corona Light pajama pants as she cared for what I assume is her illegitimate child. If you’re going to be a teenage mom, don’t punctuate the stereotype by wearing beer pants.
But who the hell am I to judge. I’m practically a felon. I reminded myself that they don’t arrest people at the DMV. What’s the worst that could happen? They’d tell me I was a horrible person and not allowed to drive.
Tell me something I don’t know.
“B045 to Window 14!”
Oh god. I’m next.
The knot in my stomach grew. I’m going to jail. I know it. The mugshot alone would haunt me for the rest of my lesbian rape-filled life.
“B046 to Window 12!”
Window 12 was a guy in plaid pants.
I’m dead.
“Well, I have this mountain of paperwork. But I put it in a folder!”
“No. The ticket with your number on it. B046.”
I handed over my number, no doubt so they could embroider it on my jumpsuit.
“Okay, so we need to register your car. And then we’ve got all these parking tickets. Do you want to pay for those now?”
I basically handed over my life savings, my left arm and a promise of my first born child.
“Okay. Here’s your sticker. Here’s your registration. I’ve signed your ticket. You’re cool.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re good. You’ve just got to show up in person at the San Francisco Hall of Justice and show them that you’ve done this.”
“So, I’m free?”
“You’re free.”
Oh my god. No handcuffs. No jumpsuit. No lesbian rape.
Now, all I have to do is go to the Hall of Justice, which is…oh wait.
It’s at the jail…

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

i know. i'm a slacker, but here...

1. He wears his watch on the inside of his wrist. Curious.
2. The split screen is hot.
3. I feel like we’re in a fight. And it’s killing me…

Monday, April 16, 2007

the pirate, not the comedian...

If you weren’t boozing it up at Sinbad’s this Saturday afternoon, you were wasting your time. I’ve been trying to convince anyone who’ll listen that Sinbad’s is my new hangout. After all, you know how I love old school mafia joints. Right on the water, walking into Sinbad’s in like walking into a very special episode of Roseanne, as this is where the Conner family would be every night if they went to San Francisco on a cable car/clam chowder/look at them homos-style vacation. There’s a huge 70’s style pirate mannequin greeting you at the front door.
And it’s not meant to be ironic.
I convinced Mikey to join me there Saturday afternoon, and by the time Kenny at the end of the bar had sent over mysterious shots and displayed the collection of naked women photos stored in his camera phone, my roommate was converted.
As the afternoon wore on, we found ourselves seated around the piano, drinking greyhounds and listening to Kenny sing Luther Vandross’ Greatest Hits.
So basically, Spots heaven.
This little slice of fabulous is going on right next door to the very happening Ferry Building Farmer’s Market every Saturday, and you’re an idiot if you don’t put on your pinky ring and swing by. If you can’t make it anytime soon, don’t worry. It’s where I’ll be celebrating my next birthday…

Friday, April 13, 2007

a present for your weekend...

Thank god I have no life, so I can provide you people with my psychotic online findings. Every once in awhile, I swing by Flickr and do a recent search for "Gavin Newsom." I can't recommend this activity enough, actually, and I promise that your discoveries will delight and astound. Gavin even posts his own pictures up there, and it's a rare day that he updates with new glamour shots.
Today's the day!
First of all, Gavin recently went to the Big Apple and captured this fabulousness on film. I don't know why we can't check out Davos, but whatever. I'm glad he swung by the Apollo, because that's pretty much my favorite show of all time and I like to think Gav's a fan as well. I like how the ONLY picture of Gavin sightseeing in New York is of him strolling through Harlem.
The rest of the New York photos are 'work' related, but I enjoy this one because 1) Gavin's suit is fucking divine and 2) the guy on the right is in full blown heaven. And who can blame him?
Finally, the most recent Newsom 07 posts are of Gavin holding a meeting in a laundromat. I can only begin to imagine what they're discussing and why they've chosen to discuss it at Bernal Bubbles Wash and Fold, but I like to think he's talking about apparel cleaning and care. I guess the ladies room of the San Francisco Public Library was too spacious for this very important gathering. Actually, this might be a fundraiser for the campaign where Gavin went out making change for people short on quarters...
*You cats are into the comments and I love it. Because it led me to THIS...

Thursday, April 12, 2007

i'm out of my damn mind...

It could not be more awesome that the first time anyone actually mentioned my name on the radio, it was to say “That woman is out of her damn mind.”
In a glorious twist, Greg the Gay Sportscaster was so excited about being included on Wednesday’s List of potential mayoral candidates, he discussed it on homo radio this morning. They said my name and everything! I was flipping out with my car pulled to the side of the road, desperately calling everyone I knew and praying that Gavin loves gay techno.
In other exciting Spots news, the Friday Night Lights finale was last night. Obviously, the Panthers won state. Mikey was worried that, like in the movie vershz, the team would eat it at the last minute and we’d all learn some stupid lesson about sportsmanship or something. Conveniently, this is episodic television, not cinema and NBC knows their audience. So, here are my predictions for next season, for the three people who care:
The Taylors stay in Dillon. Tammy’s preggo, Julie’s in madly love with the suddenly manly Matt and while it is Eric’s “dream” to coach at UT, he can’t leave the very team he took all the way to State in like, 3 months. If he leaves Dillion, who’d coach? Hotwheels?
I have no idea what’s going to happen to Smash, Lyla, Riggins and Tyra because even though it’s Texas, I still imagine they’d graduate.
I couldn’t care less about Waverly. I hope she ends up in a padded room.
I hate Hotwheels.
Riggins stays around for Bo and the MILF, as I love all three of them.
And finally, you heard it here first: Landry and Tyra fall into romantic, odd couple bliss…

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

wednesday is the new thursday...

I know how you look forward to Humpday High Noon...

don't cry for me, san francisco...

Lately, I’ve become fascinated with famous last words, my favorite being Oscar Wilde’s. As Oscar lay on his queenie, Parisian deathbed, he announced, “Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.”
And then he died.
Obviously, this has me thinking of what my parting words will be when I eventually leave this earth for the fiery hell I’m no doubt due.
I can’t come up with anything good.
I know I want one hell of a memorial service, with video montages set to tearful yet trendy music and scantily clad pallbearers. I want bagpipes and celebrities giving eulogies and a gospel choir and sorrowful displays of regret from the men who’ve wronged me. I want mafia-esque flower arrangements and a slow procession of high-profile mourners, all pretending to avoid the huge media turnout covering my painless demise.
Finally, I want a huge party with a very exclusive guest list and lots of people turned away at the door for being assholes to me while I was alive. Everyone has to drink Gibsons and dress in something I would approve of, and the night will culminate with lots of drunken toasts about how fabulous everyone always thought I was but never got around to telling me. No one will say one word about my proclivity for bitchiness, alcohol and judgment. And all of my past indiscretions, mistakes, blunders and public humiliations will be forgotten.
All I need, other than 60 more years of health and happiness, are some fantastic goddamn last words…

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

mine must have been lost in the mail...

I was checking out CBig’s Sunday column in the Chronicle when I was thrown by information so fabulous, I nearly knocked over my Frappuchino.
According to Catherine, Willie Brown bought his girlfriend a Jaguar for her birthday. The car, not the animal. Obviously, this begs the question: What does Gavin get his bitches for their birthdays?
The Mayor’s such a class act, that he probably sends birthday presents to all of his ex-hos, so here are my guesses:

Kimberly Golddigger: Space Food
Sofia Milos: ESL classes
Erin Brodie: The Complete Works of Emily Post
Brittanie Mountz: floaties
Ruby Tourk: smelling salts
Swiss Miss: Who cares. All I have to say is that it better not be a fucking ring…

*Obviously, as a means on contacting me, Gavin's people have actually picked someone I know as their "hero." So CONGRATS Cliff! That rocks. Please feel free to bring Gavin to the Spotswood Summer Party. He can be at my table...

Monday, April 09, 2007

ski hard? ugh...

Oh god. It’s Monday. I haven’t done my taxes. I owe the DMV my firstborn. Mikey called me Phyllis.
And then there’s THIS.
Swiss Miss gave a disturbing interview to my hometown rag and I would be remiss if I didn’t respond. I refuse to comment on the obvious revelation because I don’t want to burn in hell for all of eternity, but needless to say, the last thing I needed today, other than to be called Phyllis, was to hear Swiss Miss described as “strikingly slim.”
She goes on and on about she’s never felt good enough, all she does is please her family, tears, sobbing, crying, etc.
Jesus Christ.
If Gavin wants an emotional wreck, I blow this nut out of the water.
And uh, I’m certainly a class-free, media-whore idiot, so who am I to offer advice, but the last thing Swiss Miss should be doing, for like, the next decade of her life, is giving another goddamn interview about her relationship with Gavin Newsom.
Swiss Miss also mentions, during a break from the crying apparently, how she wanted to be a third-world doctor, but changed her mind because she hates blood and it seemed like a bummer job.
So she became an actress.
I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm finally sick of her.
I could go on and on and on about the bizarre, appalling and hilarious content of this interview. But it’s Monday. I need to do my taxes. I’m about to be arrested by the DPT. And my celebrity equivalent is apparently Phyllis…

Saturday, April 07, 2007

snoozer punk'd...

As per commenter tipoff, I just checked out Molly Simms Punk’d episode, featuring none other than Jennifer “Swiss Miss” Siebel as supermodel’s friend/accomplice/token retard. Through an apparent act of God, Swiss Miss was able to keep her trap shut and look confused through the whole, ridiculous ordeal.
The entire segment was super boring. If this was a Yelp review, I’d give it 1 star. The best part is the fact that Molly Simms gets all pissed and busts out the Southern accent and fucking awesome outfit and Swiss Miss stands around pretending to act in August 1999 In Style Magazine page 123’s example of “What to wear if no one gives a shit who you are in Hollywood.”…

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

my left side is my best side...

Today's Culture Blog is up! I was too busy drooling over Noyes to give you my scoop on the Gavinwatch hate-fest last Thursday, so I saved it for today. Mad props to Jackson and Tony for being my photo eye-candy bookends...

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

this should go without saying, but...

I have to say, I’m pretty riled up about this article. If I may, I need to vent. Apparently, David Sedaris, who in my eyes is a fucking genius, is warm water because some jackass at The New Republic still overcompensating for Stephen Glass has just shockingly revealed that Sedaris “exaggerates.”
Oh my god. Where’s my refund?
Apparently, listing masterpieces like Naked as non-fiction is a crime against literature because a homo with a sense of humor knows how to tell a fucking story.
Anyone who has ever been in my drunken presence knows that any good story needs a little fucking fairy dust. And sprinkling said dust does not mean that said story is fiction. It simply means its good, fuckers. Furthermore, anyone ever appeared in my “non-fiction” blog knows that sometimes, our adventures somehow turn out faster and funnier than they might remember. That’s the whole goddamn point.
So, just for the record, in case the In-Flight Magazine of Air Force One feels like exposing regional bloggers as seedy exaggerators, I’m covered in fairy dust, you uptight, humorless hacks, and I don't care who knows it…

Monday, April 02, 2007

drinking too much "water"...

While I was chatting away with my new BFF, Dan Noyes, my super secret spy was getting her photo taken with Gavin at a small fundraiser in the city. She called on her way home to report the following:
1. Gavin appeared sober.
2. Swiss Miss was not in attendance.
3. The mayor was working a green tie.
I thanked her for the very boring information and was about to hang up when her husband said something in the background.
“Oh yeah.” She casually remembered. “He really, really had to pee.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Everyone’s standing around in this room, like 30 of us. Suddenly Gavin arrives and before doing anything, he asks where the bathroom is. Someone points to a back door and Gavin races back there, through this room full of people all there to meet him. He doesn’t stop and talk to anyone. He just runs back to the bathroom.”
“Shut up!”
“I’m serious! It was hilarious. And then we he came out, someone offered him water and he started laughing, saying that was the last thing he needed.”
I like how I ask her to tell me snoozer shit like if Swiss Miss was standing around staring into space and my super secret spy comes back to me with a pee story…

again, no onions...

Lo invited Mikey and I to dinner with her mother, and in the interest of making Lo look as adult and fabulous as possible, we had them both over for wine and cheese before our reservation at everyone’s favorite old school haunt, Flytrap.
We were boozing it up long before we got to dinner, so by the time we had our waiter send over the second bottle, I was all, “Where’s the after party?”
And Lo’s mom, Ollie was all, “What are my options?”
Oh, this I can do.
Option 1: 916B (that’s what we’ve named the bar in the dining room. Matchbooks are on order.)
Option 2: Jay ‘N Bee, described to Ollie as “A fabulous dive bar by the house.”
Option 3: The Big Four, then described as “appallingly wonderful and fancy and where I really want to go. No pressure.”
Ollie smiled. “How about a quick drink at the Big Four?”
Nice. Excellent. Apple not falling far from tree…