She looks like she's saying, "Hey, check out me and my girls, y'all!"
Monday, June 30, 2008
She looks like she's saying, "Hey, check out me and my girls, y'all!"
Thursday, June 26, 2008
I could honestly say, "Chah-lay, that heht. And it's still hehting. Chah-lay" all the goddamn day. If you haven't seen it, gather your office around right now and watch. Even Mr. Grumpy McShit will love it.
Anyway, La Pequena videos are only a minute long and they all involve La Pequena, a disabled tranny dancing around to random music, sometimes as Hilary Clinton or Amy Winehouse, other times, she/he's totally random. So in the interest of returning the 'Charlie bit me' favor to Kate, I told her about La Pequena.
"You'll love it!" I promised.
2 seconds into it, Kate goes, "What the fuck?...Oh God....Sick. This is making me uncomfortable. I hate it. Never again, Bethy. What the hell is wrong with you?"
Hmmmm. Maybe it's not for everyone. Anyway, Dlisted has a new La Pequena video today and in my gross opinion, the best part is when she/he is crawling on the floor with the soccer ball and stops to wave. Fabulous...
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Mom got us tickets for In the Heights, and afterwards, had some gay cabaret bar she wanted to go to, called Don't Tell Mamma. Last night's headliner was "Leah Dubie and her Wild Tribe of Homos", which we missed, not strolling in until 11. We headed down the steps from the sidewalk into this tiny, little, gay cabaret bar as a man held open the door for us.
I looked up at him and thought he kinda resembled a grey haired Abraham Lincoln. Mom brushed right past him as I followed and slowly realized it.
I looked right into his face. "Richard Belzer!"
He grunted at me.
"I'm a really big fan!"
He looked away, twisting his head as far from mine as humanly possible and in a digusted, over-it tone, uttered, "Yeah. Thanks."
Dude. Munch. Lighten up.
As we grab seats as the bar, I grab my mother.
"Mom, did you see! It's fuckin' Belzer!"
"Who?" She deadpanned. "The doorman?"
So I've decided that Munch was pissy because either, he's still mourning the tragic loss of George Carlin, he had also missed Leah Dubie and her Wild Tribe of Homos or my mom tried to slip him a five to check her coat.
We may never be sure...
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
1. Yep. You're my inner circle.
2. I was on the Upper East Side. You'd think I'd know this. I regard myself as the human compass.
Anyway, here's what I wrote in my journal:
I'm really quite delighted with this new ensemble, even though I could've bought it at Market and Powell. I changed in the dressing room, hoping no one would notice that I emerged, not in the sweaty silk top and what my mother would call "travel pants", but in what I now regard as something far more acceptable. Shit, I was walking around feeling like a sad, under-dressed extra in Sex in the City. I'm now, newly dressed, sitting at some French joint having tomato soup at the bar and I can report that the bartender is hot.
His celebrity equivilent is...oh shit, Ryan Gossling. Taller, a little bigger, but otherwise, Ryan! Oh sweet Jesus in heaven, there's some mens up in New York. (ewwwww, I actually wrote that. Sick!) He's French, it appears. French and hot? Shit, very French. And very hot. And very ESL. He is currently surrounded by three supermodel hostess/waitresses pretending to laugh at his jokes, he's THAT precious. He is, gasp, wearing several friendship bracelets. And yet, he owns it.
I'm not saying I want to sit across a dinner table from him, speaking slowly, using hand gestures. I'm just saying I want to run my fingers down his naked French back.
Wow, he's really Gossling-y and really French-y.
Ugh, the French.
If we were on a date and got mugged, he'd probably throw me in harm's way and run.
Kidding, historically educated hippies. Kidding.
3:10pm: Golly, he's speaking in French to two dudes next to me. It's fabulous! He just gave them directions to Central Park.
Oh yes, Je parlez.
I am now noticeably smiling.
I think I may love him.
And his bony, judgemental Euro-mother.
And his bracelets from 1992.
And his mistress.
Holy shit, he just b(r)ought me a glass of wine with a confused, yet knowing smile.
Um, oh my god.
What does this mean? (At this point, I wrote OMG! on repeat for like, 8 pages. Then I gave him an appalling tip and raced out of there. I'm a dork with no self esteem/game. Sue me.)
Still, from this experience, I mustered the confidence to meet strangers (aka: Andre's fabulous and friendly friends) for drinks before dining alone at the bar of Babbo. It's something I always wanted to do and quite frankly, it was fabulous; not really because it's a big, fancy restaurant, but because I sat there, in the Village, in my outfit and earrings, with my wine and my charcuterie, chatting with Ken the bartender, entirely alone...and I looked up and saw myself in the mirror and was all, "Hell muthafucking yeah, bitches..."
Monday, June 23, 2008
On another yet slightly related note, and I know I'll be burning in the fiery depths of hell for all of eternity based on a mere and uninformed observation, but shouldn't we have a hotter Gay Men's Chorus?
This is San Francisco! Not St. Louis! I believe we may have invented the judgemental, fashionista, leave-in-conditioner gay. At least get these fellas some better sweatshirts and some time at a day spa, because this does not an episode of Will and Grace make.
I am now being forcefully removed from the mailing list...
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Jeff was up at the break of dawn this morning and went across the street to grab a Papaya Dog for breakfast. Jeff is covered in tattoos, so when I mentioned last night that I was looking to add some "ink", he scoped out some places for me on his hot dog quest.
The first place he found was a sex shop. Nearby was another one.
Called "Birthday Suit."
"Ha!" Kate really wanted me to get it there. "Dude, it'd be such a funny story!"
We agreed I might as well get "Hep C" tattooed on me, but walked in anyway.
Hand to god, the only person in there was PASSED OUT. Near a sink and a mirror, an "artist" was completely collapsed and unresponsive. Someone walked in from the sidewalk. "You want tattoo?"
Kate stared at me in horror as Jeff grabbed my arm. "Pretend to look at the book, then we'll leave. This isn't cool."
I did as instructed. We laughed the whole block to the next place.
A colorful woman with cropped hair and a million tattoos came up. I explained what I wanted. (No problem. That's nothing. Base price.) I explained why I wanted it. (That's nice. Makes sense. Don't care.)
I felt the need to know her name and for her to know mine.
"I'm Beth. What's your name?"
"Hey Beth! I'm Jessica, but everyone calls me Triple X Jess."
She had 3 Xs tattooed across her chest.
She could not have been more wonderful. Over and over, I asked her to replace the stencil. I was feeling high maintenance. "Honey, we can do this a hundred times. Don't feel bad. I want you to love it."
But of course, the next stencil was perfect.
"I love it." Kate said.
Jeff, forever low key, remarked, "Actually, that looks really fucking classic."
Triple X Jess insisted that we note her clean needle (Oh god) and said, "Sweetheart, I'm ready. Are you ready?"
I couldn't look. Nor would I allow Kate to look. I may have broken some of her fingers, but it took about 5 or 10 minutes. At one point, a vagrant watched us from the window. Triple X Jess stuck her tongue out and gave him the finger.
Kate was really the perfect person to hold onto my clenched hand. That 1660 was my beloved grandfather's badge number. And Kate knew my grandfather very, very, very well. I sent the picture to my brother. He responded, "Awesome! Somewhere, Bob Spotswood is smiling."
Or rolling over in his grave.
We had lunch at Gramercy Tavern (Collicchio, much to my horror, wasn't hanging out at the bar) and shopped all afternoon. Relaxing at the apartment now, Jeff announced he was heading to Bleeker to shop.
"Have fun." I yelled after him. "Bring us presents."
I say this all the time. I don't mean it. Had he brought gum, I'd have made out with him.
"I wonder if he'll really bring us presents." Kate asked.
Jeff just walked in. With three gourmet cupcakes from some high end bakery in the Village.
Executive Chef Jeff, folks. The more I learn, the more I love.
We're off to a 10pm reservation at The Modern, which has a dress code and thus, required us to go buy new clothes.
Yay. Yay. Yay.
I'm having, one might say, a day...
Kate and Jeff arrived last night and after a quick drink at the apartment ("This place is a shithole, Joanne", Kate deadpanned), we headed down to the Stoned Crow before trying a restaurant Jeff wanted to revisit. Apparently, Blue Ribbon is very cool, very good and open very late.
At 11pm, we pushed our way into the packed, tiny joint.
We were told to come back at 1:45am.
So we did.
We wandered around in the lightning and rain, stopping at The Cub Room for drinks before settling into our midnight snack of ribs, fried veggies, roast chicken and pierogies. It was incredible.
So incredible, I'm stumbling around the apartment, watching Kingpin with Jeff and wondering how it's already afternoon. Kate is "psyched to hit NYC" and Jeff has 673 restaurants we have to go to. I think tonight is dinner HERE.
I'm having a lovely time, save for the fact that in the back of my mind, tonight is The Brians' engagement party and I'm missing it. As I shopped in SoHo yesterday, I chatted with Devine who said, "I know you're flying back to surprise me."
Oh golly. I've never wanted to go to a shindig so bad.
The old ball and chain is covering for both of us and, sans me, less things will probably get broken, but I'm beside myself.
We're off to check out some tattoo parlors! Dicey!
Love you, miss you, let's form a pregnancy pact...
Thursday, June 19, 2008
I even called Brian. Brian, who stood on his curb this morming, in his jammies helping me park my car at his house and arranging for my taxi to the airport.
"Kuwait?" He screamed.
"I know. We're boarding right now. It looks like the cast of Flight 93."
I gave Brian my blogger password, so he could tell the world, "Dudes. My flight is going to Kuwait."
I had an iced coffee. I read People. I slept.
6 hours later, I landed in New York. I believe at one point, I wrote in my journal, "No action from anything Kuwait-themed. Bummer."
When I landed, now here in New York, the pilot informed us we could turn on out phones as we taxied to the gate.
I turned on my phone.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
You get the idea.
More importantly, Brian and Mel were HYSTERICAL.
"People are flipping out! OMG! It's all my fault! (yep.) I'll delete it! (don't.) They're calling you names! (eh.) Call Mel! (hollers Brian.) Call Brian! (screams Mel.)"
Um, Brian, what did you write?
He read it to me.
Dear two people who disapproved and one shithead who's a fucking pussy,
1. Thanks for joining us mid-program. I'm glad you're kosher with my snide observations and judgement of children, elderly, cripples, hobos, gays, straights, Americans, foreigners, the holocaust, the tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, nerds, prom queens, people from the suburbs, the rich and the poor. I didn't realize I might strike a nerve with a ref to the soverign emirate of Kuwait.
2. If you were getting on a plane, thinking you're going to New York and find out the plane is eventually bound for Kuwait, would you take a moment and notice? Really. Ask yourself. I mean, they make it pretty clear. They put photos of Kuwait City on flat screens. Or maybe you're too busy recycling, giving money to Hari Krishnas, not using oil and looking for shit to get pissed about to actively pretend that Kuwait is totally as standard as, say, Kauai.
3. What? Too soon?
I'm glad we stirred some shit up today. For the record, those weren't my words. But for the record, they might as well have been.
Lighten up. But if you can't, I stick my name and my mug by everything I write. Try it some time. It feels honest.
And don't upset Brian. My voicemail doesn't have that much storage.
I'm off to hang with 72 virgins!
PS: We landed safe and sound. What are the odds!
Brian D. here posting for Spots.
I just got a frantic phone call from Beth, who is boarding a plane at SFO and is in very real fear for her life.
"Oh my God, Brian, I'm about to get on a plane to Kuwait"
"What the hell are you talking about, Bethy? You're going to New York."
"No, my flight is going to Kuwait City, it just stops at JFK."
"Kuwait? You mean that shithole oilpatch we fought a war over?"
"It's like Flight 93. You should see the people in line with me. It's like the full cast from 9/11."
"We're boarding, Brian. I'm scared for my life. Post something on my blog so people can start planning my elaborate funeral. Pick up all the flowers that start piling up at 916A. Tell my fans to not cry for me. Fuck it, they better cry." (Okay, I embellish what she actually said, but you get the point.)
Either Spots will die in a ball of fire as her Kuwait-bound plane is crashed into the BofA Building, or we will be enjoying a hysterical story of her journey across the country with the Kuwaiti royal family*. Check back later to see how this all turns out.
* Tragically, however, Spots is in COACH (!!!!) so she'll only be rubbing elbows with the royal family's servants.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
"Oh, which bar? And what neighborhood?" I asked.
My brother tried to explain as Cathal kept screaming in the background, "Tell her we're in the Manhattan neighborhood."
Alex, over his annoyed laughter, screamed back, "She knows!"
Yeah. Like my brother would go to Queens...
If you're in New York or D.C. in the next 10 days, e-mail me! I'll be in the Village until the 27th and then to visit Kate and Jeff in D.C. until the 29th. Anyone that reads this nonsense deserves a Gibson on me...
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
I'm done. I did it. Finito.
Thanks Lex, Ben, Kate, Jen, Mel, Brian, Brian, Cyn, Dan, X, Carrie, Leece, Steve, Avery and Joey for showing up and bringing me booze. Shucks. You guys are the best friends a gal could ask for.
Back to normal now...
*We're having champagne, Red Hawk and cake at work. And I'm um...listeneing to Mambo Number Five. I feel like I'm at a cheap wedding...
Saturday, June 14, 2008
KG called the teams, "Unemployed vs. Employed."
It was a lovely long walk in the sand, where we caught up and I attempted to stretch my thighs that are suffer in even greater 'Tim the Trainer' pain than they did yesterday. Why does it take a full 2 days for utter and complete muscle soreness to take effect?
Anyway, after snagging one of KG's cookies, I swung by her local Safeway to pick up a salad for dinner.
1: Yeah, the Safeway by the beach. Ga-hetto!
2: Yeah, I'm home eating a salad on a Saturday night. Don't be all KG and ask, "So, what fabulous plans to you have tonight?" None. Okay? I have no plans. I'm working tomorrow. Tomorrow is the last weekend day I have to work. At 7am, bitches. So, you know, even if I did have plans, I totally SO wouldn't be going out. Make sense? Because I could have plans.
Shut up. I hate you.
Anyway, my big plan tonight consisted of making "My New!" salad of hearts of romaine, caramelized onions, chicken breast, avocado and golden raisins lightly tossed in a Safeway Select Lite vinaigrette. With a side of a bottle of Ravenswood Chard. And a popcicle. (Tim the Trainer is now plotting my push-ups.)
Anyway, I had to go to Safeway.
Safeway at the beach.
People, I live in the barrio. I shop at Potrero Safeway, home to April* the woman who waits for it to be ALMOST my turn and then announces, "Damn, iz time for my break. Hol up, Ima need to gesome body up in here...anyways..."
But uh, Beach Safeway? You win.
Shit. I thought I was back at the Guangzhou train station. The crowd around the fresh corn alone...my GOD! I may have lost a toe.
All I needed was some romaine, one onion, one avocado, some cooked chicken, a handfull of raisins, $2.50 salad dressing and cheap white wine. Okay?
Step off, Joy Luck Club!
Jesus. You've have thought I was dropping off an male orphan. I was barely able to move. And this was at 3:45pm on a Saturday. At one point, I no longer gave a shit. I believe I took out some geriatrics's eye. Fuck 'em. I AM ALONE ON A SATURDAY AND I WANT A VERY SPECIFIC SALAD AND A LOT OF WINE! DON'T FUCK WITH ME!
I collapsed into Rhonda the Honda with a few bruises, a desire to smoke a lot of cigarettes and all of my goddamn ingredients. But Christ Almighty, this was an ordeal. I mean, really. It's a plastic grocery basket, ma'am. Not a weapon...
*Names have been changed to protect exactly who all of my former roommates know I'm talking about...
Or your car.
Or the internet, which you're obviously already on. Loser. It's Saturday! Get a little fresh air, mom basement. You look like you need it.
Gavin's show is on in 18 minutes...
*Okay, he just used the word "thunk." As in, "Who would've thunk?"
No. No no no no no no. Nope. Don't. No.
He just called the blogosphere an "extraordinary revolution." I feel like a member of the cast of Les Miz. Actually, that kinda fits. You guys, we are so the miserables. Dibs on Eponine.
Apparently Arianna's ultimate goal is "global domination." At least, I think that's what she said. I could be wrong.
Okay folks, I could be at the movies right now. I am not my better half. I can't sit in some boring all meeting all day, being a martyr for litter or similar.
Shit, this is boring.
12:13pm: I've got calls I could be making.
12:14pm: Is this over yet? Please tell me it's just a half an hour.
Alright, my one comment to basically everything they're talking about is Duh.
The sky is blue.
Fire is hot.
Wine is good.
War is bad.
We got it. There is nothing Gav or Ari (heh) is saying that isn't like, "The earth is round."
Jesus Christ, this is surprisingly tedious, even for me.
12:24pm: Oh shit! I just fell asleep again.
Alright, I give up. I'm going to the gym and then to the movies. It's a sad day when that's a more attractive option than listening to gravely voiced hottness discussing hobos...
Friday, June 13, 2008
The plank involved getting in the man push up position, keeping your back really straight and holding it for 10 seconds.
The plank is worse than it sounds.
Get down on the floor and try it right now, people. Then add it to your "circuit" and do it 3 times.
Emerging from my car this morning awakened new parts of my ass, and immediately, my co-workers inquired, "How was Tim the Trainer?!?"
"You guys, have you heard of the plank?"
"Oh my god, the plank!" Amanda's sister sighed.
"Wait, what's the plank?"
"Oh, let me show you." I announced, all proud of myself for knowing what a fucking plank was.
1-2 seconds into the plank in the middle of my office floor, I think I may have lost consciousness. What I now understand to be my lower abs are...um...what's the word I'm looking for...screwed.
It's also harder to do when you don't have Tim sitting on the floor with you counting backwards and slamming the mat when your shaking body is allowed to collapse.
I will keep you apprised of my progress. I hope to get to 12 seconds by 2013...
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
But right there, huddled in the shade of the overpass were three cyclists, obviously tourists who rented some bikes in Sausalito and seem to be either lost or injured.
I walked right past them.
Hey, I'm not proud of this. But the halfway lamp post was 50 yards away and I had to touch it before I could turn around and walk my ass home. I passed one woman crouched down, covering her face and with her, a couple trying to figure out a cell phone and map.
Not my problem. This is America. You're on your own. I have an iPod. I can't hear you. I'm sure you'll be just fine. Let's not make eye contact.
But then I touched the lamp post and had to turn around. Oh god. This is bad karma. What if they're dying. What if something really interesting, like robbery or rape just happened. What if they're famous.
I was getting closer and their little scene remained the same.
Wait! What if this is one of those Dateline, hidden camera things about how nobody helps anyone anymore. OMG! In addition to my now very strong urge to help these unfortunates, I really don't want to be captured on national television looking like a bitch. Especially in this less than attractive ensemble.
As I neared, the man looked up and seemed to wave at me. I pulled my earphones out.
"Hey, are you guys okay?"
"Ah freend's feeling a beet eel."
Said ill friend then violently vomited all over the side of the overpass wall. Sick! But I could be on Dateline. I maintained my composure. "Do you need help? What can I do?" (I'm a charming American, here to help you in your disgusting time of need.)
"Weah trying to geht a taxi but we've no ideah wheah we ah."
Folks, we're across the street from the Buckeye. You're in good hands. I know the number of the cab company by heart. We called a taxi. I gave them our coordinates. I redeemed myself, just in case I was on Dateline. I felt like Jesus...
I'm a 16-year-old high school girl. I'm friendly, cheerful, religious and an honors student.
Over the past few years I have been an on-again, off-again addict. I'll look, feel good, feel bad, swear never to do it again, stay clean for a few months and then start again.
A few months ago I told my mother what I was doing, and she agreed to monitor the situation. But I know how to delete my online history, so she doesn't know I'm doing it again.
I'm scared. I'm a virgin and would like to stay that way. But I'm starting to feel apathetic toward my grades, I'm thinking more about sex, I have lost respect for most of the opposite sex, and I'm one step from acting out.
If I tell Mom, I know she'll take away my computer. The best friends I have are online. I'll be isolated if she takes it away. I'm also not sure I want to quit looking. It makes me feel good and keeps me from being stressed, but my religion and the changes in my behavior tell me it's wrong.
I mentioned it to my school counselor once. She said I'm just "expressing my sexuality in my own way." Is she right? Or do I need help? What should I do?
ADDICTED AND ASHAMED IN IOWA
Assuming you actually exist, I’m not sure you’re actually addicted. I mean, you “stay clean” for a few MONTHS and then check out a little YouPorn? Big deal. Welcome to my world. Losing respect for the opposite sex is just part of becoming an adult, as is “acting out.” I once “acted out” in the ladies room of a…Nevermind.
But you are correct about one thing. If you watch too much porn, you will cease to be a virgin. Jesus told me so. You probably already have a touch of the ole’ clap. Relax, relax. This is why God invented antibiotics and abortions.
If you’re that opposed to porn, maybe you could find another addiction that will make you “feel good” and keep you from “being stressed.” Like meth. Or cutting yourself.
Otherwise, I’d like you to meet my friend Grey Cloud. You sound right up his alley.
Yours in Sin,
Let me start by saying I’m stunned you even exist. I feel like one of the guys in Weird Science; my dream concoction of a woman has come to life through some freak science experiment gone awry and written a letter to Dear Abby. Bravo.
That being said, let me try to offer you some honest advice, rather than ramble on about the fact that you are a virgin-catholic high school-porn addict (which sounds like a porno in itself).
Watching porn isn’t so much a slippery slope, something that will instantly turn you into Caligula and send you sliding down the long boner to hell, as a means to an end, that end being sanity and fun.
Chances are you aren’t so much an addict as a human being. A human being who likes porn, a common thread throughout all of humanity. People like to bone. People like to see other people bone because it reminds them of boning. Add the internet, the ability to see any number of people bone in any combination you like in a matter of seconds, a virtual bone factory….who needs to go to heaven anyway?
Which brings me to my next point: Religion is dumb. But you’ll learn that in college. I’d say let loose now, enjoy your porno, and don’t let some book written thousands of years ago (which, keep in mind, is longer ago than Aesop’s Fables, just sayin’), make you feel guilty about enjoying watching some people get down. They enjoy it, or at least pretend to, and there’s no reason you shouldn’t either. Otherwise all this pent up denial will explode in college and you’ll lose your virginity while puking up GHB onto a miniscule dormitory bed.
So I say stop telling your mom, light a few candles, grab a banana, watch some porno, and have at it.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
In a bold, anti-social move, I sat at the far end of the bar and buried myself in my notebook. Here's what we have:
6:13pm: Why is this Tahoe douchebag wearing swim trunks to the Buckeye? Save it for the Delta, state school.
6:21pm: My cell phone should be taken away from me right now. I'm bored and want to send dicey text messages.
6:25pm: This was a bad idea.
6:33pm: What is this, family night?
6:34pm: This is not a $11 glass of wine. This is a $5 glass of wine.
6:41pm: Maybe Amanda was wrong about my outfit. And state school is trying to discuss with the bartender what kind of wine goes with Swiss Chard. Jesus. Just order the Amstel. You know you want to.
6:46pm: Maybe I'm better alone at hotel bars. Because these townies are havin' none of me.
6:48pm: I could be watching Forensic Files right now. With those mixed field greens I have leftover and those cherry tomatoes that have like, one more day.
6:52pm: Maybe I should've gone to Noonans?
6:59pm: Okay, I'm officially depressed. Well played, society.
I handed the valet my card. "Shitty silver Honda Civic with dents, please."
"Did you have fun?"
"I think I've lost it."
He stared at me confused. And you know, rightfully so.
"Nevermind." I handed him $5 for parking my car for an hour and went home. No looks. Not one. Not two. I threw on sweatpants and ate those tomatoes while watching some creepy documentary about Roman Polanski.
But don't lose faith in me just yet.
My friend is working at a wine bar tonight. I'll come by and say hi and try my looks out on her...
Monday, June 09, 2008
"Don't waste it! Go sit at a bar by yourself and own it." screamed Amanda.
"No, I can't."
"Who are you? Of course you can!"
"Come with me." I begged.
"I can't." She smiled. "I have a date."
Amanda is fearless. She met some dude off the internet and they went to a park and played catch.
I was both inspired and horrified.
But still. She's right. There was a time when me sitting at a bar by myself was the highlight of my evening. I had this confidence, this carelessness, this look.
Oh man, my look rocked.
Actually, I have two looks. Both of which I'm going to try and bring back tonight.
Look Number One is just my sitting at a bar alone and owning it. I call it my "Don't fuck with me unless you know what you're getting yourself into look."
I feel like Look Number One means only the truly brave, hilarious and obscenely wealthy will muster the courage to initiate the chat.
Look number two? Ladies and gents, gays and straights, it works for us all.
If you see someone cute in a bar, party, pumping gas, whatever and you get the feeling they might have just checked out out, make eye contact and with a straight face, hold it. Hold it for as long as you're emotionally capable (7 seconds max), then slowly look away and smile.
The first time I ever did this was to the bartender at the Redwood Room who then sent my table shots and 10 minutes later, asked me to go "smoke" on the side stairs.
The last time I ever did this was Thursday night, egged on by Melissa. "That guy in the suit and baseball hat (?) is totally checking you out!"
He was cute in a Guy-from-Fine-Young-Cannibals sort of way.
So I did the look.
No shots. No making out on the stairs. Nuthin. But you know, everyone's hit or miss. And sadly, I'm no longer 25 and in a beaded kimono.
Anyway, I'm kinda feelin' it. Tonight, folks. Yep. I will be alone. At a bar. All by my lonesome. Looking for a little action.
And I think we all know I will end up talking to a 70 year old drunk named Rusty about his colitis.
The only question is...which bar?
So this Thursday's the day and I'm starting to get scared.
I get the impression that Tim doesn't fuck around.
I mean, the man just ended an e-mail with the worrisome, "You can't get out of it now!"
Shit. He already knows all of my grandparents are dead. I can't pull the old "family tragedy" excuse. I think I may have to actually suck it up and do this.
But I'm reminding myself that Tim is an incredibly nice guy who gives very good dating advice, looks just like Harold from Top Chef and is still married to the last person he trained.
So he probably won't actually kill me. Probably...
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Picture it: We're in some shitty conference room and it's like a bunch of tables shaped into a U. And I'm kinda on the end of the U and Gavin's kinda in the middle, but he's there with other equally, if not more important people. And the rest of us are asking questions and it's my turn and sadly, I have no idea what my question was, but it was directed at Gavin and he went off.
Basically, he called me a diletante and a liar and said I was full of shit, citing examples that didn't make any sense.
But he was mad.
SO mad that when I responded, he folded his arms, turned in his chair, crossed his legs and looked away. You know that look he does when he's really pissed and refuses to make eye-contact with his enemy? Yeah. That.
And the guy sitting next to him goes, "Dude, be a gentleman."
I love that in my subconscious, Gavin's staff calls him dude.
Which is when I had a Julia Sugarbaker moment and stood up saying, "Yeah! Willie Brown doesn't pull this shit. I don't know where this cocky, entitled, juvenile attitude comes from, but it's clearly masking what I can only assume is a lack of faith of yourself. And getting into a public fight with some blogger is like, sign #3 of your imminent self destruction."
And then i think I was escorted out.
But I woke up a little teary and shaking and really, really riled up. Oh! And in the middle of my tirade, Gavin accused me of saying something and I had to call Mel to prove I never said it, and I was all, "I'm in a huge screaming match with Gavin right now. I'll call you back." Then I slammed down my phone and screamed, "All I ever said was that I liked your outfits!"
PS: Happy Birthday Kanye! The fact that I adore you with such conviction pretty much signals the beginning of your end. Enjoy it, baby...
Saturday, June 07, 2008
My job requires that I spend 5 weekends at a play on top of a mountain. It's a bizarre yearly ritual that I've spent the past 4 years working on, and people are starting to get the drift of what I need in a play guest.
Wine. Cheese. Kisses. Cookies. Water.
In that order.
I work 12 hour days (once a year). Sue me.
I'm so tired, I couldn't even muster the energy to act like I was going out tonight.
Which is when I realized my reputation was starting to take over.
After my beloved crew left, I headed to the t-shirt booth where my favorite Board Members hang and where I was supposed to be working.
"Oh my god, fellas. I'm so tired."
"So where are you going tonight?"
"I'm not going out."
"I'm not! I can't! I have to be here at 8am tomorrow!"
"I still call bullshit. Anyway, I heard from Dopey that we're going to some gay club with you and Melissa. How come we didn't meet this famous Melissa?"
"It's not a gay club, it's Le Club, we're not doing that tonight and Melissa was working next to you in the t-shirt booth at intermission. Are you retarded."
(Yeah. I call my boss's boss a retard.)
"Don't lie to me. You're so going out."
Either rehab is right around the corner or I'm home tonight.
It's 8:34. I had a glass of wine in the bath. I watched half of Chocolat. I'm waiting for it to get dark so I can justify going to bed. And there's a little 2 page Vanity Fair article and a dicey celebrity sex dream in my future. I just know it!
While I'm having sappy blog day, I would just like to say that when it comes to real, true, magnificent, gorgeous, push comes to shove friends... my cup runneth over.
I love you bitches...
So here it is. 24 hours tardy.
If you were to walk into Zoe's apartment, you'd think you were inside an interior design magazine. It's perfect. It's adorable. It's clean.
I've walked into that apartment a lot of times. Like the time we finished a hike then finished a bottle of Dom. Or the time we watched the entire MTV marathon of Made. Or the time my heart broke so loudly, Zoe heard it from across town. I spent that night on her couch with 87 bottles of Chardonnay, ruining her perfect, matching pillows with mascara tears and drool.
If I were a sailor or lobersterman or whatever, Zoe's apartment would be my lighthouse. It is the safest, warmest, most welcoming place I know. It is where I know I will always find a friend so true, she runs marathons but walks with me. A pal so sweet, she's a vegan but will serve me dead pigs. A compadre so patient, she will listen to the same story on repeat and act enthralled and surprised every time.
Zoe is what my brother would call a "tough nut to crack." She is not an indiscriminate liker of people. She's perfectly polite to every single one of God's children. But I can tell in 2 seconds when she disapproves of someone. Like the time I had a dinner party, inviting over a new fella who got way too drunk during a raucous game of Scattegories and screamed at my friend, "That's how the game is played, bitch!"
Zoe said not a word, but sat back in her hair, took a ladylike sip of her wine and shot me a look.
And with that, said fella was done.
Zoe's advice is the gospel to me. And she always gives it in such a non-judgemental way. "Well, how did that make you feel? Do you think you did that maybe because you were mad at Shithead? Well, I totally don't think you over-reacted, but do you?"
Zoe looks like a supermodel and has better clothes than me and I don't resent her.
When my dad fell down the stairs, Zoe entertained him and his cast with Presidential trivia games.
And when I was completely pretending I had my shit together but in reality, it had completely fallen apart, my computer suddenly didn't work. And soon after Zoe called as I was driving home to my internet-less house. Before I could help myself, I'd pulled over into a gas station and was doing the ugly cry.
The next day, her boyfriend arrived to fix my computer.
Not because he cares deeply about my internet connection.
But because he's no dummy.
He cares deeply about Zoe.
I've said it before and I'll say it again. If I some day find myself in the gutters of Calcutta, pregnant and drugged, confused and without a passport, Zoe would be on the next plane with a clean caftan, some forged documents and a freezer bag full of mini-booze.
I love you Zo!
Thursday, June 05, 2008
The story of why I need a hair dryer is a long one I won't bore you with.
I'll bore you with this one instead.
I was checking out some of Rite Aid's discounted body lotion, because you can't buy just one thing in a drug store, when all of a sudden, I heard this scream.
Obviously, I had to go investigate and I discovered this VERY uptight looking woman in a perm, scarf and blouse tucked into khaki reverse fits with an elastic waist, in an effort to show them off I guess, had fallen right in the middle of the store.
As far as I'm concerned, that's what you get for dressing like a bitch.
If it were me, and I think we're all aware that it has been before, I'd have leapt up and run out of that Rite Aid hollering, "Sorry, sorry! My fault! I'm an idiot!"
But school nurse vibe just sat there, dramatically getting her bearings.
So I just stared with a faux look of horror on my face.
I don't know why I had such immediate dislike for this woman, but if you'd seen her, you'd hate her too. You remember that friend you had when you were a kid whose mom was really formal and uptight and never any fun and corrected your grammar?
Anyway, some poor old man was trying to help her up, but she was taking her sweet ass time. And then, with a flair reserved for the truly advantageous and litigious, she announced "The floor is very slippery right there!"
No. It wasn't. I looked. I walked right over it. And I'm a faller. If it was "very" slippery, it would have been my ass shining that linoleum, not hers.
To add insult to injury, or perhaps because she sensed my intense dislike for her, when mom pants found herself in front of me in line, she committed Spots Crime 548: taking way to long to collect your shit once you've already paid.
God, I hate this.
If you're really that anal, throw everything in your bag and organize your mental illness in the privacy of your own car. But no. Not the faller. She took her receipt and change. Then she put her big mom bag on the counter. Then she placed the receipt delicately in her wallet. Then she placed her change delicately in her wallet. Then she delicated placed her wallet in her bag. Then she delicately removed her cell phone from her bag. Then she delicately removed her keyes from her bag.
Then she thought for a minute about which hand her keys should go in and which hand should hold her cell phone.
At this point, the cashier is shooting me looks.
Then she delicately placed her bag on her shoulder. Then she switched hands for the keys and the cell. Then finally, a good 7 or 8 hours later, she delicately grabs her Rite Aid bag (contents unknown, but please feel free to guess), turns around and looks at me.
"Are you OKAY?!?!?" I asked with false alarm, hoping a reminder of her face plant would upset her deeply and make her buy pants from the 21st century.
"Yes, thank you. It's very slippery over there. Someone should really clean that up."
Oh, should SOMEONE?
Ugh, I hate hating people because I never get to get in the fights with then that would give me the satasfaction I so desire...
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Monday, June 02, 2008
I always worry ahead of time. Who will we talk to? What if we're at a boring table? What's the bar situation?
And the same thing happens every time.
We end up finding people we know, we end up talking to drunk businessmen and we end up spending the entire evening making fun of strangers.
Or Vansmack, although I don't know if he'll be attending this particular soiree.
In addition to me having no idea what type of business I'm supposed to be discussing with these people, the prospect of dining on a moving boat ups my chances for, well...eating it.
Needless to say, I'm in flats.
But I'm mentally preparing myself to watch my step, hold onto handrails and drink a lot of water. Because really, when I ask myself what the worst case scenario could be, it involves someone throwing "Melissa's friend" a flotation device as the captain radios the Coast Guard...