Monday, June 30, 2008

statue of liberty?

Perhaps it's a good thing I was out of town for this disaster:I have it on good authority that the once fabulous Cyndi Lauper was out of it. Like, dramatically, profoundly out of it. Which is sad because She's So Unusual is the first tape I ever owned. Of greater concern is the fact that Devine was tasked with hiring Cyn's hairstylist. What the fuck? Even Cher would be like, "That's a bit much, hon."
Let's move on for a second. Margaret Cho looks great. And even better, she makes Swiss Miss look like a retard suburban poser by comparisson.
This is Pride! Not a Newsies reunion. Why is she wearing a Newsies hat? Why? What is she trying to tell us? I feel like Margaret should give her a nickel and a scrap of bread and kick her back to Forever 21's accessory department.
She looks like she's saying, "Hey, check out me and my girls, y'all!"
Whereas Gavin's like "Is that an open bar?"

"i wonder if jared from subway has superfans"...

I have so much to tell you, I don't even know where to begin! I thought that I'd save the bus ride from New York to DC for the Culture Blog on Wednesday, but considering my day yesterday, I think perhaps my cancelled flight, 7 hours in Dulles, unexpected trip to Denver, new best friend and Bible sex mayonnaise man might be better suited for the old CB. Don't you worry, though. There's tons that happened prior. 
Like my bus ride. 
I took a Bolt Bus, which I found after googling several variations of "Bus, NYC, DC, deluxe, bathroom." Kate thought it'd be hilarious for me to take the bus, and as it's only $20 vs. Amtrak's $150, I figured it might be cost effectively entertaining. 
I picked up the bus as instructed in front of the Sbarro on 33rd and 7th. 
I'm serious. Sbarro. 
There was no assigned seating, so I took a window seat in the middle and prayed no one would sit next to me. I dumped my bag on the seat next to me, put on my sunglasses and tried to look like an unsavory bitch. I must of looked like Aileen Wournos because I was the only soul on that goddamn bus who didn't have a seat mate. I could sense the hatred of those around me, especially Sears siding, Jersey frat boys in backwards baseball caps who insisted up hanging their dry-cleaned dress shirts for the club. Whatever, cargo shorts. We're on a BUS. It's every penny pincher for himself. Had I not dropped $250 on a single meal at The Modern, I'd be on a train with a bar and I realized this as my father sent me an e-mail. "I can't believe you're on a bus. Now I bet you'll see why I prefer the rails."
The Spotswoods are apparently transportation snobs.
I spent the first half of the ride texting my friends. 
"Hi, I'm in Delaware." I alerted mon frere.
"Ha! On a bus! Make a new friend."
"I hate humanity."
"They hate you too. Hey, you could find a pen pal! Start a sing a long! Play a group game!"
"I despise you."
I sipped my Sbarro Diet Pepsi as traffic outside of Baltimore slowed to a crawl and cursed road travel. Five hours after leaving New York, we rolled into the ghettos of DC and were dropped off by the West Elm downtown. I called Kate. "Welcome to the Chocolate City, baby!"
Conveniently, we met at the Hotel Helix, half a block from Kate and Jeff' apartment where I could stay with Jeff's employee discount for a mere $50 a night. And upon check-in, the hotel dude flirted with Jeff to the tune of me getting upgraded into a 4 room suite. 
We walked into the room and started running around, from the living room through the office and dressing room and bathroom. "We need to find friends! Let's have a party! Hire me a hooker!"
After enjoying some complimentary champagne in the bar, we headed to Arlington to enjoy dinner at Jeff's new restaurant, Jackson 20. I'll upload photos later, but much to my delight and Jeff's horror, his bio was in the elevator. It was very weird to hear everyone call Jeff "Chef" and fawn over him, knowing full well he'd arrive at work the next morning with a list of critiques. Even the folks at the next table recognized him, and as a total food and chef whore, I was in heaven. Jeff instructed someone to just start sending out food and not like I'm biased or anything, but it was all fucking amazing. Should you find yourself in the greater DC area, head out to Arlington and order the chicken fritters, pork chop with grilled peaches and bread pudding. Sweet Jesus, it was a lovely dinner. I think they finally dropped me off at Helix at 2:30am.
Oh! But wait! There's an important component of this story! I'm the recent victim of identity theft. I discovered this when I tried to pay for drinks in a gay bar in New York only to discovered my VISA cancelled. For long and complicated reasons, I had to pay for everything in cash until I got back to California. And the only way for me to get cash was to go to a Bank of American "Banking Center." 
I think there are pretty much three Banking Centers in the world that are open on Saturday, and even then only till noon. As Kate slept, Jeff picked me up after he left work, where he had to serve a sit down breakfast to 80 at 6am, and we raced around the city, running red lights, trying to find an open BofA. I got my money at 11:53. I felt like I'd just robbed a bank. 
After lunch at some sandwich joint, the three of us walked along The Mall on our way to the Holocaust Museum, where I'd wanted to go for ages. But that Mall walk is a long walk, and the humidity was like, 80%. I'm sorry to report, I was not a trooper. None of us were. We were on our way to the Holocaust Museum and couldn't stop complaining about the "physically and emotionally debilitating" heat.
The Museum was air-conditioned and delightfully gratis. But one needs to make reservations and Kate, assuming Jeff would have to work, just booked two of us. So Jeff just walks up to the counter and claims there was a mistake, and we'd booked three tickets. I don't know the level of karma in cutting 300 people waiting for tickets at the Holocaust Museum is, but I think I may have discovered it on my flight home. 
The museum was packed, and inevitably, children pushed their way around and annoyed us at length. If the crowds weren't enough, one family in particular, led my their patriarch we'll call "Orlando State" due to his polo shirt, was completely out of control. And I started to lose it as their obnoxious children played tag in the T-4 (medical experimentation) exhibit. People are visibly upset at the images and information, a few are even crying, it's relatively silent and then little Travis and Randy are running around screaming, "You're it!"
It came close to fistacuffs in the Holocaust Museum, I was so livid. 
After a good 2 and a half hours, we headed back for the dreaded walk along the Mall, the highlight of which was a hobo pushing a cart bigger than my house. We stopped at a tourist trash shack to buy water where I discovered highly appalling items for sale, like American flag bucket hats proclaiming "Washington DC!" that some French family bought. This upset Kate a great deal. 
"Can you imagine me walking around Paris with a huge pointy Eiffel Tower on my head that said 'Paris, France!' on it?"
We headed over to Georgetown for shopping and a snack at "Quick Pita" before heading back to Helix to meet Sacha for some more of that free champagne. Since Kate just moved to DC a few weeks ago, upon discovering that she's neighbors with Sacha, who's from Marin and works for Georgetown, we agreed to meet up and abuse the hotel's free booze policy. Dinner followed at some place on Columbus Circle, and we took the Metro out there. 
The Metro involves very, very steep escalators which, I am embarrassed to admit, scare the shit out of me. I need to fixate of some visual object, like discarded chewed gum, the entire way up and down, I'm so convinced I'll tumble to my demise in a subway station. Kate and Jeff would just plow up and down them, and very much like an elderly relative, I'd stare at my gum and scream, "You guys! Wait! I can't move!"
I didn't get a chance to check out the very dark, old school bar that looked right up my alley and was housed in the Mayflower Hotel, occasional home to Client 9. We had drinks at some Mexican bar and called it a night. 
At 6:45am, like the true, wonderful friends they are, Kate and Jeff arrived to drive me to Dulles, miles and miles outside of DC. They dropped me off, Kate still in her jammies, hugged and kissed me goodbye and left. 
Which is when I got my boarding pass, got through security and all hell broke loose...

Thursday, June 26, 2008

viva la pequena...

I discovered La Pequena on my favorite blog on Earth, Dlisted. The first thing I do every morning is hit up Michael K and chuckle. And whenever he discovers a new La Pequena video, I'm in heaven. So last weekend, when Kate and Jeff were up visiting, we were discussing YouTube phenomenons, as Kate was the one who introduced me to Britain's greatest export since Clive Owen, "Charlie bit me."
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

briscoe woulda bought me a highball...

You can read all about my celeb filled Sunday night when it goes up HERE at noon PST, but in the meantime, get a load of what happened to me last night.
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

and yet, no mario...

Those of you in my inner circle received an excited text yesterday, announcing that I was in brand new clothes on the Upper West Side, having tomato soup alone in a classy joint and chatting with the hot French bartender.
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:
2:49pm:
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.
What?
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.
OMG!
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

shits...

I can't believe I missed it.
The Brians' engagement party.
I'm in Jon Cryer's guest room...crying.

I love you both so much, there aren't words or actions. Plus, you have my car right now...

more homos off the market, and some perhaps, on...

Congratulations Bill and Fernando! This hot couple, who've been together for 22 years, were married on Tuesday morning by His Hotness. To my great honor, I was invited to attend and to my great horror, I was unable. I like to think that if I'd managed to swing it, I could've brought a little Veuve and roped Gavin into a sip or seven. Also, I'd like to think that if Gavin was officiating my wedding (hmmm, groom AND celebrant?), he might take a second and throw on a tie. Call me old school, but show a little effort, pal. I mean, there's probably 3 or 4 in his pockets and desk drawers. Also, it's 9am on a Tuesday and you're the Mayor of a major US city at a WEDDING. Windsor knot that shit and get to work.
Thank being said, God Bless the magical Mayor for making beautiful and long overdue moments like the following a reality for everyone. In California. At least for now.
Yay Bill and Fernando!!!!!!!!!!!

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

alright, you keep talking! i'm gonna go cook without the garlic press, part two...

I'm going to try and base my entire Culture Blog on tonight's events, but I've got to give you an update.
I SAW BOBBY CANNAVALE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
He tops my Top 5!
I love him!
Really. I mean it. I truly feel deep love for him.
Seriously. He's quite possible the most adorable person on earth.
And um, I stood next to him, DYING ON THE INSIDE, for like, 5 minutes. We made eye contact, like, twice.
Which is how I can report that he is 459,325 times hotter in person. It's almost ridiculous. He's like a glowing, gorgeous Jesus with a Jersey accent and a baseball hat, cocked to the side in a surprisingly non-annoying way.
I've get to get this glory down on paper, but do yourself a favor. Watch the Station Agent right now.
It's not like you can sleep. I mean, come on! We're too excited...

Saturday, June 21, 2008

happy summer...

If you were walking down 6th Ave. at 1 this afternoon, you'd have seen Kate and Jeff holding my hands as I got this!
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.
Clean.
Bright.
People awake.
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.
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...
PS: (Kate's camera phone sucks) I just spent my rent and really, Kate and Jeff's, on EIGHT courses at The Modern. Oh, and much like Gary Danko, as we left, they gave us tote bags filled with breakfast.
Wow.
All I can say is...whoa...

armstrong, party of three for the break of dawn...

It's noon, and I just woke up. WTF?
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

kuwait a minute...

This morning, I boarded a plane for JFK and upon discovery that it would be continuing on to Kuwait City, pretty much texted everyone I knew and stated the obvious, "OMG."
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.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep...
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.
My bad.
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!
Spots...

PS: We landed safe and sound. What are the odds!

Let's Roll



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

start spreading the...

Here's your Wednesday Culture Blog! But it's Friday to me. I'm going to New York* tomorrow! I remember when Alex and his Irish roommate spent a week with my folks in the Big Apple. I called them as they were headed from one bar to another.
"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...

divine...

Brian Devine sometimes has me in tears, he's so goddamn funny. As I was reading Mel's piece in the Examiner, she had her Top 10 Things Overheard at the Gay Nuptial Extravaganza, including a shout out to me (toot toot!)
#2 has me in such giggles, I can barely type. 
Mel had run into the Brians, who had arranged to meet up at the "Re-criminalize Sodomy" sign. Forget the Empire State Building. The new romantic rendezvous spot is the "Re-criminalize Sodomy" sign down at City Hall. 
Anyway, I'm devastated I missed this because Melissa is teaching me to love protesters. She doesn't get mad. She finds them entertaining. As, apparently, does Devine. I don't know that I would be able to stop myself from doing something dramatic and white trash, like spitting on someone holding a "God Hates Fags" sign. My friends, however, make fun of their outfits. 
And Devine, who I can just hear leaning over and saying this, has my favorite quote of Mel's brilliant list:

2. Brian Devine on the anti-gay protesters wearing hard hats with the words "Trust Jesus" on them: "If they trust Jesus, why do they need hard hats?"

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

ah, civilization...

To my great dismay, I work in the suburbs. Most days, unless Amanda sneak off to Vasco, I get day old sushi at the market and 2 Diet Snapples. 
It's my usual. 
I'd like everyone to think I'm at Boulevard and Perbacco every day, knocking back martinis with Brian and Mel. Nope. They do that without me and just text the whole time to rub it in. 
Well not today bitches!
One of my fabulous donors is taking boss lady and I out for a celebratory lunch. Yep, that's my whole afternoon. I might even shop! (Melissa, you need to start coughing now.) And while I have Tim the Trainer this evening, I won't dwell on the pain about to come my way.
Why?
Because I'm all dressed up and get to go mingle with the suits!!!
I lay in bed last night and planned my outfit, debating my options and considering accessories. Some of you FiDi dorks are rolling your eyes. You're at Farallon every day and I hate you for it. Well screw you! 
I'm excited. Pearls and heels excited. Blown out hair excited. New white trench coat excited...

Monday, June 16, 2008

disregard...

WooHoo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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.
I'm done!
I'm done!
I'm done!
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

i took best quality chicken...

I took my own advice and got some fresh air today. KG and I went for a long walk on Ocean Beach, stopping to watch a soccer game on the sand. One half of the (what we've decided was) Brazilian team was in royal blue Euro jerseys. The other half in random t-shirts they apparently got for free.
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...

get off your ass...

And run to a radio!
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.
12:09pm: Snooze....
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.
DUH.
We know.
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

brilliant. natch...

Hey everyone! Check out ZOE on CSpan!!!!!!!!!
Yay! Rock on Zo! You look hot! And sound smart! Not that I'm surprised or anything...

walking the plank...

Last night was my first session with Tim the Trainer, which involved Tim coming over and kicking my ass. Part of this kicking my ass involved something called "The Plank."
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.
Holy smokes.
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

christ, i'm a regular mother theresa...

After work today, I decided to take a little walk along the Richardson Bay, because apparently, I'm in an Ensure commercial. Anyway, I'm plugging along and I near this freeway overpass. The hippie, government walk/bike path runs directly beneath it and every time I venture through, I'm convinced that'll be the moment the big one hits and it's Goodbye, Spotswood.
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.
Shit.
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."
Oh! Australians!
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...

it's that time of the month again...

Dear Spots and Ben:
I'm a 16-year-old high school girl. I'm friendly, cheerful, religious and an honors student.
I am also addicted to pornography.
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?
Signed,
ADDICTED AND ASHAMED IN IOWA

Dear Slut,
This sounds like the beginning of a Penthouse letter. I bet you're a buxom cheerleader whose folks are out of town, too.
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.
My point is, you’re sixteen. You’re supposed to withdraw from society and obsess about sex. Stop telling your mom about it, though. Shit.
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,
Spots
Dear Addicted and Ashamed,
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.
Ben...

wednesdays. noon. etc...

Today's Culture Blog is up! Written on Christine's laptop at the bar of the Left Bank. And here's a shout out to Michael the bartender, who I knew when he was in kindergarten...

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

thank god i took today off...

I did indeed sit alone at the Buckeye last night. And you know, Monday's not a good night. Or maybe I picked the wrong bar. Or maybe I've lost it.
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.
Jealous?
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

maybe i'll mix it up with a wink...

Mel and my dinner date had to cancel, which is fine with Mel. She's exhausted and needs a night off. I probably should do the same, but I was in bed by 10 last night. And my co-worker really likes my ensemble today.
"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!"
"I'm scared."
"Since when?"
"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.
Fucking 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.
Awwww yeah.
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.
Twice.
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?

this means i'll miss cougar night at the chalet...

My fabulous friend and editor is looking hot these days. Really hot. Turns out, her husband Tim has been kicking her ass into supermodel status. So at Eve's recent birthday party, I begged Tim to make me his guinnea pig and turn me into a fox. Then, I could, you know, write about how gorgeous I'm getting and you'd all be desperate for Tim to train you.
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

oh, we're in a fight...

I just awoke from a dream in which I got in a huge, public fight with Gavin at a Press Conference and I am, like, shaking right now.
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.
Really 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

just bring me cookies and kisses. after you bring me wine...

My fabulous, wonderful, charming, hilarious, inappropriate friends gave up their Saturday for me today. It was a bold and dramatic gesture which few can handle (Zoe paid her dues tenfold last year) and some are still in for tomorrow. Yikes.
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."
"Bullshit."
"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...

a day late and i'm an asshole...

She should never forgive me but she will because she's my best friend. Yesterday was Zoe's birthday and I didn't blog about it. Of course, I called at the break of dawn but you know my policy on birthday blogs. Everyone gets one. And by everyone, I mean people who complain when they don't get them.
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!
Happy Birthday...

Thursday, June 05, 2008

nice espadrilles, marion...

I rose at the break of dawn, which makes no sense as I spent last night up late watching Lars and the Real Girl with mon frere. So I headed out to SuburbaGym and then, dressed like a very ugly butch lesbian, hit Rite Aid to get a new hair dryer.
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?
That's her.
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

i got your 15% right here, pal....

I really don't know how I agree to spend Monday night at a work event with Melissa and end up knocking over displays on a boat and playing billiards with Juan from the Le Club kitchen. 
But I don't think I've ever laughed harder in my life. 
Melissa will pay huge amounts of money to go to boring events so she can write blogs about voting and building codes. And she will double those huge amounts of money so I will go with her. Free wine and food on a boat on the bay at sunset? Eh, okay.
We meet for a quick drink at MarketBar and I'd just like to give a shout out to the guy sitting next to me pretending to read his book but listening to every goddamn word. Nice earring, friend. We walk out of MarketBar and run into my upstairs neighbor, who was going to the very same event. He walked us to the boat, and seemed surprised they actually had nametags for us. 
Um, yeah. My wife is on it. 
We took the opportunity to check out the other nametags, noting that Tourk was apparently scheduled to show. Hazaa. Someone we actually know. But when we texted him, Tourk pointed out that it was Election Eve and he was obviously hard at work because we're all supposed to vote Yes on Prop G, FYI. 
We responded that I planned to go steal his nametag and wear it, to which Tourk totally approved. 
The thought of walking around a boat filled with San Francisco's business leaders wearing Alex Tourk's nametag filled me with such a sense of joy and well-being, I could barely contain my rapture. But then I chickened out because I'm all talk and really, I think Alex is awesome and don't want anyone to think he's an idiot. Which is what would happen if I were to walk around a boat with a free bottle of wine and a nametag proclaiming me Tourk
I stuck with Beth Spotswood.
Everyone already thinks I'm an idiot. 
We waited forever for the unimpressive buffet (note to SPUR, no one wants shrimp in their cole slaw) and just as I stuck a dinner roll on my plate, this short man with protruding chest hair comes up. "The Sweet Melissa!" 
Oh my god. It's one of Melissa's fans. 
He and his chest hair were beside themselves, going on and on about how fabulous and perfect we all already know Melissa is. I kept waiting for some kind of, "Oh, and this is the famous Beth!"
Nope. Never heard of me. 
Which he told me like 10 times. Yeah, chest hair. I got it. Point taken. Thank you for refusing to even pretend to care.
I just kept covering my plate because I certainly didn't want an errant chest hair falling into my pile of discarded cole slaw shrimp. 
We ran into Comcast, the very woman with whom we were chatting with at our friend's business lunch when one of his minions shushed us. As an aside, in our attempt to have said minion canned, X pointed out that we really were quite loud. Duh. What'd you think we'd be? Delicate and demure?
Anyway, Comcast asked us to sit with her so I raced over to move our bags from the table where we'd first saved seats. The first table was, needless to say, closest to the bar. They didn't take too kindly to us finding cooler people to sit with. Whatever, nerds. We're on the fucking Lido deck of a planning and development dinner cruise. It's every man for himself. 
After dinner, Comcast asks us if we'd like to join her for a smoke on the deck. Sure! Sunset on the Bay with cigarettes! We'll be like a bus stop ad! Beautiful!
So the three of us stumble through the rocking boat, making our way to the door where there are several easels and displays showing off all of the wonderful building projects about to grace our fair city. 
It was very windy outside. We bundled up with huge coats and pashminas. And then we opened the door. With that, a dramatic and huge gust of wind blew into the boat, knocking over the first easel display of real estate development. Which knocked over the second. And then the third... 
You get the idea. 
We found this hysterical.
After dessert, the boat started back to dock at Pier 3, which is when chest hair came over to make his big move. Normally, if some man has arrived to woo my wife, I'll politely find an excuse and find a gay. But, and I say this knowing full well how bad it sounds, chest hair was out of his league. So I just stood there and watched his world crumble. 
"Have you seen Sex in the City?" he asked Melissa. She looked at me, "Um, we planned on seeing that together. Right, Bethy?"
Oh no. I'm not diving in to this. It's too much fun to watch you squirm. Plus, this guy continued to ignore my presence. Hey! I'm the best friend! It would do you well to, say, nod in my direction. 
"What about Indiana Jones."
Melissa fidgeted with her bag. "Oh, I heard that got bad reviews."
"What about Ironman?"
"Hmmm, I haven't heard of that."
Then finally, god bless him, chest hair just goes for it. "I'm trying to ask if you want to see a movie with me."
I am eleven years old. And I couldn't help myself. I lost it. I simply lost it. I was on a dinner cruise about building things, I was partly responsible for display destruction, I picked shrimp out of my cole slaw, and chest hair is hitting on my wife. 
I had no choice but to LOL
I was laughing so uncontrollably, chest hair finally goes, "Fine. I'll drop it."
That just made me laugh harder. 
I couldn't stop. I laughed myself off that boat, grabbing onto Mel, laughing all the way to the car. 
We were dying. "What kind of guy asks a girl to Sex in the City?" "HAHAHAHAHA!" "Like, Indiana Jones is a better idea!" "HAHAHAHAHAHA" "What if he asked you to do something weird with his chest hair!" "HAHAHAHAHAHA" "So we're going to Le Club, right?" "I was just about to say that."
The joint was pretty empty, save for Mel's "friend" who just "happens" to be a plastic surgeon named David. David was with Dianne, a stunning New Yorker who looked and sounded exactly like Bethenny Frankel. I asked David to check me out and tell me where I should get work. He looked me over, grabbing on to my chin and staring at my huge pores. "You're beautiful!" He was forced to say. "If I were to do anything, and I don't think you need anything, but since you asked..."
"Yeah?"
"Your upper lip is a little thin."
"I know!"
"And you have a slight wrinkle in your forehead."
"I do not."
"Yeah. You do."
Now, Dr. David is cute and young, and he's staring at me like I'm one of those kids with a cleft palate in magazine articles. 
And then he says, "Your face is 85% perfect."
I'm 30. I'm single. And someone with dominant chest hair just hit on my "wife."
All I heard was that my face is 15% disgusting.  
"I'm going to the ladies." I announced to Melissa as Craig arrived. I kissed Craig hello and left them to canoodle while I tried to find a mirror. 
I go to Le Club a lot. I go to Le Club too much. Shit, I'll probably be there tonight. And yet, I couldn't find the bathroom. So I took a peek in the pool table room. 
And there I found Juan, built like a 4'1" defensive end. 
"I work in the kitchen. I am Juan."
"I drink at the bar. I am Beth."
"You wanna play?"
Fuck it. 
"I wanna play."
So way in the back of Le Club, for a good two hours, all by ourselves, Juan and I played pool. We low-fived. We had Gibsons. We had, I don't mind telling you, a very lovely evening. At the end of each game, all of which I lost, he'd say, "You wanna play again, Princess?"
"Rack 'em up, Juan. I got nowhere to be."
He came up to my boobs and was very patient. And at one point, after making a particularly difficult shot under the tutelage of Juan, I shot my arms (cue included) in the air and caught sight of myself in the mirror. 
It was midnight, I'm in am empty bar, I'm wearing "one hell of a dress", I'm playing pool with Juan who works in the kitchen and I am having one hell of a time. Not a big loud obnoxious time. But George Clooney coulda walked in and said, "Spotswood, let's go." and I woulda been all, "Zip it, Cloon. It's Juan's shot."
I lie. I would've ripped off my dress right then and there. 
Anyway, the moment was too good not to share. Especially after I'd been missing for hours. I screamed down the hallway. 
"Misty! Get your ass in here! Oh wait. Get me and Juan some Gibsons first." 
Juan and I played with Mel and Craig, although the game quickly negated the need for the girls. We'd do the obligatory shot whilst sitting on the table, but otherwise stood against the wall and discussed lipgloss and unicorns. 
It was time to go. Juan awkwardly hugged me goodbye. I don't know that he could really reach very much of me. I chatted with Colin while Mel said goodbye to Craig. I think I should confess to my future AA sponsor that the bouncer at my favorite bar knows the intimate details of every aspect of my personal life. I mean, I walked into the foyer (Le Club in on the main floor of a swanky Nob Hill apartment building for those that don't rock my pool table) and Colin and his British accent purr, "Elizabeth Anne! Where's Melissa?"
"Inside. On her way. We're going home."
"I see. How's your job, then?"
"Fine. Scoot over." 
Colin's always on his laptop, working on his DJ career. I came behind the desk and sat with him.
"Did you have a nice night, love?"
'Yes. I played pool with Juan."
I thought Colin was going to have a heart attack, he was laughing so hard.
Melissa arrived. We all hugged goodbye. Really, any excuse to touch Colin we'll abuse. I'm not gonna lie. The man is hot. We walked back to Mel's, sitting on her stairs to have a cigarette. 
"Dude. Chest hair."
"I know!"
"Juan is my new friend."
"I really like Colin."
"Me too. Colin's the best."
Upstairs, I put on the yoga pant/t-shirt combo Mel keeps for me. In her kitchen cupboard. 
"That was fun, Mist."
"Yeah. I love you."
"I love you too."
And with that (boats, wind blown displays, chest hair, Juan, plastic surgeons, Colin and one hell of a dress), we were out like hobos on a park bench...

Monday, June 02, 2008

beth overboard...

I'm fulfilling my wifely duties this evening by accompanying the Missus on some business people dinner cruise and apparently this time, the boat will actually set sail!
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...