The view from my bedroom. Goodbye commute I love. Goodbye 2006. Goodbye free time.
As this is the last day of my 20 minute commute--in 5th gear at 80 mph ALL the way down the 10 freeway, do you know how fucking rare that is, ever?!--I present you with the sun setting on Los Angeles:
Have a great weekend ringing in the new year. Drink heavily and give your keys to the teetotalers.
Because dead readers don't comment much. And I hate that.
For boys who need a little oomph when it comes to what they're packing in their Jockeys, try HUGE brand condoms.
No, they're not for the overly endowed. They're for the average pee-pee. That could use a little "ego boost." I kid you not.
From their website:
HUGE Brand was founded, in 2004, to be the alternative to traditional corporate condoms. We believe in bringing fun to safe sex and understand that responsibility doesn’t have to be boring. The clever twist to our youthful brand is that the condoms are actually standard size - it’s the packages that are larger.
HUGE Brand condoms were designed with quality and safety top of mind, but the packaging ensures a clever ego boost in every purchase. HUGE Brand has also changed the way we purchase condoms. Gone are the days of just buying 3, 12 and 36 packs.We offer customers a selection based on the length of their
…ummmm…layover.
Our condoms are available in three quantities:
The Nightcap (3 pack)
The Weekender (12 pack)
The Extended Stay (36 pack).
"Are they going to get married?" he asked.
"Eventually, yeah of course," she answered
"Will they have a big wedding?"
"Probably not. I wouldn't guess they'd want that."
"Probably can't afford it."
"Oh, I'm sure my parents would help out," she replied.
"Yeah, but then that's a burden on your parents," he countered.
"Hmm. And then it cuts down on how much they can afford for mine," she mused playfully.
"You're not going to get married!" he exclaimed.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because! You? Married?!" he asked incredulously.
"You asked me to marry you, remember?" she chided.
"Yeah but...do you even want to get married?"
"Eh. I don't want to die alone," she joked.
"Man...marriage. I can't...that's just too grown up."
"Says the man moving in with his girlfriend," she teased.
"Yeah," he sighed. "You know, if the us from two years ago heard the us now, we'd be kicking our own asses."
"Hee. You're probably right."
Today, I'm doing something I haven't done since I was an intern in college. In fact, I'm pretty sure that record company I was at closed down for the holidays too, so we're talking at least 6 years:
I'm working on the day after Xmas.
I know, I'm not the only one. Lots of you are in this same boat. But for years on end, I got this week off. To sleep. To dream. To fucking rest.
I don't get that this year. And I'm not very happy about it.
Yeah, I could have taken the meager 3 days worth of vacation that I've earned. But I'm saving those for the various trips I'm taking out of town next year. So, I will don a short wool skirt, black leather boots, and make my way to work today.
But I will pout. Because I can.
When I woke up this morning at my parents' house, after a night of much great Puerto Rican food, 14 glasses of red wine with the people I love, the title of our family's undefeated poker champion, and a shitload of really awesome gifts, it smelled like pine trees.
The Christmas tree has been there for about 3 weeks, the smell should have permeated the entire house. But somehow, it hadn't gotten into my nasal passages yet. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me lately, but I hadn't been feeling very much in tune with the season...maybe it's had something to do with the fact that it was 78 degrees yesterday in the Valley, which is so damn queer and wrong! There's snow in the local mountains, but we're experiencing the strangest heat wave today. Yeah, it never gets winter cold in LA, but it shouldn't feel like spring right now either.
But when I smelled that scent this morning, I finally caught that damn Christmas spirit. Then I got to watch the kids shout exclamations of joy every time they opened a new present, ate Christmas cookies with coffee and eggnog, and now everything is okay.
Yes, I'm a little late getting with the program, but you know what they say: better late than pregnant!
So merry this and happy that to all y'all out in the Exoterica readership. Hope y'all have lovely days, regardless of how or what you celebrate.
One of the two kids who make me the proudest auntie:
My 5 year old niece, the G-brat.
The other one is this little person. They have the same face, same eyelashes. Go figure.
They're precious. Wrapped in brat.
But during Christmas--and any other time--that's okay.
I'm stuck at home today because of walking complications brought on by this bullshit. When you drive a stick shift and have to sit in traffic for 45 minutes with your foot constantly on the clutch, you don't go to work when your legs are out of commission. Especially when it's two flights down to your car and you ain't got no elevator.
This totally sucks because I feel fine otherwise. I'm not sick. But I AM bored!! With a pain in my left hip. When did I suddenly become an 89 year old arthritic woman?!
There's stuff I could be doing since I am burning a sick day on this. Like laundry. Or Christmas shopping. Instead, I've soaked in the tub and also gotten myself a Gmail account. So if you feel chatty, find me there.
Though I still like my AOL accounts...so for now, I'm a multi-portal user. Like an email whore, if you will.
Whatever. I'm bored. Play with me.
I've been feeling discontented lately. There's been a lot going on in my head, and despite this, I've been significantly dissatisfied in that respect. Discussing it with a friend today, I started to wonder about something.
Then again, I have toyed with the idea of just chucking it all and starting over in either San Diego or San Francisco.
What's a girl to do?
On Monday nights, the Princess and I usually enjoy the an hour of cardio kickboxing to set the week off right.
This last Monday, our instructor was nowhere to be found. Hopefully she wasn't abducted by aliens. Nevertheless, a high energy replacement came to take her place. Except he wasn't running kickboxing. He was the "Hi/Lo" instructor. And he was fucking psycho.
He looked a little bit like Luis Guzman, if Luis was a drill seargent on speed. He started booming into the microphone and would. Not. Quit.
We weren't sure exactly what this "Hi/Lo" mumbo-jumbo meant. Were we in for a nasty surprise!
There was weirdo choreography with kicking and knee raises and you had to keep your arms up no matter how much they started to hurt, and the music was sped up so it was like working out to the fucking Chipmunks, and all the while the Princess and I were spinning in the wrong direction and looking at each other like WHAT THE FUCK?!
After 30 minutes we just couldn't hang anymore. My feet hurt as much as they do when I hit the 9th mile of an endurance run. And after running the day before, my hips were hating me. This didn't help our relationship.
The guy was Puerto Rican. I thought he'd be cool, not a workout nazi. Not so much. On the way out, the Princess told me I should cut him.
Hee. For a split second, I forgot how we deal with these little situations.
Next time...
After a weekend characterized by comments like:
Girl at bar: I love your hair. I want to play with it!
and
Married boy at a party: You don’t look almost 30. You look like you’re our age…24!”
It should have come as no surprise today that when my boss asked me to come in to her office for some “good news,” that it was going to be…well, good news.
She started with a barrage of compliments about how damn good I am at this job and how I’m the silver lining in this mess with one recently hired then fired employee. Blah blah blah.
I blushed a lot.
Then came the really good news: I got a raise!
It’s not huge, but when you weren't expecting one in the first place, and had no idea that it was even a possibility, it’s that much sweeter. Holy awesome surprise, Batman!
Who said good work is never recognized? Some cynical bastard, probably.
***
And yet, there's a sneaking suspicion that something isn't right. I don't know if it's just the time of year and lacking the usual Christmas spirit...or the fact that my favorite coworker is leaving us in January (effectively opening the door to my nice new salary)...or what. But something is bugging me.
I guess I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Bah.
In an effort to force myself into the Christmas spirit, I'm playing the "Dear Santa" Madlibs game found which I stole from the Princess:
Santa Claus
North Pole, EarthDear Santa,
I have been a good girl.
It really wasn't my fault what happened at Krazy Mommy's Office party.
It was the Princess who spiked the punch with too much Bacardi 151. I can't help
it if I drank 14 glasses. It was so good---smelled and tasted just like heaven.
I thought it was funny when I put Smooty Smoot's silk ascot on my head
and danced the cha-cha-cha on the cocktail table while singing `the Milkshake
song'. I didn't mean to break Krazy Mommy's radio controlled airplane and don't
know why Krazy Mommy would accuse me of public nudity.
I don't remember
calling Timmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay's wife an anal kangaroo---even though she looked
like one with purple eye shadow and chartruse lipstick!
And when I threw
up on Nancy's husband's pee-pee, it was only because I ate too much of that
bread pudding in the shape of Baby Jesus.
After all that fun, I admit I
was a little tired. So I fell asleep on my way home and drove my Mack truck
through my neighbor's master bedroom. I don't think that was any reason for my
neighbor to call me a drunken monkey and have me arrested for lewd behavior!
So, Santa...here I sit in my jail cell on Christmas Eve, all cute and
innocent. And I'm really not to blame for any of this comical stuff. Please
bring me what I want the most---bail money!
Sincerely and sweetly yours,
GPG (Really a nice girl!)
P.S. It's only 83,000 bucks!
(Do your own at members.aol.com/frogiearno/dearsanta.htm)
Sailor and Names, acting their ages.
The brown dude, as you know, is my little brother. The other one is my former platonic boyfriend, the Cat-roo-key. And he is 30 years old today. Yay!
Happy birthday, sweetheart! I'll catch you in Super Happy Shiny Pow-Pow Cowboy Ray-Gun World tonight.
Much love,
Your Kitten
This past weekend, my baby brother announced that his girlfriend is pregnant. And that they will be keeping the child.
My initial reaction was not a positive one. In fact, I spent a good portion of Sunday morning crying. And not because I think he's going to be a bad parent. On the contrary, I know he's going to be a wonderful father. I love my brother more than anything else in this world, but I could not fathom him compromising all his hopes and dreams at this point in his life. And I was pretty sure I wouldn't be the only one in my family reacting that way.
In fact, when the kid asked me what I thought, my answer to him was, "if I answer you truthfully, it's going to make you very angry. And I'm not going to be the one to do that. I'll let dad do that to you."
Man, was I wrong. Turns out that everyone adopted the "what's done is done, let's celebrate!" philosophy while I wasn't looking. I had the acute feeling of spinning around in a bizarro world when I heard that my father, the ultra-serious, no-nonsense patriarch of our growing clan, had a perma-grin from ear to ear. No one but me bothered pointing out the obvious (and unnecessary) difficulties that lay ahead.
So I'm the asshole. Thankfully, my older brother backed me up, agreeing that I brought up some good arguments, and that I just wanted to make sure he fully comprehended what this means. Because, even though he is a grown man, he's still my baby brother and I have a fierce need to protect him.
Eventually I realized he and his girlfriend had made up their minds and nothing was going to change that. They are, after all, both adults. And it is their collective life to live, not mine. He's a smart kid, with a lot of heart and a good head on his shoulders, and they are doing what's right for them.
It's all going to be okay.
So with that, I'd like to offer my heartfelt congratulations to my baby brother, his lady, and their unborn child. Next summer there will be a new addition to our family and I truly couldn't be happier.
Let's celebrate, indeed!
The Curly Haired Girl has too many clothes. So much clothing that she can go approximately 5 weeks without doing laundry. That's 35 days without having to rewash unmentionables. Because at about the 35 day mark, she runs out of undies.
But there are still plenty of clothes. 35 outfits out of the closet and there still isn't enough room in there.
It has been exactly 12 weeks and 2 days since she started the new job. In that time, she has done laundry a grand total of 3 times...twice it was only because a particular item needed to be reworn. Like the right sports bra for the two half-marathons she's run.
But she has not repeated a single outfit. 86 days. No repeats. Waaaaaaaay too many clothes, yo.
Now the laundry is piling up again. But doing laundry is such a pain in the ass, she might just let it continue.
Because who really needs to wear undies anyway?
(For the web-savvy, you'll already know without me admitting that I appropriated today's post title from Pamie, who used a similar one almost exactly one year ago. Usually I steal my best ideas from Will, but just call this the sincerest form of flattery. Or whatever.)
Today's topic was going to be a very short tale on how wearing a dress to work, because you have a Xmas party at the beach later, will give you the happies before 8 am when even the homeless guy at 7-11 compliments you. But instead, you get this bitch session:
I have horrid luck when it comes to my cars. Not that I own multiple cars at the moment, I mean the 4 cars I have owned/used over the last 12 years.
My cherry red 1990 Integra was the first car in which I had an accident. It was a hit & run on the part of the perpetrator, who left me at the scene admist trillions of unconcerned eyewitnesses with a bumper falling off my back end. I was 16 and already set up for a life of chronic backaches. Yay me.
Not too long after that, the engine gave up and that was the end of my little red car.
Then came the Altima my mom let me use once in a while. I don't remember anything bad happening in that one, but you never know. I tend to forget shit. My dad did have a car at the same time that literally blew up. Right there in front of the house. Caught fire and everything. No one could explain how or why.
Finally came the car that I drove into the ground over the course of 8 years. It was a black 1998 Nissan 200SX. Very cute car, its only downside at the outset being that it was had an automatic 1.8 liter shit-engine. No balls whatsoever.
Then came the problems.
First there was the alignment that never seemed to hold. Forget potholes, stepping on a crack broke its fragile little back. I was also rearended in it about 3 times. Then I bounced off a huge Russian tank, completely destroying my front end. Even my brother was rearended while driving it one time. It was a cursed car.
But the best was when each of my four Pirelli tires systematically blew off of it within one year. One right after the other. The last was right after the brakes locked and I spun a full 1.5 times around in a circle up on Mulholland Drive. As if getting all spinny wasn't enough to make me hysterical...I lost the last tire on the freeway on the way to my parents' house. It was right then and there I decided to buy a new car. I'd suffered enough in this one.
I've been pretty drama-free with it for the last year. But just recently my bad karma decided to rear its ugly head again. And forgetting the scrapes I've put into the little red devil, now the badness has infected the car that parks next to it: my roommate's poor innocent Camry.
I had to move her car on Saturday morning (we park tandemly, she was behind me) and in a rush (I was late for work), I thought I had put it in park. I did yank up that parking brake nice and hard, but apparently I'd left it in reverse. Which is why it rolled backwards with a huge BANG!!, right into our back gate. Lucky for me, her reaction was exactly along the lines of "don't worry, shit happens!" Man, I love her. But I will of course be spending all my money on fixing that instead of buying Xmas presents, so I hope no one was expecting one.
The icing on the cake was the no-nonsense, humorless stickler of a cop who "caught" me running a red light on my way back from today's Xmas party. The passenger in the car with me didn't know what he was talking about either. But he would not be swayed with girly looks of confusion and now I have another $350 ticket to match the one I got for the exact same thing last September. Lest you believe I make a habit of this, it was one of those stupid camera things that got me that time. I believe photographic proof. I don't believe a cop when my own passenger called bullshit on him.
The best thing about that experience is that since I"ll be attending traffic school for the last ticket, I am stuck with this one on my record. Way to rack up points!
I think this is all a very cruel way for the universe to tell me to quit driving. If it didn't take 18 busses and 42 hours in each direction to get the 13 miles to work, I would! But it's just too great an inconvenience, so I will continue to pay the exorbitant gas man fees and pray to the automotive gods to please let the stranglehold on me go and fuck with someone else. Please, please, please, please, PLEASE!! I need a good five years at least.
Because if this keeps up, I won't be able to afford the insurance. And then what?
I had a rollercoaster of a weekend. There were oops! of both the big and little variety, and a lot of general disgust with the short sightedness of too many people. However, there were also some truly fantasmic things that happened as well.
Lets concentrate on the good:
A wise man once said that success is measured in units of happiness. All the above make me happy. Therefore, it must have been a mostly good weekend.
Yay.
In a former life, this is what I used to shoot:
Not Chris Cornell.
Ah, musicians. So pretty and so fragile. They should be kept in glass cases so you don't break them if you play with them.
For the backstory on what this is all about, skip on over to these three previous posts:
Mutual Admiration Society, Texas Chapter
Mutual Admiration Society, LA Chapter
When It Rains
***
Sitting in the back of the Martini Lounge, she couldn't take her eyes off the man onstage covering Bullet the Blue Sky.
"He has to pose for me," she whispered to her friend.
"I have his number," the friend replied, smiling.
"Fan-fucking-tastic."
She called to set it up a few days later.
***
"Do you want me to take off my shirt?" he asked as she adjusted the studio lights.
"Yeah, that'll work," she replied. "Okay, I want you to hold the snake up here."
"I can take my pants off too, if you want."
Too flustered to imagine him naked in her studio, she declined the offer. A decision she regretted in the very next moment, and every one since.
***
Standing in the middle of a crowd at the Troubadour, they rocked out to the boys closing out their set. He was up in the rafters. They all screamed in equal parts horror and fascination.
"This is the best fucking moment of my life," he exclaimed later when they posed for pictures, him remarking on her groupie status now that she had a band t-shirt.
"This is better than sex?" she teased.
"Well, second best then." And it really was a that great.
***
"It's not working," he told her. "We're fighting constantly and everyone wants to go in a different direction."
"What are you going to do?" she asked, afraid she knew what was coming.
"I think it's over."
"No."
"Yes."
"But you can't! You can't just leave your fans like that."
"Sweetie, I wish I could stop it. But the four of us just can't agree on anything anymore. And we just have to call it quits."
***
Outside Tongue n' Groove he sobbed sorrowfully into her shoulder. It was the last night they'd ever all be together like this.
And out on that San Francisco street, she couldn't believe it was over.
***
"I have a secret to tell you," he intimated over their shared prosciutto sandwhich.
"Ooh," she replied, eyebrow cocked, wondering what she was about to be privy to.
"We haven't made it public yet, but...we're moving to Austin."
Shocked by the confession, she tried her best not to choke, disbelieving what she was hearing. She swallowed hard before speaking. "Why?"
"LA just isn't going to happen. We'll have a better shot in Austin. And frankly, I'm tired of the bullshit here."
As the words settled into her brain, she felt her heart slowly begin to crumble into pieces.
"When?"
"Beginning of the year...maybe a little later, depending."
She was at a loss for words, knowing it was futile to argue. And that the heartbreak would take a long time to heal.
"I get it," she finally replied, choosing her words carefully. "And if that's what you really want, then I fully support you. But I hate to see you leave." She couldn't bring herself to look at him, knowing if she did, she'd immediately start to cry. "I am going to miss you something awful."
"I'm going to miss you too, sweetie."
She was too stunned to say anything more. She returned to work and finally let the tears flow.
***
"So how's it going out there?" she asked during one of their weekly calls.
"We found a drummer. Young guy, really good."
"Congratulations!"
"Yeah. So we're rehearsing and will probably get a tour going at the end of the summer."
"Are you coming through town?!"
"Looks like we might."
"Fuck yeah!!" She couldn't wait to get off the phone and tell everyone else. Her boys were coming back home.
***
It was unseasonably humid for September.
"Suspend me!" screamed the basisst and jumped into the two girls' arms.
"Dammit, you're going to break us!" they complained. Someone took a picture.
"Where are we going now?"
"Miyagis, I think." And they posed for more pictures. Later there would be a photographs of sake being poured down their throats.
***
"I wrote a monologue about it," confessed the actress.
"What about?"
"All the things I wanted to say to him while he was still here. How he broke my heart. And even though we could have never worked out, how much I still love him."
"Does he know?"
"I told him about it when he was here last. I'm going to perform it at the showcase."
"Damn," was all she could think to say.
***
"Oh my god, I did coke for the first time on this street!" she giggled at the stupidity of her youth as they walked away from the theater.
"No!"
"Yeah, it was that night I was late getting to the second party. I was with that weird old guy we met at the first one."
"Oh damn!"
"Man that was fucking stupid!"
"Yeah you are."
"Hee! I feel drunk!" she exclaimed gleefully, despite not having had anything harsher than a diet soda.
"Me too!" answered her sidekick.
When they finally calmed down, she turned to her friend and asked "you know who she was talking about right?"
"Yeah, changing the name to Eric didn't really hide it."
"That was painful," she mulled over the emotional impact of the act, before noticing an amusing license plate on a car. "Dude, look at what it says! MUPPETE?!!"
"Take a picture!"
"I'm sending that to our Muppet."
"Heh. He hates that nickname."
"That doesn't matter. The boys know they're stuck with what we give them."
"Such is the life of our boys."
"Man I miss them."
Waiter had this to say today. I think it's a fabulous idea since it combines two of my favorite things: history and drinking!
Since most of you won't read this until December 6th, and I have to work late, you are invited to celebrate a belated Repeal Day with me at the Vine Street Lounge on Thursday night. Sanction, hugely famous in North Dakota, will finally be gracing Los Angeles with their presence again and I'll be there drinking tequila.
Like a good little American.
As an added bonus, you can meet me, the Princess, and our boobies (which will be on parade!). It's a guaranteed good time.
If you are not in the LA area, please do your part and have a stiff drink. It's your duty as a citizen of this country. For you non-American readers, don't feel as if you can't play along at home. I highly encourage everyone to drink!
"We should get married," he stated, matter-of-factly.
"Ha!" she laughed. "No."
"We really should."
"Uh, no."
"Think about it. If we combined our incomes, we could get a sick house!" he continued, ignoring her refusal.
"No thanks."
"I'd get you a huge ring."
"Fuck no, I can't wear anything ostentatious."
"What's wrong with you?"
"I don't like big jewelry."
"My wife is going to have an enormous diamond."
"Which is why I'm not going to be your wife."
"I can't believe you don't want a big rock."
"Sorry."
"You're ridiculous. I can't marry you."
Exactly.
Before 1 pm today, I had:
- acquired a new running buddy
- run 13.1 miles
- massively enjoyed being a Bruin
- had lunch with my girlfriends
Now it's time for a nap.
How did you spend your lazy Sunday?
We won!! We actually WON!!
U-C-L-A! FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!!!
I have to go pass out from the delirium now.
Thanks to SJ @ I, Asshole for this bit of urban internets lore. That I stole. Like a stealer.
Real or fake? You decide.
Also, eww.
George Clooney was on tv while I wrote this. *swoon* And he was joking about having sex with Jon Stewart. Niiice.
Anyway. No Photoblogging Friday, since rent is due, which means you get the numbers list. We'll return next week with...something. Maybe a picture that I took from my car on the way home. Who cares?
And now, this:
5 whole years of brattiness completed by my niece
2 consecutive Boobies on Display nights with my girls, and their girls
1 alcoholic cat burglar cast into GPG jail
12 days suffered through with the fakey mono, finally cured by
5 days of food poisoning
45 minutes wasted for a critique with bullshit photography "experts"
1 interesting acquaintance made while in line, who's eye makes me a little jealous
4 hours spent playing "poker," in hats!
35 dollars won by bullying the Krazy Daddy
6 of my closest friends humoring me and my ridiculous house rules
4 blissful days spent being thankful
90 minutes of graphic simulated sex
2 of my whores spotted at that same event
3 alcoholic drinks savored at Molly Malone's to erase the memory of so much bad sex
2 hours spent enjoying a comedy act, replete with fake hipster pictures, which though poorly prepared, was still funny shit
97 pictures taken for a 44 women reshoot
1 damn shoot left till full completion
4 hours spent carousing around Melrose
3 cutie Jewish boys who actually enjoy shopping
1 Canadian shop girl unhappy with her opinion being ignored in favor of mine and only mine
50 dollars spent on divine all-you-can-eat sushi
1 hilarious conversation about being "bad Jews," according to their patriarchal grandfather
7 horrible minutes spent talking to an ex
1 comment that reminded me that not all my exes suck
5 hoteliers bending over backwards to kiss my ass
2 days spent finally doing what I thought I was hired to do
30 blogs written
9 still sitting in draft form, for those days when I have nothing new to bitch about
The Clippers are leading the Memphis Grizzlies 59 to 47 with 31 seconds left in the half.
I love basketball.
Football is too barbaric, hockey is too difficult to comprehend by those of us in the temperate regions, soccer is un-American, and baseball is just plain boring.
Basketball, on the other hand, is poetry in motion.
I grew up watching my brothers play. Even though they both dabbled in other sports in their formative years (my dad was even my older brother's baseball coach), they finally made their names on the b-ball court. They're both over six feet, and quite agile, which means I can't tell you which position they excelled at since they played just about everything (except center, I think).
Though my older brother managed to break both of his arms playing ball, albeit not at the same time. The first time he ran into a wall. The second time he fell backwards. That one happened almost immediately after the first one healed.
64 to 46, Clippers lead! Mobley just made an amazing 3-pointer at the buzzer while flying through the air. Try to convince me that's not awesomeness. Yeah, they've lost their last 7. Shut up. They're poised for a comeback.
So my older brother made some retarded moves, but he was still cool. My little brother managed to bring an entire backboard down on his head. (You can see the scar here.) While playing a pick-up game of at some schoolyard, he went up for the dunk and broke the whole damn thing. It came crashing down on his noggin and he ended up in the emergency room too. He had to wear a white bandage around his brainy parts for about a week, kind of like a turban.
And you wonder why I tease him about looking like a terrorist.
Neither of these stories are to belittle my brothers or the fabulous game of basketball. It's my favorito. But it's half-time and I'm out of wine, so I turn to you people.
And after USC has its way with us on Saturday (lets not pretend otherwise), football will be over and I can root my Bruins on for another championship game. I love March Madness! Maybe this year we can go all the way.
Go Clippers! Go Bruins! Long live basketball!
Tonight, I've been drinking tequila for the better part of an hour...but I had the good sense to cut it with orange juice, so at least it hasn't been 5 shots of pure agave juice. It's shitty mixer tequila anyway, so not like I could drink it straight if I wanted to.
The cat burglar gave it to me. He has good taste, which this is not. So that was a clear indication that he was an asshole.
Anyway, it was one of those days when no matter what went right, one thing toppled my entire fragile Jenga block tower of happiness. I'll let you guess what went wrong:
Things I Love:
- bikini waxes
- late starts to the day
- sex
- cheese
- tequila
Things I Hate:
- grossly inept coworkers
- boredom
- traffic
- drinking alone
- flaky people
Things I Try to Avoid:
- chocolate
- talking to the ex
- bad tequila
- hangovers
- early a.m. meetings
It's kind of like a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Completely correct guesses, and there are a couple (just choose at least one from each list!), will receive one entire year of goodwill from his fellow man, as well as your choice between the following:
- a handful of Pacific beach sand
- drunken GPG French kisses
- a bag of Reese's Pieces
- a postcard size GPG original photograph
Guessing is open to all, even those of you who I've already informed of the shit that became of my day. Because I know you are the ones that will enjoy prize #2 the most. And for that, I'm glad we've been friends for 21 years or more.
Heh, I'm drunk. And apparently whoring myself, and my artwork, out to the savviest reader.
Good luck!
I found out a shocking secret yesterday. I had no idea, and WOW was it disturbing to realize it.
Brace yourselves, this isn't pretty.
Turns out that my boobs are having an affair with my black sports bra. I swear to god, I came home from a five-mile run yesterday with hickeys where the top seam laid across my chest.
This isn't the only sports bra I work out in. I have about 7, so they're in constant rotation. This used to be a decent one, kept them squeezed tight, no bouncing. It's cotton, but hey, nobody's perfect.
And now I have to get rid of it. I can't have it scratching and biting at these precious mounds of flesh while I'm trying to get my run on. Like some feral cat in heat. That's just rude. And painful.
I've got places I have to take these tits, and I can't have them looking like they just had a little hustle down under the covers* with an over-eager, amateur lover.
I don't do those.
So that means I have to wear boring, conservative tops until this heals. Which is okay, I suppose, since it's finally cold out and the boobies need protection from the elements.
It still pisses me off.
*Who doesn't love a little lemon meringue?
I'm praying to the gods of college football that tonight's game was not a precursor of things to come next Saturday when my boys take the field in our home, the infamous Rose Bowl. Because I cannot, and will not, withstand another SC win.
Man, I hate them.
It's not making me feel any better that, while I wait for my evening plans to take shape, I'm reworking my portfolio. The current project being pictures of the alcoholic cat burglar drinking whiskey. Why I wasted the summer putting up with his antics is beyond me. I really am a glutton for punishment.
Though great at capturing people in their element, apparently.
On the positive side, I can conceivably finish my 44 women project tomorrow. And I will reward myself with dinner with this boy.
Goddamn those eyelashes!!
Favorite things about Thanksgiving:
In the real life, not the one you see here, I have a real job. I'm an event planner and that used to mean being involved in large scale, international events, travel to five star hotels, the finest foods, and generally working my ass off for 14 hours a day. But the rewards were pretty fucking sweet.
Nowadays it just means dealing with caterers, and not even the high end kind. I miss spreads of Kobe beef and a bottles of Veuve Clicquot, meals that cost more than my annual salary. But I still do get vendors kissing my ass.
Last week I let one dazzle me with her fancy organic concoctions. She fell within budget, the food was actually tasty, so I ordered it for an event I had later in the week. Great, I love it when there's no thinking involved. I should have been wary that this was too easy.
The food showed up a day early. Their screw up, so they comped us lunch and then brought it fresh again the next day. It's really good food, so I decided to give them another chance and ordered again for a luncheon this week.
Now here's where I have to back up and explain that all my clients are lawyers. Mostly a cranky, high maintanence, litigious sort of group. They take a special kind of velvet glove to handle. Not a problem. I've had to hand-hold CEOs of Fortune 500 companies before, this is cake. Unless something goes wrong, of course.
A perk of the job (besides the constant ass kissing, of course) is the free lunch we get every day there's an event. But I'm usually so busy running around, that I don't get to eat until the program ends. So when I sat down to this meal, I was starving and exhausted, as usual. I was three bites into my fancy turkey wrap, when one of my coworkers suddenly started freaking out. I've always joked that "organic" just means there are bugs in your food, but seriously, there was a dead bug in her food. And not a tiny one either.
Then I found hair in my fruit salad. Two strands of stick-straight black hairs, so you know it wasn't mine that fell in there.
Yeah, I don't think I'll be using that caterer again. The sales rep apologized up and down, did everything short of throwing actual cash money in my face to keep from losing my business, but what can I do? Imagine if one of my lawyers had found that in their food instead of just me and a coworker? That's a liability I simply cannot afford.
No matter how much they kiss my ass.
First it was a rave followed by movie madness. While the popcorn cooked, they banged on their drums and swung their little bodies to the cacophony as I waved a flashlight over their heads. Then we watched The Little Mermaid and laughed and sang along with all the songs.
It was the best rave/movie night ever.
This last time, we played dominos with the Disney Princesses, colored in a book, and threw a baby football around the living room. Then we jumped on the beds and pretended to sleep, giggling the whole time. When I finally got up to leave, the little girl scrambled over to her brother's bed to snuggle with him and his teddy bear, and asked me if I had to take a freeway to get home.
Ghetto Photo Girl: Yeah, I do. In fact, I have to take three.
Little Girl: Wow, that's far!
GPG: Yeah, huh?
LG: Yeah. How come you drive so far?
GPG: Because I love you.
LG: I love you, too!
Precious.
Those are some of the best Saturday nights of my life.
Welcome to my new weekly feature, in which I post a picture I took at some point over the last 11 years of my career.* Because I'm too braindead these days to come up with funny shit for you to read. And I don't want you to think I don't love you.
So here goes:
Northbound on Figueroa St at Wilshire Blvd, downtown Los Angeles.
This is what I’m greeted with every morning on my way in: the sun glaring off the Sanwa Bank Building on the corner of 6th and Fig. At this point I’m less than 5 minutes from my office, so the sun makes use of its last chance to blind me with its rays.
As you can see, it was so intense, it burned a black hole through my phone’s camera lens.
*Hey, I didn't say they'd be GOOD pictures.
“Hey beautiful,” he said smiling, grabbing her as she walked in the door. But he could feel the tension in her body and stopped short. “What is it?”
She tried to let herself enjoy his strong arms around her and let out a sigh. “Lets just have dinner. We can talk later,” she protested weakly.
“No, something is bothering you, what is it?”
She looked up at him, but didn’t take the time to soften the blow. “I’m late.”
He swallowed hard and stared at her. “How late?”
“About 10 days.”
“Have you taken a test?”
“Yeah, two of them. Nothing conclusive. I’m going to the doctor tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
She smiled, and for the first time in a week, relaxed. “No sweetie, I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably just stress. We'll deal with it when we have a real answer, okay?”
They ate dinner and then snuggled in front of the tv. He honored her refusal to discuss it further. But for the rest of the evening, in the back of both their minds lingered the nagging thought: what if...?
***
“So, have you had a significant amount of stress lately?” the doctor asked.
“No more than usual.”
“Well, sometimes these things happen.”
“I’m usually like clockwork,” she countered.
“Try not to worry about it. I’ll give you a call tomorrow after the results come in.”
***
After the doctor called to let her know the tests results were all negative, she hung up feeling relieved. And yet, also an inexplicable, if slight and distant, sense of disappointment. She dismissed it while she called him.
“Hi, honey. Yeah, everything is fine. Just fine...”
***
He brought her flowers. He kissed her head. He stroked her hair and wrapped his arms around her. She imagined she felt safe and happy.
That would not last.
Despite the fact that I was given major kudos from the bosses today, I still had to work late after already cutting down my lunch. And despite being able to ride down the 10 freeway in 5th gear once leaving downtown proper, it still took an hour to get home. Also, I've felt like my body is fighting a losing battle against some nasty little bug for the last few weeks. So you know what that means:
I'm cranky. And for extra shits & giggles, PMSing! Therefore you get these:
Dear Crazy-Ass SUV Driver:
While I admire your balls in driving over an embankment to cross 4 lanes only to hit a the parking lot that was the Vermont Ave exit, you are the very reason it took me 30 minutes to get from 2nd and Fig downtown to the Western Ave exit. Which, according to Yahoo! Maps, is only 4.9 miles away and should have only taken 6 minutes. Clearly, Yahoo! Maps is on crack because it never takes a mere 6 minutes, but you weren't helping the situation.
Your big balls belong to an asshole. Also, you look like a lemur. Bitch.
***
Dear Coworkers Who Lack Any Semblance of Decorum:
It is my honest belief that what you do on your own time is none of my business. But if you’re having an affair with each other, you're not very smart, but again, not my place. However, if you do insist on carrying on like this, at least try to have a little bit of class. Don’t grab each other inappropriately, don’t wrestle in your office, and please please please don’t argue over your personal shit where the rest of us can hear you.
This is especially true if you’re both married. To other people. With children. And we all know it.
I really don't ever want to walk in on your shit again, okay? Thanks!
***
Dear Woman Who Isn't My Mother:
We are not friends. We are never going to be friends. I am indeed friends with my mother, but she birthed me 28.5 years ago so she automatically gets that privilege. You, on the other hand, are a weird, unwelcome, bloated, poor female imitation of Chris Farley who I wouldn't come to for advice about my love life if you were the last hermaphrodite on earth. I don't need your bitterness towards rocker boys clouding my crystal clear judgement. I'm a grown adult and will date--and fuck--whomever I damn well please.
It's sad that you are disgustingly past your prime, but that's not my problem. Don't get in the middle of my shit again. You weren't invited to this party, stop trying to bribe your way in.
***
Dear Middle-American Wannabes,
Los Angeles is closed. We have no more acting/modeling/musician jobs left to offer. Therefore, we have no need for your restaurant services. Please stop clogging up our highway system, overcrowding our vanishing plots of open land, and savagely whoring yourselves out to an industry that doesn't want you anyway.
We've got enough problems with our illegal immigrants, but at least they contribute by getting our produce to market cheaply and on time. So unless you're here to pick tomatoes, get your asses back from whatever hicktown spit you out. Once we clear all you useless jackholes out, then maybe I'll be able to buy a house in my own hometown.
***
Dear Pretentious East Coast Indie Rag,
Don't advertise that "editors and experts" will be on hand to cull genius from the local talent when all you have to offer are bored underaged interns that couldn't care less about the amazing bodies of work being presented to them. A velvet rope and an RV parked in front of an abandoned Hollywood storefront aren't fooling anyone. You're piss poor amateurs, on par with the phonies who ran the obnoxious 6 Degrees Art Festival last summer. I had the unfortunate luck of experiencing that disaster first-hand, and almost lost money on it. Thank god you asshats only cost me 48 minutes of my time.
And if I've mistaken your unpaid interns for the suppposed "editors and experts," then I wouldn't want to be involved with you anyway. It's clear you have no business sense whatsoever.
***
Dear Los Angeles Weather Gods,
In case you didn't get the memo, it is the middle of November. We are deep into what other regions of the country call "fall." I know, that's total gibberish to me too, but the fact is that we should not have mid-70s temps right now. Maybe I'm a little nuts because I've worked by the beach for the last 3 years, and it tends to be a little colder there anyway, but come on. I shouldn't be wearing tank tops and cruising around with the AC on these days!
The weather guys are predicting 83 degrees for tomorrow. These are the same jackasses who told us it was supposed to rain over the weekend, so I'm putting their powers of prognostication on par with Miss Cleo and her minions. Regardless, there is something very wrong with this current situation. Fix it! I'd like to bust out my light cotton sweaters and boots, but I can't do that till you knock the temperature down a good 10 degrees.
I look really good in a sweater, dammit. So stop robbing me of the right to wear one! This isn't Australia!
File this under "shit we already know." Honestly. The New York Times has nothing better than to report a finding that makes everyone reading go "duh?" I mean, isn't that why most people, upon hearing the word "tequila" immediately scrunch their faces up in the recollection of a horrible morning after 18 too many shots?
I hate amateurs.
So, for the rest of us big kids who know how to handle our liquor but sometimes still insist on hitting 7 shots in 2 hours and thus giving ourselves a hangover that lasts 2 days (but damn that was some good shit!), here's a little more "shit we already know" but with a funny twist:
***
Today is my half birthday. I am officially 28 1/2 years old.
I share this not because I'm particularly excited. And we all stopped counting half-birthdays sometime around age 8 anyway. The real reason is that today also marks another special event: in exactly 18 months, I will turn 30.
The Krazy Mommy hates me right now. That's because she's 4 months older than me, so in 2 months she'll be 29. She also hates that I just shared that with you. But the fact is she's already accomplished far more than I'm ever going to. Like having a passport, going to Jamaica, and what else? Oh yeah, baby making. Okay, I might do the first two, but hopefully not the third.
My original plan for this post was to list a bunch of things I want to do before hitting the big 3-0. Unlike this girl, I've already knocked that out of the park, and with gusto! But while compiling said list (and you know how I love the lists), I realized there isn't a lot I'm readily bursting to do. I used to have big plans, but somewhere along the way I lost my sense of adventure and my naïve belief that anything was possible.
And that makes me sad.
So in an effort to overcome the doldrums of being 28.5, here's the starter list for things to do before I turn 30:
It's short, and some of these things are already on the books for getting done before the end of this year, but it's a good road map for the next 18 months. I'm sure there are an assload of things I'm forgetting. But that's why the internets exist: so I can post about it tomorrow!
But today, no. Today we celebrate--with margaritas!
Earlier this week, I gave you a glimpse into my afternoon fun time with the Princess. It really is the best way to pass that last hour before The Man releases you out to play. I highly recommend getting your own Princess. No, you can't have mine. Because who else would I have this conversation with?
Ghetto Photo Girl: i need something to drink
GPG: like tequila
GPG: not that i need to drown my sorrows, it just sounds really good
Princess: yeah that does sound good
GPG: i forgot that i took all the margarita mix to your house last time
GPG: i was actually thinking of making myself one last night
P: Oh that sucks
P: I'm sorry
GPG: it's okay
GPG: i never crave one
GPG: must be pregnant
P: yeah
P: and when are you due hehehehe
GPG: um, 9 months from now
P: sweet
P: and what do you want a boy or a girl
GPG: i'd like a 3-headed monster, please
P: can we name it charlie
GPG: charlie, the 3-headed rat child
GPG: i'll give it to the circus
GPG: not rat, cat
GPG: charlie, the 3-headed cat burglar love child
P: He can play with buzby if you keep him
GPG: won't buzby be dead by then? seeing as how he's aging into oblivion?
P: nah, he's lasted this long
P: he might be crazy though
GPG: which is fine
GPG: the rat-cat love child with 3 heads won't mind
Things I Want:
Things I Miss:
Things I’m Loving:
Things I’m Looking Forward To:
