November by the Numbers

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


Driving to the Hole

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!


Drowning the Sorrow

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!


Boobies on the Run

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?


Heartbreak on a Saturday Night

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!!


Photoblogging Friday 11.24.06

My nephew, Easter 2005

Eyelashes like that should be illegal.


The Empress Has No Clothes

Favorite things about Thanksgiving:

  • Eating like a pig with no consequence beyond a food coma
  • Drunken Balderdash with the family
  • A certain man (and Sandra’s favorite) returns for his annual visit
  • Most of my friends are also off, meaning 4 consecutive party nights!
  • And also 4 consecutive days of sleeping in
So, I’ve got a great weekend before me: socializing all night, sleeping all day. These are the very best kind of weekends. The boobies go out on parade, the whore paint goes on with pizzazz, the chill night air crackles with excitement, the next day doesn’t start until 2 pm. Usually I look muchly forward to this.

Except this weekend, I have nothing to wear.

Don’t get me wrong. I have plenty of sexy clothes in the closet. And in storage. In space bags. Under my bed. Lack of available clothing has nothing to do with it. The problem is that I’m bored with it. All of it. And clothing ennui means that no amount of strategically naked skin will make you feel flirty. It’ll just make you feel blah. And blah is not how I want to spend my vacation.

This means I have to break my year-end resolution to stop buying clothes and go shopping. I have to. My boobies deserve it. They’ve been locked up behind sensible clothing for much too long.

Time to let the girls breathe. I feel tingly just thinking about it!

With a Side of Ick, Please

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.


Weekends in the Life of a Social Butterfly

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!


Those are some of the best Saturday nights of my life.


Photoblogging Friday 11.17

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.


Passing the Test

“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.


Dear John Letters #6

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!


Ode to Alcohol

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:


In other news, a big fat congratulations to my one and only Cat-roo-key. This rarest of animals--who doesn't even drink, but I still love him muchly--just scored himself his own Job of a Lifetime. I'm so happy for you, honey. And I'm looking forward to you buying me lunch on a regular basis!



The Countdown Starts Today

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:

  • Get a passport
  • Run a marathon, possibly 2 or 3
  • Bungee jump
  • Be published in another magazine, hopefully one less niche-y
  • Pay off a significant portion of my non-school loan debt, like 50% (which was actually this year's resolution, but oh well)
  • Be publicly referred to as "notorious" for good reason
  • Enslave a Greek man
  • Make him peel grapes and feed them to me while I lounge
  • Make good on our promise to each other on taking a girls weekend away
  • Laser off the Brazilian forest
  • Laser back my vision
  • Travel the "country" with nothing but my camera and American Express card (where "country" means some non-destination locale, like Spain)
  • Travel Tequila and enjoy its fruits
  • Make out under the pier while the sun sets over Malibu
  • Trace my family lineage back to the Aztecs, and France too probably
  • Learn ballet
  • Find a salsa partner
  • Mentor a young, aspiring photographer
  • Love my life again, like I used to a year ago

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!


More Coffee Break Fun

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


The Semi-Illustrated GPG Lists

Things I Want:

  • To not have to wait two months before seeing my girlfriends again
  • A full night of sleep from which I wake up refreshed, not still tired
  • A truly good slice of pizza
  • Nunchukas
  • A teeny little point & shoot that weighs nothing but has a huge screen and manual override. And it can just be 4 megapixels, dammit.
  • More San Matias tequila
  • Either the EF 24-105mm f4L IS or the new 70-200mm f4 L IS…damn those are sweet
  • A massage

Things I Miss:

  • Nights like this, followed by craziness like this (drunken boys are funny)
  • Stolen chicken breasts
  • Fighting over pizza toppings in my kitchen
  • The Boys
  • Not having to schedule a monthly brunch just to see my girlfriends
  • Watching football with my 2 year old niece…who is now five
  • My long hair

Things I’m Loving:

  • Turbo kickboxing
  • Still passing for under 25
  • Having boobies! (photo courtesy of another drunken night)
  • Little girls who tell their brothers “you have a penis, I’m sorry, don’t cry”
  • Marathoning (yours truly is somewhere down there, I think)
  • Reliving the last 6 years by uploading these pictures

Things I’m Looking Forward To:

  • Friday night margaritas
  • Resuming our regularly scheduled poker nights
  • Thanksgiving, with all its tangential partying
  • Finishing this damn project
  • Stealing the Foreigner’s soul


Why Basketball is Better than Football

Saturday night, after watching UCLA lose and USC win (bastards) and then drinking tequila, I switched over to watch the Los Angeles Clippers putting the hurt on the Phoenix Suns. There were 11.6 seconds left, the score was 116 to 106, Clippers leading.

If this had been a football game and there were just under 12 seconds left on the clock, the guys would have taken off their helmets and farted around the field for a few, then walked off before the time even ran out.

But not in basketball. Here they actually run around the court actively trying to overcome a 10 point deficit in 11 seconds.

Also, there's no reaching between another guy's legs and pretending that's okay. Plus, ballers have nicer muscles than football players.

And unlike the damn Raiders (I am Mexican, after all), the Clippers actually know how to win. Seriously, how many times can you let them sack your damn quarterback?

I'm really glad basketball is back. And after the Bruins give it up on December 2nd (lets not pretend we're gonna win that game), we can move on to rooting for the basketball team. We're not letting Florida take it
again this year!

Confidential to Bruin Alumni and welcomed guests: Speaking of The Big Game, we're gathering at my parents' house this year for the 2nd Annual Napkin Dispensation. No Trojans allowed! Anyone appearing in the slightest shade of hateful crimson will be shot on sight and left to be eaten by vultures and marauding bands of rabid cannibal babies (yes, that does include my traitor brother). And then you can all come watch me run around Griffith Park the next morning. Go Bruins!


Instead of a Coffee Break

This is how the Princess amuses me during the day, over Instant Messenger:

Princess: and there is nowhere here you can really go by yourself.

Me: you can take your imaginary friend

Princess: Well bubzy doesn't deal well in public places

Me: leave it to you to have an agoraphobic imaginary friend

Princess: Yeah

Princess: I think it's his alzheimers though. he's getting on in age.

Princess: Imaginary friends age faster than real ones

Me: was he a butler?

Princess: nah

Me: because buzby is kind of a butler-y name

Princess: He's a computer geek

Me: who has alzheimer's? that explains so much about you

She's absolutely crazy and that's why I love her. She's also currently compiling a list of really funny shit. Go add to it!


In other news, Happy Birthday to my lovely C-dub!! She's almost legal now!!

And The Winner Is...


No one could figure out that I never lived in New York, don't like Lord of the Rings, and would never go back to a Tijuana strip club. Ick.

And I gave y'all the cheese website.

I was indeed in the business of Sex Ed (back in college), do really like both Numb3rs and Top Chef, grew up in the 'burbs, Entre Las Piernas is one of my favorite Spanish movies (says so right in my profile, kiddies), do actually enjoy running (otherwise I wouldn't be training for another half!) and I could pretty much live on hummus for the rest of my life.

JTS was the closest with 3 correct guesses, but almost doesn't count. And it's kind of comforting that even though I publish some of my craziest thoughts on a near-daily basis, nobody really knows me at all. Yay for internet anonymity!

Prizes will be recycled in a future game.



Dr. Danger tagged me. The rules of the internets demand that I comply, which I would have done anyway because Sandra is supa-dupa cool.

Therefore, somethings which may or may not be true about me:

1. Four jobs I have had in my life
- record company intern
- sex education assistant
- corporate whore
- knife-wielding sales girl

2. Four movies I would watch over and over again
- Singles
- Entre las Piernas
- Lord of the Rings
- Reality Bites

3. Four places I have lived
- Los Angeles
- New York
- Philadelphia
- the 'burbs

4. Four TV shows I love to watch
- Numb3rs

- Weeds
- Top Chef
- The Closer

5. Four places I have visited
- Pico Union

- Leo Carillo
- Mazatlan
- a Tijuana strip club

6. Four websites I visit daily
- sigalert.com
- cnn.com
- my.yahoo.com
- cheesesandwhich.com

7. Four places I would like to be right now
- my bed
- Tijuana strip club
- running somewhere
- in a bubble bath

8. Four of my favourite foods
- hummus
- Jack in the Box tacos
- sushi
- mom's empanadas

9. Four bloggers I would like to respond
- H. Wood
- Mr. Jack
- The Princess
- Skookum Joe

4 of the above answers were flat out lies, but 28 were honest to goodness truthness. See if you can guess where I fibbed.

Prizes will abound!


October by the Numbers

I'm staring at my calendar and am amazed by how few days I actually had "off" this month. Meaning, I had no plans other than coming home and vegging. What a fucking luxury. My plan for November is to have more of those days.

Unless, you know, something comes up.

And now, in honor of JTS and his love of these things, I give you the last month of mi vida loca:

31 gainfully employed days
990 minutes spent in traffic getting to employer’s location
28-second speech given at Toastmaster luncheon
23 relatives in Malibu
3 day family reunion
13.1 miles ran one Sunday morning
3.33 hours to completion
13-day running vacation
60 minutes wasted listening to Hollywood wannabes talk about their bullshit
75 minutes enjoyed making fun of said wannabes, metro-sexuals, Paris Hilton, and other pop culture nonsense, all while being waited on by not-Christian Bale
2 meals spent with my favorite rocker boy & co.
2 Jews + 1 Puerto Rican =
8 billion watts of hilarity
1 negligible fender-bender-like incident
0 dollars for bogus injury claim
7 pairs of shoes bought
2 pairs returned
32 hours in San Francisco
155 pictures shot of C-dub and various naked people
2 pictures shot of her and le fiancé
2 lovely hours drinking with Jack
3 shots of tequila
1 shot of Bushmills, my new favorite Irish whiskey
3 French fried meals in one day
4 Halloween celebrations
2.5 hours spent stuck in a car having the most
fascinating conversations
2 hours spent at the not-so-fabulous WeHo Parade
83 billion drag queens
1 new platonic boyfriend who is the greatest sport for all the crazy things I ask him to do with me
22 blogs posted