• abusing the borrowed V6 engine to make it to work in 30 minutes (instead of 45)
  • having a hotel adjust to a sudden 100 extra seats in an already overcrowded luncheon...2 hours before go-time
  • said luncheon going off without a hitch
  • 100 senior judicial officers falling in line and liking it
  • a US Marshal daring me to touch his gun
  • having a 9-member team making you look like a fucking rock star to a group of 350 of the top litigators in all of California
  • receiving repeated thanks for pulling off the "best program in 10 years"
  • spending the rest of the afternoon doing not a fucking thing
  • leaving the office at 6 pm
  • turning the tables and treating my older brother to the perks of the job
  • having said brother view you not as his younger sister, but as an adult and a damn good negotiator in a room full of hoteliers
  • getting another hotel to agree to a budget way below their typical minimums
  • enjoying a basketball game from a 50-person skybox at Staples Center, replete with free drinks and dinner
  • running into a childhood friend in said luxury suite
  • the Clippers winning 96 to 91 over Seattle
  • being able to stand upright, without your back protesting like a bratty child
An entire month of sleepless nights, 60-hour weeks, weekends completely subjugated to professional deadlines, and stress so bad it wrecked my body finally coalesced into a very, very, VERY good day.

You'll excuse my immodesty. Because I worked too damn hard to make today happen. Today, when it was a pleasure, a privilege, and an outstanding feeling to be me.

I kick ass. And now everyone knows it.


Sense Memory

I don’t know what it was about my coffee this morning that suddenly and vividly reminded me of the Cat Burglar. And that night that he took me out for a birthday dinner.

When I arrived, he was sitting at the bar trying to order a martini. The gift bag next to him, saving my seat, held two bottles of high-end tequila.

He stood up to kiss me, perplexed that they couldn’t make his martini properly. Why can’t bartenders read our minds?

Tequila fueled our conversation that night. Like every other, it was a battle of wits designed to keep me on my toes. Always an enticing challenge.

Later he took me back to his house and introduced me to San Matias. He drank it straight from the bottle, like the savage he really was under those nice suits and Midwestern charm. The passing flirtation with both him and tequila exploded into a full affliction some time around midnight. He was very late--and very hungover--the next morning when he was supposed to meet with Very Important People. There was probably a mark or two under his suit too.

Too bad our delicious tête-à-têtes eventually
devolved into angry encounters that left me battered and bruised on the outside and hostile and enraged on the inside. And I should have seen it coming.

That night last spring held so much promise. Now memories of him rest only half-dead in GPG Jail, while I sip my coffee and wonder how the toxic nectar led me to unlock that cell and replay those events in my head.

Fucking coffee.


Lecherous Old Men

Continuing on with the saga of my increasingly heaving bosom and the trouble it gets me into:

I know. It's totally my fault that I have boobies. It's also totally my fault for dressing them in a lime green cardigan that didn't hide the fact that I'm a woman.

So how could I not blame myself when a client old enough to be my grandfather spent the better part of an hour paying more attention to them than the words coming out of my mouth? He wasn't even smooth about it. He'd start to talk and suddenly his complete attention was somewhere south of my neck. And there it stayed until I would clear my throat.


And again.

If you know anything it's that I loooooooove my breastseses. They're my favorite. I've given them their own label. And every once in a while I'll go as far as putting them on parade. But in the middle of the work day? During a meeting with brand new clients? Not so much putting the boobs out for a look-see.

Did I mention each and every single one of my clients is a
lawyer? Yeah...

I once wore this exact same outfit when out to dinner with a certain man. Who is by far more obsessed with my tatas than me. (I think I've convinced him he has to be at my birthday party just by promising him he can touch them.) And even he managed to talk to my face. Sure he was probably talking about the cleavage, but he had the decency to address me like another human being. Not a piece of meat.

I honestly cannot remember the last time this happened to me. In fact, I may have lived my entire adult life in oblivion but I don't think I've ever had a grown man ogle me so artlessly. At least not one I wasn't purposely flirting with.

And the grandfatherly lawyer in question? Not flirting. No way. No how.



Maybe It Is a Baby

I've spent the weekend feeling pregnant.

Don't worry, I'm pretty damn sure I'm not. But fuck me, this sucks.

My back is fully wrecked. It's the psychosomatic extension of the leg bullshit brought on by the stress that caused the Great Freakout of 2007. So between the busted leg and the back spasm, I've been walking really funny-like.

It reminds me of how pregnant women waddle. I have to be very careful when I sit and stand too. Plus I wore one of those baby doll shirts to work on Saturday that made me look preggers anyway.

Or, I might be turning into a penguin! Which are totally cool these days, after those happy feet and marching movies. Plus they live upside down, more so than even the Australians. Penguins are pretty rad.

But my boobs are feeling rather full these days too. And I don't think penguins have boobies. Right?

Oh damn. This also totally explains the story I'll be telling you tomorrow.


It Only Took 5 Months

A break from the regularly scheduled break because the most bizarre thing happened to me yesterday:

I completely and totally LOST. MY. SHIT at work. Lost it. Gone. The 14-hour work days and nonstop demands of my clients finally just broke me. I started screaming at my computer like a fucking banshee. People were backing out of my office afraid to move too quickly lest I unleash my unholy rage on them.

The clients, however, got exactly what they wanted and couldn't have been happier. Because that's what I do.

My boss then promptly offered me a promotion.



Time for a Break

I've finally hit rock bottom. 42 hours of overtime have almost killed me dead. And you know how that saying goes: something's got to give.

Guess what that something is. That's right, the pinky-pink Exxy blog.

I know, I suck. And I'm sorry.

And I have stories too! About a certain brown-eyed man, about the girl-crush stalker, about tequila, about a trillion and one other inconsequential things. But if you want to work my 42 hours of overtime next week instead of me, please feel free. I'd rather be poor and well-rested than just semi-poor and ulcerated.

I'll be back before you know it. You won't even realize I'm gone.

In the meantime, scan the labels/archives and tell me what you want to read about more often.

Pools of Chocolate

I love me a pair of dark brown eyes.

Blue eyes freak me out. They don't look real, but cold. And emotionless. Like robots.

Jack has blue eyes that are pretty, but he's the exception to the rule.

Brown eyes, on the other hand, are eyes I can fall into. Trustworthy, kind, deep, warm.

Kind of like a good hug. In a tall, dark, and handsome package. Mmm.



I've had a massive headache for the better part of the last few hours.

I haven't eaten much beyond tzatziki today, so I finally made dinner. Which I enjoyed with a nicely chilled glass of San Matias.

I still have a massive headache, but damn that tequila was goooood.


This question is for the boys:

How do you get rid of a girl that keeps calling you to go out?

I have a...how do I put this delicately? Someone has a girl-crush on me and I don't quite know how to deal with it beyond ignoring her calls and text messages. And hiding at home on a Saturday night.



Photoblogging Friday 2.16.07

Two years ago, when I first started shooting my 44 Women project, the Cat-roo-key and I spent a whirlwind of a weekend traveling just so I could keep my project "authentic.' In three days we hit Reno, Seattle and San Francisco.

It was quite an adventure.

Even though we only spent 5 hours in Seattle, we still managed to come away with a lifetime's worth of stories. And nipple rings. But also this picture from somewhere in the Pike Place Market:

Out the window

Hello, little people.

Until sometime today, I had completely forgotten about this picture. I like it, but I don't know why exactly.

Maybe somebody can explain it to me.


The Dream is Over

You'd think I'd learn.

You would think that after 10 months of stress fractures, muscle spasms, lost toenails, butchered feet, bursitis, and ODing on Advil, that I would finally get it. But all of that was supposed to just be par for the course. All I wanted to do was run a marathon.

And I
did. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. And the whole blasted last hour of it, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the hell I was doing to myself. Or why. And once it was all said and done, there was no sense of accomplishment, triumph or fulfillment. There was only pure exhaustion.

And then there was pain. It's been 11 days and I still can't walk properly. I'm seriously afraid my left leg is going to fall off. Sure, you'll see me walking and think nothing is wrong, but you don't feel the stabbing pain from the knee down. You also don't see the swollen feet that just barely shrank down enough to wear normal shoes. And you definitely don't see me silently cursing this whole damn experience straight to hell.

Last week the doctor ordered me off my feet, so I drank tequila to drown the pain instead. It didn't work. I missed a half-marathon run I was actually looking forward to. I'm a masochist that way. I do actually like running.

I've been through the gamut. And now my stress level has the beginnings of an ulcer working away at my stomach lining. So I know that the leg problem is partially a psychosomatic extension of that. But it still hurts like a motherfucking bitch. Almost as bad as
last June, when I could barely make it up the stairs.

So I made a decision. I'm finally listening to everyone who told me to just stop running. I'm giving in to the self-doubt, the pain, the work schedule that won't allow me the courtesy of recuperation because time stops for no lawyer, and I'm throwing in the towel.

At least I wasn't doing this for anyone but myself. I wasn't trying to impress any of you, or win an award. I sure as hell don't run fast enough to have garnered myself a medal. But after two half-marathons, and one full unsanctioned one, the last hurdle was just to get up early on March 4th and hit that finish line sometime within 7 hours.

But I will not be crossing that life goal off the list this year. Instead of racing across the streets of Los Angeles in the 22nd annual marathon, I will be sleeping. And weeping. Because my body punked out on me and I just can't do it.

And for that, I hate myself a little bit.


Show Your Love

I love Valentine's Day. I really do. What the anti-V day cynics fail to realize is that there are a million different types of love. It's not just about the romantic and it's not just about the one day.

But just like Xmas isn't the only time we should look out for our fellow man, it does tend to culminate into one huge annual celebration anyway. And thus, V-day does too.

And because it's been a while since the Queen of Lists (tm
Jeen Yes) made one, here's a list of things I love (in no real order):

- My girls. Unequivocally, no one is better than my 3 girlfriends who are never backstabby, jealous, or insecure. Real women is what they are.

- My boobies. They're truly awesome. No lie.

- A double shot of chilled añejo. No salt, no lime, no window dressing bullshit. Just cold, gold and nummy.

- The Boys. If only because musicians always get me in the right-there place. They're walking entertainment. And pretty to look at.

- Especially the curly haired boy, who has willed me his "Rock & Roll Saves Lives" t-shirt. Now that's love.

- La familia. They're the bestest. Like the little girls who want to be just like me. I'm building an army of
Mexirican Mini GPGs. And we're going to take over the world.

- Los Angeles. For all its many faults, it is home. And has my heart. All over its twisty canyon roads.

- In the same vein, Mulholland Drive. Especially at night, with the city glittering below. There is no better view than from the top of those foothills. It's another world onto itself.

- Weekends in the Mojave
ghost towns . The rich history of the place is almost tangible. I should really get out there sometime this spring.

- The color red. Everywhere. Like lipstick. And shoes.

- Kissing. With the right set of lips, it's magical. Especially that first kiss. Full of anticipation and potential. I get weak in the knees just thinking about it.

- Oh, and flirting! It's a sport. All it takes is a smile. And it's game on.

- Being a total girl. There's just no other way to be.

- The fact that you all continue to read this, day in and day out. You realize you're just feeding my already grossly overinflated megalomania, right?

Super Boobie Power

What started as a conversation about my vanity (because I just noticed wrinkles around my eyes today and am feeling fucking old!), led to a followup to yesterday's boobie talk.

Because if there's one thing we girls love, it's our tits:

Krazy Mommy: Just as long as you don't get old in the boobs. If Bush doesn't get out of Iraq soon we may need your missile deflecting boobs to protect us!

Princess: Well I hope that I get some compensation for that one. Geez I don’t want them blown off, then what the hell is going to protect us?

KM: I think you are well compensated. We give them plenty of attention, sometimes a little touchy feely and sometimes they even get dessert! Hehe

P: Yeah yeah, it’s all fine and good but that all ends the minute they get blown up!

KM: Thats ok. Dr. 90210 can make you more, maybe he'll throw in a free amplification shot.

La Ria: To be on the safe side, just like you would keep a spare tire in your trunk, we would need to make sure we have a spare boob set. Any volunteers?

KM: Mine are too deflated. Sorry, 3 kids sucked the life out of them.

GPG: Mine are not nearly as big as the Princess', but I'll offer mine up in case hers are injured in the line of duty.

KM: Does that mean we have to give them lots of attention too, so they will be ready to go if needed?

LR: GPG, you're a real patriot.

I totally am.


Overheard at Jerry's Deli

Princess: When they asked if I'd been in the Air Force during 9/11, I said yeah. So they said thanks for protecting our country.

GPG: By living in the sand.

Princess: Yeah. But I did get shot at!

Krazy Mommy: Her boobs protected the plane! They deflected the missle.

GPG: That's your superpower: boobie bullet deflection.

So the Princess protects us against terrorism by having gianormous mammaries. Awesome. My superpower is that even though I have a maniacal giggle, I'm cute and everyone naturally loves me.

Which makes it very easy to manipulate the masses to do my bidding.

*evil laugh*

What's your superpower?

G-spot Amplification?

I was flipping channels this morning, when I came across "Doctor 90210" and the first story was about a woman getting the G-shot.

Women are now injecting collagen into their vaginas to enhance their orgasms.

Injecting collagen. Into the vagina. To enhance orgasms.


I don't know what's worse, that or needing to get punched in the face to orgasm.

I probably should just start going to church on Sunday mornings, instead of watching mindless tv. Or I should just go to work.


Photoblogging Friday 2.9.07

This one's for the ladies. One of my favorite boys:

"Rockstars Save Lives"

Magical. Like a unicorn. And all the more precious because I cannot, for the life of me, find the film from this shoot. That's what we photographers call B-A-D. This picture, however, mmmm good.

L'sigh. For reasons more than one.


In a completely unrelated note, it's a another blogger's (and sometime filmmaker's) birthday. Go run over to his blog all at once and tell him how fabulous he is. Only because it's true.

Happy birthday, Mr. Wood.


1 is Not the Loneliest Number

Maybe it's because Valentine's Day is around the corner, or maybe the right-wing is stepping up its war against gay marriage, but Match.com is advertising up a storm. What with their 30 second spots that just show an attractive person laughing. Done in black & white because that's edgy. "You want to see who's on Match.com. Take a peek!"

Yeah, whatever.

Now they're spamming my inbox, telling me I don't have to run alone. They've partnered up with Active.com, through which I have all my marathoning info, to help me find a running mate. And by mate, I mean one with a penis who will also fill my belly with babies.

How sweet. Unfortunately for them, I don't mind being single and I sure as hell would hate having a belly full of babies. I'd have to stab myself repeatedly in the abdomenal region. Which would leave me bleedy and probably dead.

Despite my usual cynicism, I'm one of those weird people that likes V-day (I liked high school too. I'm TOTALLY weird, I know). Remember how you used to exchange those cutesy cards in grade school? That was so much fun. And since I cherish my childhood memories, I tap into that carefree joy that came from receiving those stupid cards. And the candy!

I love candy.

A certain man once gave me the coolest birthday present ever: a big red lollipop. No one else could get away with that. But it was an inside joke born out of rememberances of 2nd grade Valentine's Day parties. And also my love for big red lollies.

Everyone, single or otherwise, should celebrate by exchanging kiddie cards and red candy. Because it's silly and keeps us young.

Also, ignore Match.com and their ridiculous agenda. Otherwise, the terrorists AND Republicans win.



A Tale of Two Meats

No, this post isn't about sex (ha). But it's also not going to be appreciated by my non-cow eating readership. My apologies to Roonie et al.

For breakfast, I scarfed down a McDonald's sausage biscuit with cheese (no egg, eww) before rushing out the door to a meeting. For lunch, I was treated to Lawry's prime rib. Before rushing out to yet another meeting.

Opposite ends of the meat quality spectrum. Opposite ends of the culinary taste scale. But when you're starving, food is food. As I was on both occasions.

As such, I honestly can't tell you which one tasted better. They were both so. Damn. Good.

I love meat. Mmm, meat.

Danger on the Horizon

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time you have learned two things:

1. I have curly hair, and

2. I'm an absolutely unapologetic and thoroughly spoiled brat when it comes to my birthday (the KM and Princess will tell you stories).

Given that, the planning for said curly-haired birthday celebrations starts as early in the year as possible. Because the date of my birth was monumentous and must be observed with all the reverence such an event commands.

That, and I really just love parties. Especially in my honor.

Everyone knows this. The girls keep the countdown starting about a month out.

May 10th. It's a blessed day.

But in 2007, for the first time in 29 years, we might run into some trouble. Because of the newly employed torture device known as the minimum 50-hour/7-day work week, there may not be enough hours in the day, much less a month, to do this event justice.

You might question why I worry about these things when the date is over 4 months away. Well, a glimpse into the first two weeks of May might give you some insight.

In my personal life, we will be celebrating my mother's birthday, my nephew's birthday, my cousin's birthday AND Mother's day in the first 14 days. Also in that time span, I will be hosting a large-scale function for the local tax lawyers, responsible for a weekend conference in San Diego, a ceremony honoring a federal judge's lifetime achievement, and quite possibly working a program at the Biltmore Hotel on the very holiest of nights: my actual birthday.

Attendance for all these programs number in the hundreds.

The latter half of May will be spent sweating over more award functions and dinners for the state Supreme Court. If and when I finally get a break, will I even have the energy to celebrate?

This is a gianormous dilemma. Where is my clone when I need her?


Overheard at Starbucks

Girl #1: They met in AA. And they've been sober for over 15 years.

Girl #2: Wow, really?

Girl #1: Yeah, can you believe that?

Girl #2: That's a long time to go without a drink...hey! Maybe we should pose as alcoholics, go to an AA meeting, and meet boys!

Girl #1: Yeah, maybe I can meet my husband!

Girl #2: There are meetings right around the corner from my house!

Girl #1: I'm sure we wouldn't be the only ones pretending either.

Girl #2: Uh...on second thought, I already dated two alcoholics last year. Maybe I don't want to go messing with them again.

Girl #1: Oh right.

Girl #2: Plus, I like drinking. And you can't drink with alcoholics.

Girl #1: Yeah. They're no fun.


26.2 Miles

Did it. This morning.

A realization of a dare I gave myself 5 years ago, decided to finally act on 10 months ago, and now can die knowing I accomplished it. But to be frank, I don't know why the fuck I got a bug up my ass to do this in the first place. It was so. Damn. Hard.

But I did it. I really did. For practice. The real one is in a month.

And after that, I think I'll be done. Yeah.

The good news is: I can still walk. I'm not broken anymore!


Photoblogging Friday 2.2.07

Here's a twist on the old standby. This picture, my latest from the first shoot of 2007 and quite possibly the best picture I've ever taken, has no name. I'm quite partial to single word titles, or even very short phrases, that fully capture the emotion of the piece.

With this, however, I'm at a total loss. As such, I need your help.

Mini GPGUntitled (G-brat with Leaves #79)

I refuse to leave a piece untitled. So I'm opening this up to suggestions. This picture will most likely be one of only two submitted for consideration to the Los Angeles Artist Association, the preeminent artistic organization in this here city, so I'm serious about this.

Please let me know what you think I should call it. I would greatly appreciate it.

Muchas gracias. Happy Friday.