Best line heard all weekend:
Greg Germann in Speed-the-Plow: You're a bought-and-paid-for whore and you think you're a ballerina because you work with your legs!
This, to Jon Tenney. Who I adore. I would have his babies.
And you know how I feel about celebrities. Except George Clooney. And now, Jon Tenney.
Mmmm.
Most every Sunday, we gather around our parents' dining room table for a family dinner. Usually there's a Puerto Rican meal on the table. And wine. After a few glasses, we get a little loopy:
GPG: Where's the salsa?
Mom: No hay [we don't have any].
GPG: ¿Como que no hay? [what do you mean we don't have any???]
Dad: Your mother forgot how to be a Mexican.
***
Mom: I'm going to Peru.
GPG: ¿Cuando?
Mom: I don't know. I just want to go.
Dad: Probably after I die.
GPG: Dad, that's horrible! You should go together.
Dad: You know they built a railroad up to the top of Macho Pico...Mashoo...
Mom: Mocho...
GPG: Machu Picchu.
Dad: Mucho Pishu
Baby Brother: Mucho Pussy?
There was a time talking like that at the dinner table got us grounded. Now, it's hilarity. Go figure.
Did you come here expecting another picture for your Friday? You're shit out of luck because I didn't feel like looking for one. Instead, a recap of what has been the craziest month of the year thus far:
4 weeks of abject stress, tension and worry
24 days in pain thanks to that
1 ex-Marine good for relieving the pressure
3 blissful days on holiday
26.2 miles in less than seven hours
2 days eating EVERYTHING in sight to make up for that
12 days of recuperation
5 pounds gained
215 hours spent in the office
1 quazillion dollars in overtime
3 hours of Girl Time spent avoiding the water at Jerry's
7 dollars for a damn good Sunday morning breakfast
100 dollars on tequila and scotch in Los Feliz
2 Saturdays spent avoiding the clueless Girl Stalker
1 entire Saturday afternoon hopping from one movie theater to another
4 weekends in a row with at least one of The Girls
2 sets of boobies ready to protect us
90 minutes of the most horribly self-indulgent production of crap that passes for live theater in LA
15 minute intermission
7 minutes on a perfectly timed phone call from a certain man
2 girls exponentially better off for that
1 evening with the indomitable Rodger Jacobs
30 minutes from downtown to Van Nuys in rush hour traffic
3 day blogging vacation that effectively screwed up my sense of time and chronology
450 legal eagles observing the State of the Courts
3 hours that made my career
4 hours celebrating with basketball, whisky, and a new contract
Is:
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.
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.
Again.
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.
Ick.
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.
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.
Yay.
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.
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.
Help!
Hello, little people.
