I Love Presents

At long last, the invites have gone out and now it's just a mere few days until the best day of the year: May 10th. The best thing about birthdays? Aside from the royal treatment, that is? Gifts!!

I am very lucky to have friends who a) listen to me, and b) have really good taste. They know what I like and they get me what I want. Also, they read these warnings and are afraid of being cast into GPG Jail.

I'd rather be loved that feared, but fear is good too.

Okay, I kid. Presents aren't imperative. But they're really great to get!

Some things I've received over the years I've truly treasured. Not necessarily for the object itself, but more for what they represented: an inside joke, affection for my latent tomboy predilictions, encouragement of my beloved vices, or just plain proof that my friends read my blogs.

In no particular order, here were my favorites:

- black Louisville slugger, kids size (24th birthday, from a guy who proposed)
- red lollipop (same birthday, from a certain man who I love)
- Lite Brite (Xmas 2005, from Krazy Mommy)
- 20D (Xmas 2004, from Dad)
- iPod nano (28th birthday, from the family)
- a tequila obsession (28th birthday, from a cat burglar)
- completely drunken happy birthday sung to my voicemail by my own private rock star (23rd birthday, a certain man again)
- poker set (Xmas 2005, from Dad in an engraved case)
- Scrabble deluxe edition (Xmas 2002, the Scrabble partner)
- a jar of maraschino cherries (2001 housewarming gift, the new roommate)
- an "I love you" from the stage, in the middle of a live show (2003, the pretend boyfriend)

Nobody has given me that Greek manservant yet, but I remain optimistic. And I know for a fact that a I'm in for the long sought-after vintage Etch-a-Sketch this year, so that's much to look forward to.

It's going to be a fabulous birthday. I can just feel it.

Confidential to someone who deserves a good spanking: Happy birthday, my cheeky monkey! Did you bring me a t-shirt from Coachella?

Photoblogging Friday 4.27.07

While sifting through piles of pictures looking for evidence of previous years' birthday debauchery to use against The Girls, I happened upon shots I took at the WeHo Halloween parade in 2004:

Don't look it in the eyes!

Even the man staring at the he/she is frightened. And completely revolted.

This walking monstrosity had the nerve to hit on my brother. Who was dressed as a bus driver. He was getting cruised left and right that night, which was quite hysterical.

For me and his girlfriend. We contemplated pimping him out to the gay boys, but then realized we liked him straight.

I'll wait a little longer to post the incriminating shots from my drunken birthday parties. I know they still haven't bought me my presents yet, and I don't want to jinx it.

I'm a total brat.

New Wrinkles in the Brains

I've decided that I want to learn something new every day. Today, I picked up a bunch of knowledge. Such as:

- Waking up at 4 am does not mean you will go running at 5 am
- Or at 6 am
- But you will be starving by 6:30 am
- 7-11 does not sell salad dressing
- Neither does Rite-Aid
- But you can pick it up at Ralphs
- And you can also pick up men with freckles while standing in the cashier line
- It's probably not best to flirt with men who are only buying ramen
- Even if he started it
- Windows has a great view
- The view is not worth bad steak
- Medium well apparently means "burnt to a crisp"
- Having bad steak will not stem your craving for meat
- You should have ordered the ahi tuna
- When you realize it's 7 pm and you swear you'll leave by 8 pm, you aren't leaving until 9:30
- Even if you don't get home from work until 10 pm, you're still going to fucking blog

I'm retarded.

What did you learn today?

I'm in Charge

There's a class at the Wharton School, taught right there in Steinberg Dietrich, that is called Management 100. Rest assured, this class isn't worth shit in the California state school system. Except for elective credit. But as an undergrad at the best business school that Donald Trump ever went to, you cannot graduate without taking it your freshman year.

It supposedly teaches you how to lead. I don't remember much about that class, other than half our grade being based on working at an afterschool program in the inner city. Which just happened to be smack-dab in the middle of Kensington, a notoriously ghetto section of Philly filled with Puerto Ricans a-plenty.

(They had an AMAZING bakery there with the best Puerto Rican food I've ever had. Better than my dad's even. Oh man, that was so fucking good. If there's one thing I will forever miss about that wretched city...)

But there was also a focus on "the big picture." And in my newly-formed faux-management role, I'm having to consider this constantly. I don't get to make decisions based on what's best for me in that moment, but on what's best for the majority in the long run.

It's frustrating.

And this is why most world leaders are completely ineffectual. The long-term goals are too broad to help in the right now. And will most likely never come to fruition. Unless the goal is war and oil. Then there will be much war and excessively expensive gasoline. This sucks.

Which is why I'm voting for Canadian J in the 2008 elections.

Who Am I?

I've spent the last few hours undercover. I got home from the gym, showered, and then changed into one of the least feminine outfits I could ever conceive:

- baggy jeans
- black Airwalks
- baseball cap
- t-shirt spoofing Rolling Rock beer that I picked up at the Warped Tour...in, like, 1999

And then I ran errands. As a total boy. A wannabe skater punk boy.

Rad.

Betrayed by Red Lipstick

"There's something magnetic about you," he told me while holding a drink, his wedding band glinting in the light. "You're very charismatic and attractive. And that smile of yours..."

I continued sipping my tequila and merely said thank you when he finished this very pleasant assessment. And tried very hard to keep my lips from betraying me.

I receive a lot of compliments on my crooked smile. It's my best feature (better than my boobs--and yes I did just admit that). This "magnetic" thing comes mostly from people with whom I don't want to be involved. Like the married man up above.

L'sigh. At least I've learned not to let people set me up with men who are completely wrong for me:

About 5 years ago, a woman told me that since I was a photographer, I would get along perfectly with her brother. He was a materials engineer by trade, but a sculptural artist by passion. Two artists, obviously we'd hit it off, right? Well, she wasn't completely ugly, so I figured her brother couldn't be that bad looking. She didn't inform me that he was pushing 40 and had probably never had sex.

Or talked to a woman.

Or been to planet Earth.

I arrived at the Indian restaurant in Hollywood nicely dressed since I had just come from work. He was sitting in a back booth. All I saw after the white socks/berkinstocks/palm tree-patterened shirt tucked into his too-high khakis was The Moustache. It dominated his face. Like Magnum PI, but without the 80s irony.

I knew I was in for a long night. The staff snickered. I tried pleading for a rescue with my eyes. They continued to snicker but would occasionally throw pitying looks my way.

The Moustache ordered so much food, I thought I was never going to be able to leave. In fact, he ordered FOR me. And then proceeded to talk with his mouth full for the next 2 hours. Never once did he ask me a single thing about myself, he just kept talking about materials. And engineering. And his cement "art."

I wanted to stab myself in the head.

Finally, he'd stuffed himself full enough to quit and I made up a story about wanting to get over the hill to see my niece before she fell asleep. I tried running to my car. He didn't let me get away without first giving me an awkward hug and then a present: a glass rose. Red. It had been wrapped in his jacket the whole evening. Which is how I wish he'd kept it. Clearly he didn't get that the date was unsuccessful.

Why the hell would you wait till the end of the date to give a girl a glass rose, especially if it turned into the DATE FROM HELL? Because you're a social retard. A moustachioed Social Retard.

The problem was that I'd been unfailingly polite the entire time. Smiling even. And that's what got me in trouble. Having manners. And the damn smile.

It's a blessing AND a curse!

He actually called me again a few days later, right smack in the middle of the baby G-brat having a violent tantrum. She was so obnoxiously loud, I'm sure he could hear it all the way over on Planet Retard, but he ignored it and tried making conversation. And a second date. I stared at the phone, dumbfounded that someone could be that dense. I told him it was a bad time (hello, screaming child in my arms!) and that we'd have to talk later. He gave me the most dejected "oh, okay" and hung up.

Mercifully, that was the last I heard of him.

The smile though, still gets me in trouble. Apparently.

Photoblogging Friday 4.20.07

Happy Friday everyone. What's better than Friday the 13th? Any fucking Friday, that's what! Especially ones I get to spend with my girls, drinking sangria and eating pizza.

I'd post a picture of one of the KM's kids, because they had a birthday party last weekend and I got the most hilarious shot of the little girl choking her daddy. But we'll save that for another day. Instead you're getting a picture of the tunnel I ran through during my last half-marathon, just before the uphill finish.

2nd Street Tunnel, East End

I took it the same night as last week's. At midnight, downtown takes on a distinct flavor.

The west end of this tunnel ends at my office building. I stare down it every evening when I leave, and watch the headlights on the other end cast a beautiful glow on down its tiled surface.

It's quite pretty.

Overheard on the Way to the Bar

La Ria has a degree in English. She really, really, REALLY likes words and language and etc. While we were on our way to a drinking establishment the other night, we passed a fast food restaurant. This ensued:

La Ria: Carl's Jr.

GPG: Yeah?

La Ria: I've never understood the name. Carl's? With an apostrophe S?

GPG: I've never actually noticed.

La Ria: It used to bug me a lot when I was younger.

GPG: God, you are SUCH a word nerd!

And then I bought her an Amaretto sour. Because she clearly needed it. My Word Nerd. She thinks too much.

Overheard in Bally's Parking Lot

My assistant (aka "the slave") is hell bent on teaching us a new hobby.

GPG: Oh, we're learning to knit tomorrow.

Princess: What the fuck?

GPG: Yeah, it's called a "stitch & bitch." I don't know. *shrugs*

Princess: Okay...

GPG: That's what happens when you have a slave.*

Then a black woman walked by. I'm so unfailingly and unapologetically politically incorrect sometimes, I just fall all over myself in hysterical laughter.



*For the record, my slave is a Greek girl. I'm just a half-step away from getting that Greek manservant I've been wishing for!

Overheard at Staples Center

As the Clippers wind down their increasingly disappointing season (still love them!), here are some excerpts of conversations overheard behind the basket.

Corey Maggette misses a key shot.
GPG: Dammit! Okay, he's on your team.
Princess: Ooh, I thought I was going to have to fight for that one.
GPG: He's hot. Incredible arms. But you can have him.
Princess: Just remember no taksey-backsies!

(It's a legal term.)

***

I spot a woman wearing the latest in Aunt Jemima hair accessories.
GPG: Oh damn, I left my green doo-rag at home! Now I'm completely underdressed.
Princess: Oh fuck me running! That's why I love you!

***

The ref calls traveling.
GPG: Traveling? Seriously?
Princess: No he didn't!
GPG: Who does that anymore? It's like getting the chicken pox at 29. It doesn't happen!!

(Okay, it does. And one of my clients just got it at 45. But I was trying to make a point. Traveling? REALLY?)

Then there was the cheerleader who kept getting thrown up in the air. You don't realize till you're sitting right next to it just how high up they get. I wondered out loud if she got frequent flyer points. The Princess laughed. It was funny.

The male cheerleaders were on my team. Because I was in the mood for excessively well-built, so-hot-they're-almost-too-pretty type of men. Then we went up to the bar and the excessively well-built bartender took care of us.

It was a good night. Even if they did lose.

Mmm, Boys

Four really excellent reasons why I got home at 1 am this morning:

At the corner of Melrose & Poinsettia

And now, bed.

CHG Confession #7

The Curly-Haired Girl does her job pretty well.

That's because she doesn't fuck up by showing up to her own events 30 minutes late.

She doesn't fuck up by failing to inform a venue that her guarantees have tripled.

She doesn't take an entire afternoon off 3 days before a huge program, to go have her nails done and hang out with other retards just because she can, thus forcing her to into a last minute frenzy that inevitably has her fucking up said huge program.

She has, however, fucked up by completely ignoring a $17,000 invoice from a hotel. Until they called to gently remind her that it was 45 days overdue.

Oops.