...And Then Everything Went Horribly, Horribly Wrong

Well, you can't have everything.

So last night Just Joe and I went to the fabulous North Scottsdale AJ's to pick up something delish for dinner before watching Suzanne Somers. So this market - aside from being practically in New Mexico - is in prime Cougar territory. The soft lighting in the store is flattering enough to make me want to drive the 50 miles to benefit from it, and the cougars, they revel in it. And frankly, you haven't seen anything until you've seen be-Botoxed and bejeweled 45-year-old women in expensive sweatsuits pony up at the dessert bar to decide what they're going to binge and purge on that evening.

And after leaving this halcyon shrine to culinary wonders, we realized we were sans corkscrew, and had to stop at another grocery store to pick one up on the way home. This time it was an Albertson's...basically that's like 98% ghetto. Maybe 99. It's like going from the Taj Mahal to a 7-11. I felt dirty. And as I was standing in line with Just Joe, waiting for my turn to figure out how to use the overly complicated automated self check-out, I see a strangely familiar face coming my way...turns out it's my old boyfriend's best friend. Looking rather portly, too. So that was a good time. Anyhoo, he was very sweet - gave this old biddy a hug and made the small talk - but he asked me like three times if everything was okay. Hm, why would he wonder about that? Could it be perhaps because I'm in some ghetto North Scottsdale supermarket on a Saturday night, buying a corkscrew and not wearing a wedding ring? Hm...

Sigh. But then, thankfully, we had Suzanne. And she is such a crazy bitch that she makes me look positively well-adjusted. And her showing last night did not disappoint. It dawned on Just Joe and I that she is the ultimate Cougar. Except for the fact that she's been married for like 35 years. To the same man. And what drugs must he be on to tolerate her bizarre self-satisfied behavior? He is always smiling - showing the world his gigantic capped choppers - and always willing to whore himself on tv for his wife. I think that Just Joe and I have a crush on him. Well, actually, not so much.

But Suzanne has a new tagline for her clothing, which I think is just thisshort of brilliance: Hip, Sexy, Not Desperate. Yes, kids, not desperate. For it's like totally humiliating when your Cougar mom sneaks the hip-huggers from your laundry basket and follows you to a bar on a Friday night - and now, thanks to Suzanne, she can have her own hookerish outfits, and wear them with pride, because she is not desperate.

Don't get me wrong - I kid the Cougars because I don't understand them, but I have a healthy respect for them since I may find myself on their side of the fence one of these days. But - mark my words - I will never, ever be there wearing Suzanne Somers' shoes.

Happy Halloween, kids: http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/issues/2004-10-28/news/feature.html

For your viewing (dis)pleasure...the fabulous Suzanne lounge set. I have no response to this. 

Suzanne's idea of "sensational" - but it reads more "urban cavegirl," don't you think?

“Get used to the lonesome; girl, you must atone some.”
The Shins

“Go, and never darken my towels again.”
Groucho Marx

So last night I went to my ghetto gym, and when I got home I got the call…N canceled on the Dios show. It was predictable, I suppose. The venue was pretty much down the street for me, but about 20 minutes from N, and in Phoenix Time that's like two hours. Can’t begin to explain how much Phoenicians love their cars and how much they hate to drive. I have friends in North Scottsdale and Ocotillo – a good 25 minutes each – who I see like twice a year. I see my friends in NYC and California about 10 times as often.

And speaking of Phoenix drivers, please, people, save the meth for after work. There’s nothing like seeing some sketchy 4x2 come careening down the street – camper top and all – and changing lanes like Camelback Road is a Nascar straightaway. Saw one this morning on my (leisurely) way into the office. The driver – or should I say, Mr. Andretti – was obviously spinning off that last line since he was treating the morning commute like his own personal game of Frogger. The beautiful part, though, was winding up at the signals just seconds behind him. Too bad he had to endanger lives to get to the exact same place at the exact same time.

So instead of seeing a delicious band for only $8, I watched “Tadpole” last night. Found it interesting, but it was difficult to imagine tight-lipped Sigourney Weaver as the object of a young boy's lust when Bebe Neuwirth is sizzling right next to her. But I have to give both women extra-credit for not jumping on the Botox bandwagon (see http://www.awfulplasticsurgery.com/ for offenders). They looked spectacular – lined foreheads and all. Loved John Ritter, too. Sigh. ...the movie had a weird cover of "Only Living Boy in New York," though, which I found disturbing. That song was one of the highlights of “Garden State” and its soundtrack, but here it was eerily done – kind of muzacked.

But all was not lost - Suzanne Somers was on hsn last night, so I spent about half an hour on the phone with Just Joe, mocking her outfits and busting out laughing. Good times. Suzanne, methinks, takes a hiatus from tv every time she gets a new surgical procedure. I’ve noticed that over the last few years her forehead has been getting oddly smaller. At first I thought maybe her bangs were getting longer, but I really think that forehead is being yanked farther and farther up the scalp. I wouldn’t be surprised if her eyebrows touch her hairline.

And the merch – oh, hot lord – it was unparalleled. If I can figure out the photo thing again I’ll post a couple of high(low?)lights here. Suzanne has this thing for “loungewear”…loosely translated, it’s basically around-the-house fat-suits for women with who would buy the Kathie Lee collection if only it wasn’t so “corporate.”

Last night it was “burnout velvet” – hideous upholstery fabric in complexion-squashing shades of orange and teal. We’re talking head-to-toe vileness, cut into a cowl-neck and pants. Or as Suzanne says, “pant.” Seriously, there is nothing funnier on television. Tune in if you get the chance.

Also: can we talk "Personal Hell"? I was just trying to scare D with Ye Olde "there's a monkey under your desk" bit, but he wasn't falling for it. His Achilles heel? Payless shoes. So, of course, we started talking Personal Hells. I've given mine a lot of thought over the years, especially as my moral compass slides more and more off course. It currently includes a Starbucks on every corner, wearing flat shoes, not having mascara, waiting in line behind a woman with a crying child (or in front of a women with a child that constantly bumps into me while she pays no mind), listening incessantly to the entire Mariah Carey catalog (this has been a long-term pick, but could change with the passage of time - she just wins because of that whole 14-octaves thing) and the smell of hot dogs.

Please feel free to share what your idea of Personal Hell is with the group. We care about you. Besides, enquiring minds want to know.

ps: "underpublished" jd salinger stories. genius. http://www.freeweb.hu/tchl/salinger/

I need a partner in crime...any volunteers?

I can promise three things:
1. Lots of laughs
2. Lots of boozetastic adventures
3. Lots of good, good music

Let me know.

So I found a blog by this funny girl named Andrea Siegel. She is a published author, and I'd hate to lose my fan club to someone with that kind of impressive shite on her resume, but I'd be remiss not to pass you along. At least to a page that I have commented on. Enjoy. http://andreaseigel.typepad.com/afternoon/2004/10/black_is_the_ne.html

Back to me, me me: There's this Galaxie 500 song called "Don't Let Our Youth Go to Waste." Now, given, there's some irony in that it's a seven-minute song, but still there's a part of me that's completely in agreement. I think this is what scares the Estranged Hubby so much about me. My friend S summed it up one time, and it was hard to swallow, but enlightening nonetheless.

These are her thoughts: "i think it takes one hell of a person to handle you, alisa. i'm not saying he isn't that person. but, somehow in all this marriage stuff, the relationship put you in a strange place that is so not alisa. ... it's like it stifled the very independent, free-bird nature i know so well in you."

Tough love, right?

But that's what the Hubby keeps telling me, too; if we get back together he'll always wonder/worry that I'm still holding out for something else. Yikes. As much as I love my Estranged Spouse, I love me, too. And maybe the part of me that's independent is too big to keep in the cookie jar. So to speak. There is no doubt that I am too large - any part of me - to fit in any cookie jar.

Oh - you know what - it's all rainy again. Damn! I am so not moving to Portland! I was positioned to head that way come January, but between the fab new job and the fact that rain makes me melancholy, I can't see that particular relocation as anything but a royal disaster. (And I'd rather have a Royal Explosion. Of course, that's so obscure, but maybe that's part of my angst.)

And let's face it: I'm so much more adorable when things are light and fluffy. And right now I am so in the mood for a dirty vodka martini (up, three olives, perhaps very dirty) and a cigarette and a plush barstool where I can cross my legs and show off a fabulous pair of pumps.)

Who said Bushies were crazy?
http://www.sun-sentinel.com/news/local/southflorida/sfl-1027politicalattack,0,5218066.story?coll=sfla-home-headlines

Bush never, ever lies…
http://www.nytimes.com/2004/10/28/international/middleeast/28bomb.html?oref=login&oref=login

Spreading the love – courtesy of Ohio’s nutbag Bushies:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/uselections2004/story/0,13918,1329858,00.html

More bad news – courtesy of your favorite media outlet:
http://www.blacktable.com/glacel041027.htm

A little sugar to help the medicine go down:
http://www.yankeepotroast.org/daily/041006.html

My friend C in NYC sent me this gem to start the day:

"I've found that most women like to be drunk." – Nelly

Does it even need a comment? I mean, it’s so beautiful just as-is. But I can’t help myself, Nelly, because it’s no surprise that women would want to be drunk while in your company. Very, very drunk. Didn’t you do that thong song? Oh, right, you were “hot in herrre.” Good one, that. Thank you so much.

So I’m having troubles posting today and I’m completely twisted over it. This is my third version of today’s diatribe – thank god I only have two days left at this job and Ye Olde Boss is out of town, because I am so out of things to do. It’s a beautiful thing. In fact, it’s so good that I’m going to celebrate with some Pimp Juice. Mmm, delish. Tastes like sweat and dyed feathers.

So, I’m thinking of becoming an Ashlee Simpson fan. Eh, maybe not. But http://www.stereogum.com/ has some amusing photoshop work sent in by creative types – all after her Milli Vanilli-Gate, or whatever they’re calling it. A real shocker that she didn’t have actual talent. Check hell – it may be freezing over.

And though I’m not a Sox fan, I’m thrilled that they won the World Series because now there’s no reason to preempt America’s Next Top Model. Of course, I haven’t watched it since that first episode – does anyone know if the big girl is still on? I’m hoping she doesn’t get voted off the island, if only because it would be so amazingly satisfying to watch her tuck into a fried chicken while all those emaciated roommates cry into their celery sticks.

I was all set for ANTM, too, having skipped out on a last-minute birthday dinner (sorry, JB) and rescheduling with M for our “meeting” at El Chorro to discuss our website launch. (Watch for “Phoenix Picks” – one of these days we’ll get it up and running.) Truthfully, though, the real reason we chose El Chorro is because there are usually a number of lecherous old rich men there who are more than happy to buy two young women drinks. And they have a piano player. His name is “Legs” and he does the entire Sinatra catalog. I know what you’re thinking: “Is it El Chorro, or is it Heaven?”

Did anyone watch the lunar eclipse last night? I called Just Joe to let him know it was happening and left a message. This morning he said, “I looked for it, but didn’t see anything.”

But he’ll redeem himself this weekend: we’re going to buckle down and watch Suzanne Somers’ triumphant return to home shopping. She’s doing not only clothes and jewelry, but her foodstuffs as well. Nothing is better than Suzanne in the kitchen. Once she was discussing how she invented Somersweet in a laboratory and how it was so scientific, and then she looked down and muttered, “I don’t know how to turn on this stove.” Genius.

ps: if you haven't visited this site, please do so now, and every day hence.
http://fuggingitup.blogspot.com/
and once weekly, this: http://www.blacktable.com/archive/craigarchive.htm

My parents are so proud...
I don't normally wear that headgear, btw. It was New Year's Eve. I should be ashamed of my behavior later in the night, but the whole thing was just so ridiculous that it doesn't matter. The bummer, though, is that you can't see how cute my boots are. Trust me, they rock.

Get Happy: Album Favorites

In no particular order (list is subject to additions/subtractions, but for today)...

Ted Leo & the Pharmacists: Shake the Sheets!
The Postal Service: Give Up
Built to Spill: Ancient Melodies of the Future
The Flaming Lips: Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
Earlimart: Treble and Tremble
Dogs Die in Hot Cars: Please Describe Yourself
Grandaddy: Sumday
Belle & Sebastian: The Boy with the Arab Strap
The Shins: Chutes Too Narrow
The Tragically Hip: Live Between Us
Gomez: split the Difference
Dios: Dios
The Sleepy Jackson: Lovers
My Morning Jacket (one tune for me): "The Way That He Sings"
The Apples in Stereo: Velocity of Sound
Supergrass: I Should Coco
Spoon: Kill the Moonlight
Ambulance, Ltd: Ambulance, Ltd.
Teenage Fanclub: Bandwagonesque
Rosebuds: The Rosebuds Makeout
Electrelane: The Power Out
Wilco: Being There
Wilco: Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
The Bigger Lovers: This Affair Never Happened
The Soundtrack of Our Lives: Origin, Part I
Beulah: When Your Heartstrings Break
The Darkness: Permission to Land
Galaxie 500: Uncollected
The Pixies: Wave of Mutilation – The Best of the Pixies
Jonny Polonsky: The Power of Sound
The Dandy Warhols: 13 Tales from Urban Bohemia
Felt: Forever Breathes the Lonely Word
Luna: Romantica
The Earlies: These Were the Earlies
Beulah: Yoko
Sarge: Distant
Radar Bros: Radar Bros. and the Surrounding Mountains
Trembling Blue Stars: A Certain Evening Light
Death Cab for Cutie: Transatlanticism
Iron & Wine: Our Endless Numbered Days

Silly and notable:
Tenacious D: Tenacious D
The Beginning Stages of the Polyphonic Spree
Scissor Sisters: Scissor Sisters

If I seem flip about my Estranged Hubby and divorce, it's only because it's the only way I can deal with it. Without my marriage, all I've got is my apartment, an empty bed and a lot of pathetic fantasy about inappropriate younger men and crushes on dentists and old friends.

And of course, the EH is one of the world's most wonderful creatures. I wouldn't have married him otherwise, natch! He's just more of a stuffer - a thinker - and I'm completely verbal. When we hang out and talk turns to our state of affairs, I drip tears like they're going out of style, and he just sits and makes a grumpy face, holding back what he's feeling and/or what's on his mind. And of all the moments to hold back! The emotions couldn't be more raw. I'm like, let's throw down and make some decisions here! Meanwhile, he just can't...he can't... he can't...

And so I've been steeling myself for singlehood, not knowing that he was thinking hard about reconciliation. The man hasn't given me a lot to go on...but I suppose that I haven't really made any big moves in that direction, to be fair. The separation was supposed to give him time to focus on finishing his student teaching while I was supposed to experience independence, and it was supposed to give both of us a taste of "singlehood."

A friend of mine - upon hearing this latest development - said, "To me, this is too little too late. He's all freaked out now that reality is
upon him. Just as I predicted, he would be, because we men are all alike."

And of course, getting back together would mean giving up some big dreams...mystery manflesh aside.

Eh.

Anyhoo, MY GOD I LOVE THIS BLOGGING SHIT. It's so cathartic. By clicking on Earlimart in my own profile I found the blog of a hilarious guy in Texas who shares not only my exquisite taste in music but a love for German engineering, expensive restaurants and sarcasm. Sometimes, kids, life is grand.

So I'm finding out what everyone is doing for Halloween, and it cracks me up. My NYC pals are readying for a parade on Sunday - basically a streetside freakshow; my PA pals are going to parties and planning costumes; my L.A. friend is going to some festival in WeHo. Meanwhile, I've got nothing on the roster, and I'm damn happy about it. For one thing, Halloween in phx happens on Friday night for the big kids (read: people under 30 who go to bars in costume). This town isn't much for the Sunday-night shindigging. We have to schedule our booze holidays so we can relegate hangovers to the weekends.

I guess I'm just not into Halloween anymore. I used to go to this insane pimp-and-ho party that would move from fabulous house to fabulous house every year. It was one of those things where if you didn't get the invite you had no clue where it could be. Very cool, considering there were always about 700 people in some gigantic, park-like backyard, swilling free booze and parading about in various states of costumery, undress and drunkenness. Ohhhh, it was such a good time! But then it was taken over by a club-owner and moved to downtown Scottsdale, so I lost interest.

And of course, the last couple of years in the house with the hubby, Halloween has been a lot of doorbell-ringing and arguing over who's going to get up from the baseball game and answer it. So not my scene. (Last year, however, we invited about a dozen friends over and set up shop in the front yard. We had a cooler of beer and a ton of candy, and spent the entire night outside getting our buzz on and taking turns manning the candy table. It was genius!)

Since I'm still mad at Phoenician Pals for making me miss Earlimart, I begged friend N to join me at Dios on Thursday. It's her birthday - or it was last week - and I promised to buy her a ticket and fill her full of light beers.

And in breaking news, The Flaming Lips, The Shins, Wilco and Sleater-Kinney (them, not so much) are playing NYE in NYC. Would literally sacrifice my favorite shoes to hit that show. My new year's eve locally is sure to be supremely suck. Last year I went to a party at My Estranged Puppy's cousin's house. Wound up sloshed after girlfriend L and I found the stash of Veuve Cliquot, and then wound up making out with L. Sloppily. It's all on film, so running for office is out of the question. Well, maybe in Italy. But since I spent the next day expelling Veuve Cliquot quite violently from my body, even the good memories turned bad.

I'm so in need of some new man-flesh, anyway. Breakup nookie - muy fantastico - but a little romance could go a long way. Too bad my dentist is happily married. Is it wrong to crush on your dentist? He's that perfect combo of cute/hot. Oof. But he has put his fingers in my mouth. ...I just don't see a relationship blossoming there.

And I can't believe that I am thisclose to reentering the dating scene. And does it even exist anymore? The only people I know who go on actual "dates" are gay men. My girlfriends haven't had a "date" - anywhere in this country - in forever. It's more like the guys call them up and say "my friends and I are going (wherever) tonight. You should meet us there." That's fine if you're in high school, but no guy should have a chance in hell of hooking up girlfriend-style if that's his M.O. And frankly, I've had enough of the "we're friends, why not hump AND hang out" thing. That was fabulous when I was 23-25, and, 'shamed to admit, that's how the Hub and I started up. Maybe that's what sent my marriage south. Next time around I have to be with someone who makes my heart race a little.

Heard that some of my friends are "dating" on websites like Friendster, MySpace and Craigslist. Oh my god, Craigslist. I thought that was only useful for buying used furniture and picking up guys who want to pee on you. (Yeah...not so much.) I suppose I'll have to wait until the big D is final to find any new excitement. Well, other than the Puppy and my crush on my friend D... and I may have just hit on what could be the key difference between men and women. Men would take one for the team - even from Craigslist - in order to score. Women, camel-like, will wait it out until the wind is just right. ...I have no idea what that means.

How ghetto is it?

My gym is so ghetto...that when I watch the people parking their cars, I try to predict if they're coming in to work out or if they're headed into the dive bar next door.

My gym is smack-dab next to one of the dingiest, smokiest, scariest dives in this large city. Sometimes when the wind is right, you can smell the smoke through the walls in the weight room. Good, good stuff. And the placement of the cardio equipment - directly facing a wall of windows on the parking lot - allows for an amazing view of the drunken denizens who stagger in and out of said bar in various states of sobriety. My personal favorite is the drunk who calls for a cab at, say, noon on a Sunday. I was treated to one such spectacle yesterday, as I was pounding through my 46th minute on the treadmill. The cab pulls up, and instead of finding his fare outside, the cabbie has to go into the bar and collect the man. The cabbie exits first, and makes a point to open the door in the back seat that is opposite him. Then the fare staggers out, making a wide, leaning circle around the cab until he finds the open door. Two gymmies were walking out just then, too, and openly stared at the man as he arranged himself in the cab. As if they've never been there before! Whatever, people: going to the gym does not absolve you of your alcohol-related sins. It just builds your stamina for more sins in the future. Ha ha! (At least, that's why I go...)

So this weekend...skipped the Bad Japanese experience. Thankfully. Uncool to skip out, but the thought of watching food sizzle and sweat just inches from my face - oh, it was unbearable. And as predicted, the Estranged Hubby came over Saturday night and we watched Saved. It started out funny and then turned into an after-school special.
We were like, "what happened to the funny?" But I thought that guy from Almost Famous was pretty hot...in a grimy, nerdy, he-probably-listens-to-Pink-Floyd and he's that
high-school-boy-that-you're-not-supposed-to-like kind of way. And instead of having to break out the wok and the fish sauce for him, I was happy when EH brought over a tomato-basil pizza. Genius on a sick stomach. (Not so much.) Oh, but yesterday I watched jon stewart on 60 minutes and then this incredibly dumb movie that i just adored called The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra. It's a spoof on those bad 50's flicks where everyone is completely stiff and the special effects have strings. Kind of like mystery science theater on acid, or really, really stoned.

OMG - Just showed my mom how to blog and she's on it like a monkey on banana day. Please support my mom (more insane ramblings; that whole "apple/tree" thing) and visit her at www.teriberm.blogspot.com. And thank you for your support.

After the long bout of melancholy yesterday as I watched the rain fall outside my office window from my squashed perch at Ye Olde Desk, I went with a couple of coworkers to this place called Windy City Sliders for lunch. It's this adorable (now hellish, read on) little burger joint with a "Parking for Bears Fans Only" sign out in front and a super "Da Bulls" vibe that's perfect for that silent, furtive, hangover grease infusion. And since I hadn't eaten all day I figured it would cancel out anything else, calorie-wise (see the USDA's Food Pyramid for more on this brilliant concept). But the thing is that as lovely as Windy City's sliders seem to be - tiny and harmless - I never ever eat shit like that unless I'm really really hung over...so yesterday's repast was a big big mistake. That little bastard burger shut my system down and I had to leave work early just to go home to lay in pain on my sofa.

Thankfully, it was like 55 degrees out so I opened all the windows, got out my delicious blankie and made some chamomile tea. Watched the tail end of Jerry Springer. The usual societal rejects, natch. My favorite part is when the audience gets to lob their retarded zingers at guests, who at this point are quite aggressive after an hour or so of shoe-throwing and hair-pulling played out to stadium-loud chants of "sit down whore!" (I love a good family-friendly show, don't you?)

Followed this up with a bit of channel-flipping between a dog show (why don't the pugs ever win?) and home shopping. I love to listen to Ron Reagan do his best "Best in Show" commentary during the dog shows. He's so not funny but he tries so hard to be clever. Go, Ron Reagan, go. You're the only Reagan I've ever liked. And on home shopping they were selling makeup so of course I had to tune in. Scary, though, because it's a product I use. Hm. Maybe it's time to rethink that drink.

Follow me on this: the best home-shopping show ever is Suzanne Somers' bizarro self-love fest, but coming in at number two is a makeup line by this 1,000-year-old crone named Adrian. Now, Adrian has had about 25-30 plastic surgeries - all of them on her creepshow, Jocelyn Wildenstein face - and sells a makeup line for "older women." I believe it's extra-powerful to hide the surgery scars. It's big, too. A regular-sized compact is as big as a woman's palm. Adrian sells them as big as an entire hand, from fingertip to wrist. Once she had one with swirls of color, which EH and I dubbed "Hypnocream," and Adrian has been a favorite ever since. Love to watch her apply the Hypnocream on her poor, downtrodden models. Adrian's touch is what can only be described as "violent," and the sad-sack women who got the Hypnocream gig try to hold their expressions in place as Big A slaps them around. Truly a sight to behold.

Back to me, me me, I turned in around 8:00 with a book of poetry by Galway Kinnell. ("When One Has Lived A Long Time Alone" - I was sooo deep in melancholy. Thank god that's over with.) The kicker is that thanks to that demonic little sandwich, i'm still in pain today. I made a double-strong pot of coffee and took it to work. Hopefully that will wake up my insides. Ouch. Still can't believe I ate a slider and fries for lunch - sans hangover! I eat soy dogs for chrissake. What was i thinking?!?

So my weekend is going to be mellow. Tonight I'm going to Benihana (not happy about that - faux Japanese?) for my friend N's birthday, and tomorrow night i'm making Thai basil chicken and watching "Saved!" with the Estranged One. I can't even believe that my weekend's entertainment revolves around food. It is the absolute last thing i want to think about right now. Go, coffee, go!

The Way That He Sings - My Morning Jacket
Why's it so strange when they say that the world's movin upwards?
Why's it surreal when my hands feel they can't roll the dice?
Why's it so great just to wake every day, alive and by your side.
It's a mystery I guess, there's lots of things I can't find.
It's not the way that you look, but your move that catches my eye.
Why's it so soft when the cannons unload on the others?
Why're we so loud when we say it won't happen to us?
Why does my mind blow to bits every time they play that song?
It's just the way that he sings, not the words that he says, or the band.
I'm in love with this soul, it's a meaning that I understand.

Okay, so I'm reading my friends' blogs and they're all talking about leaves changing color and various watery objects falling from the sky...and I picked up an iced mocha on the way to work. That's sick! And wrong!

Here's some hilarity: when I was going through security in the Fabulous Newark Airport one of the agents glanced at my license and asked, "What's Arizona like?" I said, "It's brown." And then, upon taking a closer look, she exclaimed, "Oh no - you didn't!" And I realized that in my license photo, which was taken in like 1995, I was wearing OVERALLS. Now, I'm not proud of this (we all have our fashion faux-pas that trail us), but the look on her face conveyed abject horror. Suddenly, I knew what she was thinking. "We don't drive covered wagons or anything," I blubbered. "It's not like the Old West." To which she said, "Yeah, right, Arizona," handed me my license and laughed. Oh, the shame, the shame. It's not enough to be stuck here, but to have it ridiculed by airport personnel in NEW JERSEY. Oh, it spanks!

And what the hell is blogging, anyway? It's semi-twisted to provide such an intimate look into your life via an online diary. It's like the desk-bound version of being on a reality show. You can air as much dirty laundry as you like and still remain semi-anonymous.

Speaking of reality shows, my girlfriend S in LA said a friend of hers invited her to be an extra for the opening credits of a new one. The producers are offering to pay people 50 bucks to A) bring their own clothes and B) stand around a restaurant from 5 p.m. to 1 a.m. What is wrong with this world? Is everyone so desperate to get on television that they'd take 50 bucks to be bored? Ha ha ha! That is so classic. She said she'd do it for 300.

So last night I missed Earlimart - damn you, Phoenix friends, for being so bland - but I did get some nookie from the Estranged Hub. We pull out all the stops now, which is loads of fun. Married couples, take heed: Fantastic Nookie Awaits During Mutual Separation! It's comforting, too. One of my friends said that after her parents divorced her dad would come over and her parents would do it in the backyard to hide it from the kids. Good times, good times...there's nothing more romantic than making the beast with two backs while squashing the petunias.

"Ahead by A Century" - The Tragically Hip

First we'd climb a tree
and maybe then we'd talk
Or sit silently
and listen to our thoughts
With illusions of someday
casting a golden light
No dress rehearsal
this is our life

That's when the hornet stung me
and I had a feverish dream
With revenge and doubt
tonight we smoke them out

You are ahead by a century...

Stare in the morning shroud
and then the day began
I tilted your cloud
you tilted my hand
Rain falls in real time
rain fell through the night
No dress rehearsal
this is our life

That's when the hornet stung me
and I had a serious dream
With revenge and doubt
tonight we smoke them out

You are ahead by a century...
But this is our life and disappointment's getting me down

Ack! Earlimart is playing tonight at Modified Arts and I am scrambling to find someone to go with me! My ex-puppy used to be the ideal companion for this type of thing. By that I mean seeing live performances by under-the-radar-but-magically-delicious bands. This is just criminal...and I'm not much of a solo flyer. I saw a movie by myself for the first time in my life a few months ago. (See the post where I poop on Garden State.) (And I know that some people have quite strong feelings about Garden State...I'm not saying that it was bad; it was good, actually. Just not as "amazing" as all the hype. For amazing, see The Graduate, see Harold and Maude, see Eat, Drink, Man, Woman. See Bread and Tulips. Or just rock on with your bad self and do the Zackity Braffity thang. Whatever feels good.)

And there is nothing worse than getting ready to leave a job, btw. I'm so unmotivated to do anything but continue to post on my little bloggity blog. It's so wrong! But, again, it feels so good! And I'm all about the hedonism. Except for the actual resort called Hedonism. Had a friend who took a hellish trip to Jamaica and their resort was smack dab next to a Hedonism. It was populated by liquored up Cougars (e.g. middle-aged women with a Botox punch card and leopard-print jeans) who flaunted their saggy funbags and farted in the hot tub (I'm just guessing) while having their knees massaged by undersexed and flabby middle-aged men. Apparently, said my friend, the Nude Jetskiing was a sight he will not soon forget.

I love to mock. Especially when things are so easily deserving of my derision. Let's take for example the recent trend of mukluk-like footwear for women. Why any right-minded woman would want to resemble a goat or an Eskimo from the knees down is beyond me, but what's even more demented is that a legion of "designers" out there deemed Goat-Like Legs "haute" this season.

While in NYC, I saw many disturbing versions of this trend, from calf-hair-accented cowboy boots to full on 'Mo Booties, completely covered in some sick hybrid of faux fur and shag carpeting. It was one thing to see chicks running around in Uggs (those are for SKI AREAS ONLY), but mukluks? Not so much.

And why are men not jumping on the mukluk bandwagon? Why? Because the footwear designers are woman-hating gay dudes who try to think of ways to get straight men to join their Bridge teams. And I have to say, they may be getting a boatload of new members this season, thanks to the goat legs.

But ultimately, it's the gals who are responsible for perpetuating a trend. We've suffered through Roman sandals, plastic footwear, chunky heels, lug soles, ankle boots, moccasins...but please, please, remember this: even goats aren't happy looking like goats. A goat's life sucks. Mainly because a goat can't wear cute footwear. Do you see where I'm going with this???

In other news, I finally had a night to myself last night. First one since last Tuesday. There's something so blissful about alone-time, but also something pathetic as well. I watched The Fog of War (amazing, tremendous, moving, etc etc etc) and was airing out my brain afterward when the phone rang. Ring ring! It was Just Joe. He is just so perky and I'm so...not. High-energy is one thing, but that kid burns so many calories just being Just Joe that he has to shovel down burritos and ice-cream bars just to keep from disappearing.

If only I could be that lucky.

Some people are born under a star, methinks. Like they turn out beautiful but modest, or silly rich and generous, or served a jet-set lifestyle on a silver platter but they still appreciate the mundane things that make being human beautiful and tolerable. Things like dive bars, pen pals and cotton socks.

My friend D in NYC is a good example of that. (I promised him that I wouldn't blog about him, but this cannot be contained.) He is job-blessed, and gets invites from chichi magazine editors to join them for free lunches and free concerts and cocktail hours in ridiculously hard-to-get-into restaurants and clubs. Bastard! I honestly have no idea why we're such good friends. He met me when I was a poor editrix (oh wait, I still am), calling him up to get a photo of some objet he was selling, and almost four years later we're still in obscenely intimate daily contact.

He's one of my Apex Best Friends, and he doesn't brag or boast, but just in contrast I feel like a hick sometimes, I swear.

Someone is actually reading this blog. It is a mystery man named Mike who haikus my ravings. Thank you, Mike. Thank you so much for not only putting your eyeballs on this mess, but for posting comments - funny and somewhat unusual comments. It's very happy-making.

Right now I'm waiting to hear about an offer from a new job - something kind of professional, actually. Something that will give my career (or whatever this is) a new energy. Something that will look kick-ass on my resume. Yay me. Mike, wish me luck!

UPDATE: got it! yay me! Now I will have to be bitter about something else...hmm...what shall it be...

Just spent an incredible long weekend in NYC. Parting is such sweet sorrow. I was so massively disappointed to leave the big app and head back to the valley of the sunstroke. What a pisser. But i am newly determined to take the chances that scare the hell out of me and make my way out of this burg and into an exciting new city. I'm going to focus on San Francisco. I love nyc but i can't handle the weather, and Portland is too small for these dreams, baby.
NYC Highlights:

• A restaurant in Chelsea called Elmo. They have fab brunch (which you cat eat at 3 p.m.). So far it's my favorite nyc restaurant, other than Angelo's in Little Italy. But Elmo's brunch offers $5 bellinis and vodka lemonades, so you can't shake a stick at that.
• Big Cup Coffee. Also in Chelsea - best non-fat decaf no-whipped-cream iced mocha in the biz.
• Lounge. OMG - awesome place to shop for expensive jeans and world-music CDs, however, i wanted to love their footwear more but i just didn't.
• Gramercy Park: Hello? Anyone there needing an au pair or anything like that? I could spend a lifetime there quite easily.
• I Heart Huckabees. Not anything unique to New York, but had a celeb sighting. Sarah jessica parker was there. She is a freak. Seriously. Like 4 feet tall - max - and about 65 pounds soaking wet. But she has great hair. After the flick we dropped into Crema Lita for a fro-yo and she was there again, but i had no idea since she was standing in front of a (regular-sized) man. The two gay guys behind the counter were going gaga over her, and my friend was standing back while i babbled, trying to get me to notice that i was four feet from sjp...i had no idea. It took me forever to figure it out. Oh, and her face - she looks worked. Rode hard. I am also newly determined to invest in some serious anti-aging skincare. Thanks, sarah!

Lowlights:

• The subway. Ick. I used to find it tolerable, but this time I came in from Newark Airport via the Air Train and hit the subway with suitcase in tow and just a vague idea of where I was supposed to be. Too many stairs, too many people, and too much piss stink.
• French people. Is there a single Frenchwoman left in France? Haughty, ugly and pushy. And they make bad coffee.
• Child actors. Had the unusual luck of sitting down near one on two separate occasions. Nothing like hearing a coddled 8-year-old belt out the tunes from Beauty and Beast on the Amtrak. V disturbing, actually, since some of those are love songs. Bleah.
• Comfort footwear. I love walking as much as poss, but by Day 3 I had to bust out the trainers. Everyone else looked so cute in their hot pumps, and here comes Grandma in her Nikes. Hep.

Yes, another entry that will go unread by the world at large. This is turning out to be so cathartic, however, that Mama don't really care! (i'm so ghetto. I'm going to call Kimora Lee Simmons and see if she can hang after work. We'll go shopping.)

So, another jet-set night for little ole me. I hit this swank and somewhat hidden neighborhood bar with my girlfriend M. Bay breezes were drunk and cigarettes were smoked as we lapped up the swank atmosphere. She, of course, looked adorable. She weighs like 10 ounces and carries a tiny purse. I weigh much, much more - thanks to my Effexor, which basically acted in my body like Jerry Lewis on cortisone - and carry a handbag. It's official - I have become an old woman. So, I'm all dressed up (har) in my white Faconnable men's shirt, levis, and some adorable pumps (which were hidden under the bar all night - what a shame!) and not wearing my wedding ring (haven't for months) and thinking now, this would be a decent place to meet a guy. It's not one of those underage and over-surgeried Scottsdale meat markets where even the guys have plastic. Nothing is creepier than a 32-year-old man with Botox. Ack! Unfortunately, other than a few disgustingly happy-looking couples looking meaningfully into each other's eyes and taking up all the good leather sofa spots, the place was full of old men. Rich old men, though. I've never seen so many porsche cayennes in one place. I think M and I should go back and snag ourselves some Sugar Granddaddies.

Especially since I am now officially swearing off all men younger than myself. I had a wonderfully amusing 28-year-old puppy for a while. Met him on Superbowl Sunday and had a fun ride until his narcissism got the best of him and he cut me loose one confusing and heated Friday afternoon. Sigh. I miss him, but of course I would never actually tell him. I tried a few times to make overtures but he wound up pulling a stunt so bizarre that there's no way i could befriend him again. Unless he calls me and begs forgiveness, and then shows up with a bottle of vodka, a bottle of tonic and a lime in his teeth. ...and a take-out dinner wouldn't hurt. Currently my cupboard is bare.

These are the items in my fridge:
1 bottle Arrowhead mountain spring water
1 box of strawberries
1 carton of vanilla rice milk
1 bag of prunes (delish! try them.)
1 bottle tonic
1 bottle 7-Up
40 assorted condiments. Which of course will come sooo in handy for all the meals I CANNOT COOK.

Isn't life grand?

So despite huge plans for debauchery and good times, nothing went down as i expected it to this weekend. Friday night I went with my parents to a Dia de los Muertos sale/cocktail hour at this funky store downtown. (Well, actually it was "midtown." Phoenix's downtown is trying SO HARD to make something of itself, which I fully support, but overall it's a sizzling concrete jungle with no escape at hand from the broiling sun. The entire city needs a giant shade-screen over it - like at a plant nursery. Or else some damn trees! Trees, anyone? Can we plant a few in those land-squashing oceans you call parking lots? I don't want to get into a hot car after my long day at Petsmart. Thank you.) My mom bought me a dead bride and groom. According to Day of the Dead folklore, the skeletal couple should bring good luck. In fact, people often give them as wedding presents in Mexico. good stuff. I seriously doubt it will bring me anything except another chochke that needs dusting, but I love it. It says all that needs to be said.

After that it was delish Indian food with the 'rents and my brother. It was an epic get-together, and for no reason at all. Some of the best laughs I've ever had have been with my family. It's a tough act to follow.

Saturday's wedding was very sweet, and the bride looked bootiful. Ye Olde Estranged Hubby seemed to not notice that we were at a wedding, since he was busy thinking about packing for his trip to LA on Sunday morning with the lesbian band that adopted him. I was getting all bleary-eyed over what the priest said about how love is for overcoming obstacles and whatnot, and EH stood there stoic and unreadable. I asked if he was thinking about all the shit he still had to do before his trip, and the answer - surprise - was yes. Anyhoo, I saw a bunch of people that I used to work with so that was AWFUL. However, there was one girl who I adore swapping gossip with, so I dropped off The Estranged Hubbity after the nuptials and met her at Dick's Hideaway for bloody marys. There is something deeply comforting about a bar called Dick's Hideaway. Don't you agree?

btw: I need to get the hell out of this town. I need to run screaming from it like my ass is on fire. If - and this is a stretch - anyone is reading this...if anyone reading this knows of a job/contact in Portland for a talented and modest editor/journalist/marketing type, please drop me a line. And thank you for your support.

Am I blogging the right way? It seems like I should have celeb photos or local gossip/to-dos on here, with lots of graphics and whatnot. It's likely that nobody even reads this bad boy - that it's just an outlet for my borderline narcisissm and quick typing skills. But that does leave the door wide open for me to say whatever I want, right? Where I can talk about how divorce - or the drama you go through before divorce, to be exact - is a horrible, gut-wrenching, bittersweet process. How marriage should be left to those who want to procreate - or gay people, so they can experience the bliss of opening all those gifts you register for and the deep depression that comes from realizing that your betrothed will never, ever, ever take out the trash. Or put the dishes into the dishwasher, instead of leaving them to fester in the sink. Or make the bed, or whatever pet peeve you have that is just small enough to get under your skin and truly test the limits of the "but I love him/her for his/her quirks" speech you are bound to utter like a mantra, day after messy day.

And I can talk about how hard up I am for man-lips and some serious post-martini smooching. And how from now on, I'm only going to point myself toward men older than 35. There's nothing quite as disconcerting as seeing a guy you thought you might like dating a girl who doesn't get national holidays off. And when she asks, "do you work tomorrow?" and it's, um, LABOR DAY, and you, um, realize that she is TWELVE and probably a WAITRESS...um... But I digress.

Anyhoo, tonight i'm going to a reception (read: free booze) at this furniture gallery that my parents frequent. Then they're taking me to dinner. I LOVE FREE THINGS, especially when I can wear jeans and gold ankle-strap heels and drink chilly cocktails while doing them. I was going to hit that chichi gay bar with Just Joe et al but his et al got wasted yesterday so tonight's plans have been dashed. I'm probably better off anyway, since tomorrow will be a bigbigbig day. A wedding at 2:30, then seeing a friend's band play around 7, then around 9 off to a party in Scottsdale for another friend's wedding. Sunday I am going to lay on the sofa like a dead person and watch my Netflix bounty.

No debates for me - I went to the gym. Didn't want to get all worked up. But they had it on with closed captioning, so I was able to follow bits of it. What was really spooky was that on the drive home the debate was still in progress, and the town looked deserted! I'm hoping that people were glued to their televisions & watching the debate, but it was also must-see tv night on nbc, so it's likely they were probably eating Domino's pizza and watching "Joey."