11.30.2004

The Plot Sickens



First of all...this shoe style is called "The Kougar," and if you know one thing about me, it's this: I am amazed by the Urban Cougar concept (see www.suzannesomers.com, as she is their Dalai Lama and Fashion Consultant rolled into one sugarless treat). Here in the Valley we are surrounded by the Urban Cougar - she roams our malls and makes our Old-Scottsdale bars her hunting grounds. And - thanks to Steve Madden - she can now do it wearing her namesake shoes.

So, in other news. Yes, the plot does sicken. Beknownst to the masochistic, demented readers of this blog, I spent an inordinate amount of time with the Puppy this weekend - including going to his place last night to mock Dawn of the Dead. But I did not call my friend L, whom he fucked. Why? Because I was so put off by her behavior that I shut down and decided that if she wants to redeem herself, it's up to her. The Hessian alone is worthy of major apologies, truth be told.

Anyhoo, so she left two contrite, bawling, sobbing messages on my voice mail that I did not retrieve until today, and, because I'm a mean bitch, I emailed the Puppy and was like, "See what you did? Now L is all upset because she thinks I won't like her anymore." And, of course, I thought I was being dryly funny, and he didn't, so he took it the wrong way. (Because he's just as reactionary as I am.) He was like, "That shouldn't happen if she knows we're just friends," and I was like, "I just told you about it because I thought it was funny." Seriously, if she fucked the Puppy's cousin then she'd be crying to the Puppy about how embarrassed she is, instead of crying to me. Oof. So anyhoo, the Puppy's all bent - thinking I have a crush on him - when frankly I just love the Puppyness of it all. If there was ever a person that I should not/could not/would not get involved with, it is the Puppy. He's sweet, brilliant, witty - and massively fucked up. I like having him around.

And what did not occur to him was this: Why would I spend all that time with him - just hours after his sordid penetration of my girlfriend - if I gave a shit about seeing him romantically? Come on, Puppy. Don't flatter yourself.

So, now L and I are back on track - I mocked her for her behavior, she apologized profusely for being so ridiculous and drunk, and we both laughed about it. This isn't life-threatening stuff. It's just drama. She's just embarrassed, and I assured her that she should be. My main concern now is that this is the second time there has been this sort of drama involved with my "friendship" with the Puppy. Hasn't happened with anyone else. Every other relationship - even with the EH - is smooth, mutually beneficial and easy as pie.

Oh! Smack! I need to wake the fuck up, don't I, and run screaming from this kid? Ah, Puppy...you moron. I'll miss you.

ps: The Puppy just called. Evidently the concept of "friendship" is too much for him - we decided to be "drinking buddies" instead. "I'm a shit," he said. I said, "You don't have to be," and he replied, 'Yeah, but it's just easier."

True dat, Puppy. True dat.

pps: I had lunch with my girlie in AA, and she just stopped by and we grabbed dinner before her "speaker meeting." As soon as she left I poured myself a drink.

ppps: I think I'm still sober enough to not be imagining this: http://www.daddydesign.com/Barney.html



11.29.2004

And Now for Something Completely Different

Well, not really, but it's fun to say that.

Strangely, I had a blog entry disappear, so be sure to scroll down past Huggy Bear to "The Puppy Returns" so you can catch up on what happened to the handbag and the hat. The leftover salmon, along with the leftover petite filet, had to be tossed as they both spent the night on the floor of my car. Yeesh.

So I overslept this morning. Even better - I set my alarm time, but never switched on the alarm itself. So I woke up bleary eyed and panicked at 8:51 this morning, and called into work. My boss laughed at me. He seriously chuckled. And I was like, "whew," but a bigger part of me heard these unspoken words: "Never make that mistake again."

Spooky.

So tonight I should be at the gym and shopping for groceries, since I'm down to a bag of cauliflower and 4 yoplaits. But I'd rather lie on the sofa and smoke Parliaments. I think I'm still hung over. I can guarantee that the Puppy must also be feeling my pain: he called - again - last night around 7 to see if I would drop by. Um, no. You're still in the doghouse, Puppy. Think again. And he was like, "I hurt too much for this to be the day after the hangover." I concurred, though I did manage to drag myself out for a free dinner with the EH. We exchanged paperwork and a hug. Obviously, we will not be having sex again. And frankly, because the EH and I still - or rather, currently - are able to be friends, the sex part will be the biggest loss.

I can't believe I have to find a new partner... After hearing so many horror stories about how New York Magazine thinks 1 in 4 Americans has herpes and all about dating nightmares lived out by my single girlfriends, I don't know if I can ever "do it" again! And to top it off - spending time with a Model of Misplaced Testosterone like the Puppy should be enough to put me off men forever. And I seriously need that short lady from Poltergeist to run a smudge stick through my apartment. "This house is clean."

So my best-friend Bimbelina has been reading my blog and demanded that I blog about her. So here goes. Where to begin, where to begin... since our history is too long to sum up, we'll pick up from where she is now. In Japan. Stationed near Tokyo as a JAG in the Air Force. Now, it was shocking enough when she passed the bar to become a lawyer, mainly because, well, I haven't seen her PASS too many BARS. This is the girl who did keg stands in her pajamas in our college apartment. The one who suggested that we hit a bar for last call in the middle of studying for our notoriously hard-to-pass poly sci final - and our professor was the head of the department.

This is the girl who couldn't even waitress long enough to get dental insurance.

And now she's a freakin JAG! What the fuck - I am so tremendously proud of her and she is kicking ass out there. Already has one promotion under her belt.

What else can I say about my little Hungarian friend? Here's something: her parents came over to the States in the '56 revolution. Her father - one of the best people I have ever met - could never go back because of his role in that, and once told her that if their family had stayed in Hungary, and Bimbelina and her sister had been born boys, he would have given them classic Hungarian names: Chuba and Attila.

Guess who was gonna be Chuba? Oh, yes. Our friend Lisa. And hilariously, she told some friends of ours in college that story, and the nickname was too good not to stick. She ran into one of them about two years ago at a gas station in San Diego. Now, this is a guy who hadn't seen Lisa since 1992, and when he spotted her, he yelled this: "Chubaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Good times.

Anyhoo, so Lisa and I have a sisterly love for each other that transcends all of our differences. She leans Right, I lean Left. She likes hip-hop, I like indie rock. She says tomato, I say tomato. And she is an enigma wrapped in a mystery...and then wrapped in a pizza. The only person I know who can piece together the phrases "fucking delusional liberal jackasses" and "I saved a pigeon with a broken leg this morning" in one sentence.

So, Lisa/Bimbelina/Chuba - how about that? Do you like my bloggity tribute to you? And see? I didn't even tell the story about how you recently knocked yourself out in the middle of the night while apparently heading for the bathroom, awakening to a giant knot on your head and your drawers full of poopie.

xoxo

11.28.2004

Pimp My Daughter


"You can do better than fitty. My little Susie was prom queen, my man. That's got to count for somethin'."

Here's something twisted: MTV now has a show called "Date My Mom," where moms go on dates with prospective dates for their daughters, boasting about little Missy's good points and happily dishing about the bad. Yes - grown women, fueled by the proximity of youthful testosterone, spend an afternoon trying to convince some kid that their brand of teenage hoochie is the one he'll like the best.

Is it just me, or is this morally damaging to the youth of America? And what happened to the good old days where you dated some guy specifically because your mom didn't like him? Even more disturbing than the family values implications is the general appearance of the girls. Case in point: Today's winner was 20 years old and obviously a huge Tara Reid fan. And at the final reveal it was one of those "did her mother know she wore that out of the house?!?" things, made even more creepshow because her mom was right there. Standing by, and beaming with big white chiclet choppers as her overbleached, obviously well-waxed daughter exited a limo and the Teenage Angst Cam closed in for the Beat-Off-To-This slo mo.

Regardless of the twisted nature of the teenage pimpathon, a Tara Reid wannabe in any situation is disturbing. (NOTE: It is never "irregardless," so let's correct that English-language mutilation right here, shall we? We'll discuss misplaced apostrophes in a future post.)

However, if you know me, you know that I adore Tara Reid. Not just for her exceptional acting abilities (nobody does stone-faced like T), but for her humiliating drunken antics like getting kicked off planes, exposing breasts and falling down drunk wherever she goes.

Of course, I can see how the Tara Reid comment I just made could make me look hypocritical, as I just lambasted friend L for similar behavior, but let's be honest here: L is no Tara Reid. Perhaps I should be more forgiving - she's been sheltered for 14 years in the custody/company of one prince of a guy, but there is a Golden Rule when it comes to your girlfriends: Never swap spit - or anything else - with a guy your friend has made out with unless you have express permission. Or unless you're in high school. Or college. Or at a bachelorette party. Or making out in a foreign country...with foreign guys.

When you sully man-meat for a girlfriend "by accident," that's one thing. But just think: by putting your tongue in his mouth you're guaranteeing that your friend will never again be able to do so due to your selfishness. Plus - your friend was there first, so she has dibs. This is all very childish, I know, especially since I don't really care. But this is how I roll.

The corollary to the rule is this: No matter how base the guy may be acting, no matter how insulting it is for him to tackle your friend right under your nose, he is given first dibs at forgiveness. Why? Because guys are often just "dudes" - fucking dumbasses, but never looking much past getting their freak on when an opportunity presents itself. At the moment of decision, the Nice Guy You Crushed On disappears, and is replaced by The Lord of the Flies.

ps: Yes, this is what I do with my free time. I found this blog - and I hope it's not too mean to pass it along for a mutual mock-fest, but I had to. She appears to be fargin nutty and I'm feeling sinister. Observe: http://lowcarbeating4life.blogspot.com/.



Too Young for Me?



More proof of my antisocial fashion sense: a rhinestone covered skull-and-crossbones brooch. I wonder: am I too old to wear crap like this?

But...but...think of how cute it would look on a blazer. I'll wear it to work.



My One Celebrity Crush


It's super spooky to moon over celebrities, but I can't help it when it comes to just one: Liev Schreiber.



A Return to Visuals



Trying to get photos back online. So following will be a few of the ones I would have posted days ago if I wasn't so technologically challenged. Here's Ted Leo + Pharmacists. Unassuming, and yet so genius.



The Puppy Returns

Literally.

He called at like 3:00 on his way back from a drive-thru, and despite my best interests, I picked up the call. Me and this kid. I tell you. I must like him a lot to tolerate his brand of often-thoughtless behavior. But picking up the phone just gave me more reasons why I do that.

He said he'd stop by and we'd watch a movie together - "Rodger Dodger" - an excellent choice. Since we were both in a righteous hangover state, we shared my sofa and my favorite blankie and spent the rest of the night changing channels and cracking jokes and basically having an epically hilarious time. And as I was able to mock him openly about the night before, it turned out to be cathartic. And enjoyable. We ordered in dinner - pot roast and mashed potatoes (baked chicken for me) - and laughed so hard we cried. I swear, we should have filmed it. Two bleary eyed comedians, mocking television. And we were hilarious. Much better than most of the shite that's on tv, that's for sure!

I realized, too, that I wasn't even the slightest bit bothered by the Puppy - as opposed to the way I felt during the still-drunk, still-too-recent blogging I did yesterday morning. Unfortunately, I don't feel as generous toward L. I'm all for occasional sloppy drunkenness, but there is a part of me that believes a person should keep his/her behavior in check. Even on "special" occasions, like when you intend to cheat on your husband with a has-been Hessian.

And it turns out that yes, the Puppy/my girlfriend hookup was basically a teenage fantasy come true for him. Through family, he has known her since he was like 10 (she's 7 years older than him)and basically has always wanted to hump her. He also wants to hump some other childhood fantasy women, including florence henderson and barbara billingsley. Ha. Despite the whole sloppy seconds thing, he was going to strike while the iron was hot. ... So to speak.

Anyhoo, it did wonders for our friendship, too, because now there will never be a question about where my affection toward him is coming from. If he ever gets the idea that I am being a bit too friendly, he only has to think back on one stomach-churning Friday night to know that, yes, my friendship for him is strictly friendship. And if, for some likely booze-addled instant, I look at him and think, "hmmm," all I have to do is think back on that very same night. At those moments, we will both remember that thanks to a friend of mine, he has been "sullied" for me, so we can both relax and enjoy the affection. Doesn't that work out well?

So I just sent him on his way with his hat and a cup of coffee, and he left me with a clean apartment and a David Niven movie. Ah, Puppy. There is hope for you.

11.27.2004

No Sleep for the Wicked

So last night went from the best night ever to the most twisted worst. S and I went to El Chorro - heaven - many old men were flirting with us and a great piano player was entertaining a passel of 60-somethings, all singing along to Sinatra tunes and drinking scotch. Then it was off to Durant's for a steak dinner. Then my friend L calls. She left her husband and has been living with her mom for two weeks, and says she's meeting some guy from a local (and incredibly lame) metal band at some dive bar down the street. So we're all like "girls' night out!" and since S and I were total rock stars at El Chorro and well-fed at Durant's we were pretty much up for anything.

So we went to the skuztacular Emerald Lounge and met the guy that L was there to see. He was dressed in Gap circa 1991, and he was skinny, and had greasy hair. Granted, he was a super nice guy, but his favorite band is Slipknot (???) and he was, basically, an aging hessian.

So after being abused by the opening band and the Hessian's hair, S and I retired to a quieter corner of the bar to formulate an escape plan. And then, since I had a wild hair and approximately 5 drinks in me, I called the Puppy. We previously had a few not-so-spectacular and very brief encounters since his freak-out in September, but I was looped and feeling nostalgic. And he was warm and welcoming on this particular occasion, so we agreed to meet at the Swiz.

So S and I go down there, and all is beautiful, we meet up with the Puppy and his roommate, and the Puppy says "let's go to my cousin's party." S and I are just lit enough for a go at that. And then L and the Hessian show up in his red Grand Am and they follow us to the "event." Once we walked in the door I was having high school flashbacks - and those are never in a good way. First of all, everyone was eleventeen. Second, they were playing booze card games and standing around a keg. Help me. Meanwhile, L and the Hessian are playing tonsil hockey like nobody's business, and S and I are like "blech!" So we convinced everyone to leave the party, hit another bar, and then buy beer before - brilliantly - coming back to my place to continue on with our irresponsible hell-raising.

And did I mention that L was slapping everyone because her "alternate personality" had come out (it's a super special drinking surprise!), and had just left her husband? That stuff is important. Remember that.

Anyhoo, so we all get back here and it's so much fun, we're playing music, everyone is buzzing, except for S, who crashes in my bed. Meanwhile, the Hessian leaves, and after a lengthy outdoor "goodbye," L comes back in and moves on to slapping the Puppy, and basically being truly embarrassing to be around, but the Puppy doesn't mind. He'll hook up with just about anyone - even girls with broken legs, dragging themselves down the highway. If they're vulnerable, he's in. Plus it was sloppy seconds - he was following Ugly Kid Joe - I mean, COME ON.

Long story short, S winds up taking a cab home at like 6 in the morning, and I announced to L and the Puppy at 7:30 that the dry humping must stop, so I rounded everybody up and said, "Get the fuck out." And they know I'm pissed off, and I don't care, so I drive them all back to the Puppy's - including L, who had lost her handbag at some point during the night, and would rather hang with the Puppy than with me (understandable, since he has a penis and I'm just bitter) - and say ADIOS!

Meanwhile, the only person I care about, S, had to call a cab. I felt terrible when she left. It was the end of the fun and the beginning of my personal hell. I had mentioned before that my personal hell included the smell of hotdogs and standing in line, and now I get to add the knowledge that L and the Puppy made out in my apartment.

Editor's Note: I had a lot more info here originally, but in the spirit of friendship - and all that is holy - I've decided to censor it.

11.26.2004

The Most Fucked-Up Anecdote That I Have Ever Heard

So it's Thanksgiving at my parents' house. There's always a delicious spread and a lot of people. Some for drinks, some for dinner, some for dessert. There are also the mainstays - friends who come in from out of town and spend the night. One of these is "R" who builds light planes, does a lot of hiking, etc. He retired early and now just does what he pleases while his wife - who's with a symphony - travels. It's lovely. He's a very nice man.

But he's also a Vietnam vet - a real Rambo type who was doing the kind of mind-fucking missions that he still won't talk about because they were so twisted and horrifying. And this Thanksgiving, before dinner, somebody asked "How do you say 'I don't know in French?'" And he said, "I know how to say it in Vietnamese." So he did, and then I asked, "What other Vietnamese phrases do you know?" And then I heard the most fucked-up anecdote I've ever heard in my life.

About 30 years ago, R was in an elevator in a hospital, and a nurse was trying to control two very rowdy young boys. She was having no success and R realized the boys were speaking Vietnamese. He racked his brain for something to say to them to get them to behave, and realized that he didn't know any "friendly" phrases. But he did know one that might work. He uttered it, and the boys were instantly silenced. The nurse asked, "What did you say to them?" He responded, "You don't want to know."

It was this: "Be quiet or I'll slit your throat."

Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody!

And now for the "good" news: Just had breakfast with the EH. I've been referring to him as "EH" because he was my estranged husband. Now "EH" will come to mean "ex-husband," as we agreed today on basic terms for the divorce and will be starting the process in the next few days.

There is no animosity between us - on the contrary, still a lot of love. We're just too different to make our marriage work. Because we've been living apart since March, it feels like a regular breakup - there's just more paperwork. I'd say that even in our divorce state, we've got more interest in and love for each other than most couples we know. When I look at it objectively, the whole situation seems very, very sad, but thank God, it's also liberating because we're able to pick up and move forward without losing any ground. Nobody has fallen apart, we're not angry with one another, and we've certainly learned a lot.

And here's some actual good news: He's moving back to the condo we own, and I'm getting the house. So I'll soon be knee-deep in re-fi whatnot (we'll get that in order before Le Divorce, natch, while our credit is still intact), but by Feb. 1 I should be safely ensconced in a place of my own. So it's goodbye, continental apartment! Adios, Boom Boom Bass Party! We've had some good times, but I'm ready to move on.

11.24.2004

The Pause that Refreshes

Tonight I should be sunning myself at a barstool somewhere, vodka tonic in one hand, Parliament light in the other, wearing the bangin new pumps I bought today (lizard-skin, black, slingback, pointy toe and silver stiletto) and staring at boys. Instead, I went for Vietnamese with the family (had #29 - a solid choice) and came home and took a nap! At 7:30 at night. Maybe this is why nobody calls me - it's common knowledge that if I'm not out the door by 8 p.m., I'm pretty much not going anywhere.

But really, I should be out of doors. Even though I'm quite happy at home...just don't tell anybody. I put on my flannel pajama bottoms and a tee shirt, and those spiked shoes, and called Just Joe, who chatted for about an hour about his house-hunting and my marital woes. He is looking for a new-construction home and has been shopping around the Valley for something large and fakey. I admire his dedication to wallboard. So he found this one development he's interested in out in the east Valley, but the models are out in the west Valley. So he drove all the way out there to see them - the development is called - get this: Westancia. I was like, "Joe, how come all the neighborhoods you like are named like bad bottles of wine?"

But regardless: my friend S is out tonight with her oldest girlfriends - they're hitting a swanky Scottsdale old-man bar and then - just for contrast - divey, hippie eleventeeny Casey Moore's. She was like, "Come with!" but I was just there, and probably don't need to go back. Ever. I'm too old to be hanging that close to the university.

And - a shocker - the Puppy called. He rang Sunday night and was sweet as pie on the phone. Asked me questions, was insightful, engaging, attentive. Just like when I first met him. We even got to talk rationally about why he freaked out and blew me off back in - what was it? September? I think it was September.

Anyhoo, I was reticent - not really trusting his friendly largesse, but he did ask what I would be doing tonight and invited me to go to El Chorro with him. Now, I LOVE El Chorro. It's the perfect Old Phoenix haunt. It's a rustic little hotel that sports a fabulous restaurant, one of the biggest patios in the city, and, as mentioned before, a gorgeously appointed bar with a piano player named Legs. Ahh. Heaven. So even though I wouldn't normally agree to meet up with him again, he said "El Chorro." Damn! So I said yes, absolutely! ... and then he never called.

Classic.

Technically, he's not my friend - not anymore. But he did flake on me. But to be honest, the main reason that El Chorro is so enticing on this of all evenings is because it's the place to go when you're back in town for Thanksgiving to visit your parents. So likely I would have seen a few familiar faces from high school and college. ...of course, I totally have no interest in those people socially, but I'm all about seeing what happened to them, and then mocking them later.

See how I am? Jeezus. No wonder I'm in this mess.

Ah, the Leafblower...

Who invented the leafblower? I need to have words with this person.

Why is it better to wake a whole neighborhood with a rocket-pack than for one person to carry a lovely, quiet, quiet rake, lean over, move his arms a bit...? I'd pay a bit extra in rent to skip being awakened by a jet engine under the window. At 6:50 a.m.

If I was just a skinch more awake than I seem to be, I'd haiku about how much I hate the leafblower. All the angst from last night is gone, you see, thanks to a long workout and a couple of cathartic telephonic hash-outs with some good friends. Ahhh, expressing yourself. So much easier to deal with in the morning than a hangover or violence.

Do I deserve this rude leafblower awakening? I think not!

So today my friend S from L.A. is in town. We're going to hit our favorite shopping haunt on my lunch hour, and then spend as much time as possible this weekend doing completely ridiculous girl stuff. More shopping, mostly. It soothes the troubled soul. Case in point: There is a skull brooch from Urban Outfitters that I need. I love the whole idea of it. A sweet idea, the brooch, and then the surprise - a skull and crossbones. Covered in rhinestones. Genius. And all the sparkles will fascinate me while S looks for jeans. Understand this: she is Flockhart skinny, and nobody bigger than a size 2 wants to watch a skinny girl try on jeans. Thank god I love her like a sister, because I would not participate in such an activity if she wasn't 100% awesome.

First of all, the way they cut jeans now is pure torture for anyone with flesh between their knees and their crotch. What is that body part called again? Oh, right...the THIGH. Yep, yep. Forgot about that one. Second, most jeans now come with just a tiny sliver of fabric in that general area. Sometimes it's actually difficult to maneuver a pair above the knees. Now that "designers" have conquered the stomach - no longer can women cover their perhaps not-so-flat abdomens with a looooong zipper - they've moved on to another vulnerably fleshy appendage. Yes, the thigh. Who needs one, right? Much more attractive to look like your upper body is balanced on baseball bats than to - gasp! - appear to have an actual leg sticking out from under you.

Maybe the fashion industry wants to keep the fatties in skirts? Some flesh-phobic seamstress gets queasy when thighs rub together? Perhaps it's an evil plot to conserve cotton?

I was in line somewhere the other day, watching the couple at the register doing some "It's not on the receipt, Miss" "But I own it" routine, and the female half was so scrawny, so small...she was really smaller than any child I've ever seen. Like 5'1, maybe, and about 45 pounds. She made Mary Kate Olsen look positively plump. What bothered me is that she had a - proportionately - much bigger boyfriend. I kept thinking, "Please let that be her brother," but it was apparent that he wasn't.

Poor little thing. It's bad enough to starve yourself down to children's clothes... a roll in the hay must be torture. Even if her boyfriend had a normally sized member, it would likely be bigger than - yes - her thigh. ...ohhhh... Wait a minute... Maybe that's why he likes her...

11.23.2004

It's Official -- Ted Leo Rocks.

And the winner of Information Leafblower's Top Bands in America 2004 is...Ted Leo + Pharmacists!

Here it is, kids, in black and white, complete with quotes by the reviewers:

1) TED LEO + PHARMACISTS (31) - Our generation's Billy Bragg - ILB- Smart. Literate. Politically charged. Catchy as fuckall. - Teaching The Indie Kids To Dance Again- He's been rocking at a higher level than most for three albums now, but with Shake The Sheets, he's taken it to yet another echelon: politically and lyrically he's synchronized with about half of America right now, the power trio lineup is as tight as hell and he's currently jamming econo around the country, rocking the clubs like any top band should. - Nude as The News- You said that last year, and it's even more true today after the release of the highly political (yet, more on a human-level)Shake The Sheets LP during this contentious election year. It may not be as "good" an album as his earlier albums, but it's the right album for the time (and may be the album to fall back on over the next four years of W). And as per usual, it's full of pop-punk licks & heady lyrics that make up great songs. Ted's shows are a blast, as he is an explosive ball of energy & clever quips throughout.Thank god for Ted Leo. - The Big Ticket

Download: Shake The Sheets, Little Dawn, and a live cover of Lauren Hill's Ex-Factor. And read his blog. Yes, TL blogs. It's genius. And you can listen to lots of songs on the site: www.tedleo.com. FYI: Once the world discovers the loveliness that is Ted Leo + Pharmacists, we're all moving on to Dogs Die in Hot Cars. Fire up those iPods, kiddies! Happy tunes for unhappy times.

In other news, I am, as they say, "up to here" with the denial-laden un-antics of my EH. His grasp of reality is tenuous at best right now. I realize that he is under an inordinate amount of stress, but who the fuck isn't? And he's just announced that he's NOT GOING TO WORK FOR THE ENTIRE MONTH OF DECEMBER. Who the fuck does that?!? Even Paris fucking Hilton has a day job. Since when did this grown man become so incapable of caring for himself? And when did he become so fucking SENSITIVE? I said, "It's not like you've been to war - you don't need an entire month to recover. Isn't a weekend enough?" And he says, "You don't even know what I've been through, Alisa."

And - KAPOW! - that felt like the last straw for me. i am so tired of this foolishness. Of this inability to deal with the "bad" things in life. Life is often about bad things. Skittles can't always fall from rainbows in the sky. This is what life is - moving forward until you find an obstacle, and then working to remove it. Hiding from it won't make it go away. ARG! I don't recall the last time I was this angry at someone. It does not feel good. I don't like it.

And there are more gruesome details, but I can't bear to share them. I don't
want to have a stroke or anything. Ha? So instead, I'm going to work out right now to get my angst in check. And then I'm going to send some emails, make some tomato soup, and pour myself a nice, tall drink...shite like this makes me wish that I really was more of a drunkard. It would be so lovely to tie one on without the brutal physical pain that is sure to follow more than 2 drinks in a row.

...so here's something funny to ease the psychic pain that anyone reading this must surely be experiencing, if only from how many times i said "fuck" in today's post: http://www.newyorker.com/fact/content/?041129fa_fact1



11.21.2004

I Heart Escapism

Maybe it's just the hangover, but I feel very melancholy tonight. (Haven't had a hangover in a long, long time, thankfully. Another thing I've learned is that I enjoy having one drink much more than I enjoy having three or four drinks. Oof - I must be getting old!)

Of course, it is another gray day...hope the weather isn't the trigger, though, because that seriously jeopardizes my plans for blowing this sun-spanked pop stand someday and landing in a town where grass grows without the help of professionals.

Nah...I think it's just the hangover.

Plus I was up until about 1:15 on Friday night, in anticipation of Wilco and visiting relatives who are incredibly fun to be with. Then Saturday I was up until after 2 a.m., and this morning I was out and (semi) active by 10 - breakfast with the rellies, power-shopping, errands. I finally got the down-time I needed at 8 p.m. Curled up on the sofa with a cheesy magazine, a Lifetime movie in the background and a cup of tea.

No - really. I drank tea.

And the movie - which I am not technically "watching" - is about a high-school girl who's a "cutter." Sean Young is in it. It's interesting to note that as her Sexy Factor has diminished so dramatically over the years, her limitations as an actor have become more painfully obvious. Or maybe she's just dialing in this particular role. In any case, Lifetime movies can always be counted on to drag the C-list actors out of their hiding places, and then exploit the remnants of their fame to show us how "real issues" should be dealt with.

Thank you, Lifetime. Thank you. When I watch some high-school cutter give her boyfriend a blow job so he won't try to take off her shirt and therefore see her scars, and then see her run away from home because her parents don't understand her, it helps me view my own life in a more positive light. See, Me? I don't have it so bad! At least I'm not playing tic-tac-toe on my thighs with a razor blade or talking to Rhea Perlman about my emotional problems.

Ahhh, yes. Now, that feels good.


More Cowbell!

I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me. Hunter S. Thompson (1939-)


just got home from wilco - amazing, btw. despite my previous misgivings, i must say that the band was TIGHT. after playing a bunch of tunes from Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, Summerteeth and A Ghost is Born (minus Heavy Metal Drummer and Passenger Side - bastards!) - they finished off with a cover of "don't fear the reaper" and it was genius. we thought they were kidding at first. everyone kept yelling, "more cowbell!" but by the bridge it was evident that wilco was ser-ee-ous. and so, so good. wound up next to Tweedy's sister - um, she looks like my mom - and she was adorable. very excited to see her brother so adored. I said to her, "i thought my brother was awesome because he can rollerskate backward...you win."

anyhoo, so tonight i had my fill of underage indie boys...who for some reason thought that me in a gray cashmere cardigan, long jeans and pointed pumps was like a hot grandma or something. oof. i did meet a potential puppy who bought me a vodka tonic and played human steamroller through the crowd to get me and the girlies to the front of the stage. he will be 30 on dec. 12 - the perfect puppy age - but he's a republican. what??? i wasn't having it. and i don't want to talk to jailbait anymore....what has happened to me? ha.

i knew that i was totally done with the evening when two youngsters sauntered up to our table at casey moore's, the bar we hit post-wilco. i was watching them looking at me and my girlfriends, andit was so predictable when one of them did that whole "what did you say?" routine. i just wanted to be like, "oh, kiddo, pointless! move on!" anyhoo, one wound up trying to talk up my friend b/c they were both from st louis, and the other one was like "what do you want to talk about?" and i said, "i want to talk about how i'm going to go home in a minute." and he was like "i just like to talk about what interests people. what interests you?" blah blah blah. so i said, "you're sweet, but you only ask that b/c you're 12. what are you, like 23 or something?" turns out that yes, he just turned 23. and i said, "that's why you want to talk. wait til you're 33, tired and bitter. you'll just want to go the fuck home."

he was cute, too, in a very jock way. big shoulders, perfectly fitted sweatshirt, small ears, big white teeth. but then again, NO. i felt like a chaperone. what were all these children doing out so late???

wilco was amazing. did i already say that? but all i wanted was to drive home with a guy who would be as excited about Ted Leo + the Pharmacists as I am.

11.19.2004

Worried About Wilco

So I’m seeing Wilco tomorrow night with a friend from my last job and my friend L. She recently left her husband, too! It’s going to be quite a night. Much trash will be talked, cigarettes will be smoked and grungy, inappropriately young boys will be ogled.

That part is fine. What I’m worried about is, well, Wilco. I know Jeff Tweedy is a young man, but he’s been through some shit lately. And I watched their boring movie and know that the band ain’t exactly a busload of happy campers. Plus, D saw Tom Jones last night – as much for the Man as for the Music, and reported that he was spectacular. And many panties were thrown on the stage.

A) I doubt that panties will be thrown at Wilco, since indie-rock girls are notoriously conventional in their unconventional posturing. It would be, like, totally uncool.

B) Am I overestimating how much I’m going to like the show? And along those lines, not that Tweedy is old, but the band's reputation precedes it. And I’ve sworn off seeing aging rockstars since L and her now-estranged husband dragged me and my EH to – I’m so ashamed – KC and the Sunshine Band. Now, I know that KC won’t age as well as, say, a Dylan or a Jagger – not even a Manilow or a Sedaka – but it was just plain disturbing to see a man that age sweat that much. Period.

(To top off that soul-scarring night, we had gone to dinner at the world’s worst Cajun restaurant first. Wait - is there a good one? ...I don’t even want to know.) Believe me, it wasn't my idea.

D has seen all the cornerstone gods of 70s rock artists play live – Bono, Mick, Neil, Bob and Bruce included – many times over the years. (He’s a real diehard in that regard – ask me how difficult it is to get him to download a single song post-1985 on his iPod.) But I respect his dedication to his Aging Giants. D’s thing is this: he doesn’t want to waste time or ticket money on some flash-in-the-pan band. He likes a band with staying power. And a long, long catalogue of music.

In regard to Tom Jones, he said, “that guy is still reinventing himself without losing the old TJ that everyone loves.” He asked me, “I'm wondering what Jeff Tweedy will be doing at 64!!!????” To which I responded, “Who cares what he'll be doing at 64?”

Maybe I shouldn’t worry about Wilco. Maybe not caring is the beauty of their music. It’s wholly ephemeral, sometimes beautiful, and perfect for the moment. Jeff Tweedy...maybe when he’s 64 some form of music television will try to track him down for Indie Bands Reunited or something. They'll find him living in some broke-down plantation home, his 16 grandkids all running around without shoes on, and he'll be like, "No man, I can't leave my home. It's too delicate a balance."

Sixty-four, thirty-four. Doesn't matter, I suppose, as long as they play “Passenger Side” and "Heavy Metal Drummer."

Editor's note: Wilco was amazing. Rush rush rush to see them if you possibly can.


11.18.2004

I Want to Hump Ted Leo's Voice

Please - if you know what's good for you - you'll burn rubber getting to either your nearest indie record store or amazon.com for a copy of Ted Leo + Pharmacist's "Shake the Sheets."

btw: this has nothing whatsoever to do with my Liev Schreiber fantasies.

11.17.2004

I Must Be Sick in the Head

I just got back from the gym, picked up a rice bowl (made by Mexicans - welcome to Arizona), and turned on the tv (I watch in patches, usually while I'm having dinner) to see America's Next Top Model. THEY CANNED THE FAT CHICK. Quel dommage!

Not like she was really "fat" anyway, she just kept her food down, which landed her at like a size 10. Poor thing. Meanwhile, the rest of the crew is flown to Tokyo, where they discover Hello Kitty (apparently they didn't realize it's like a plague over there - or that it's a Japanese creation) and learn how to pronounce "Yohji Yamamoto."

So here's my sickness: I'd rather blog right now than do any actual communicating with my friends. One old gal-pal emailed me and asked "what are you up to?" ... um... i referred her to my blog.

help.

Does Anyone Know Liev Schreiber?

Because I need to meet him, snog him, and then go for a nice dinner with him. Maybe Indian food.

So, if you have the Liev digits they would be really helpful.

Thanks - you're a lamb.

Back to reality (it bites, by the way), the EH has my blog url. He recently read my insane ramblings and was, well, less than appreciative. "But," I babbled, "I said the nookie was incredible!" Still, feelings were hurt, even though much of this is just a cathartic flush. And I don't want to cause hurt - not at all.

I know, I know - why give your Est-Hub the address in the first place, moron? I have an excuse...it was at the very beginning of my blogging adventure - the first day, in fact. I was excited. I wanted to share. He seemed disinterested - and rightfully so - what man in his position wants to read what his ridiculous estranged wife has to say? So thinking he would not be reading, I let it all hang out. Ouch. Again - I'm so sorry.

So I'm learning a few things the hard way. Seems to be a specialty of mine. When I was six years old I refused to ride a bicycle - my mom tried again and again to get my stubborn little body on one, to no avail. She gave up, only to find me about a month later, happily circling the driveway on a neighbor's bike, kicking back on the banana seat, handlebar streamers flying, an Andy Gibb 8-track warbling in the background...

In other news, I'm quickly learning why divorce leaves people with such bad credit: It's because you have to buy everything you own all over again. In six short months I've purchased a bed, a computer, a sofa, and about $800 worth of shoes and accessories. (Very, very necessary for mental health. Natch.) I think this separation would be so much less expensive if I had just turned to booze!

Well, maybe not.

Another thing I've learned: to trust myself. I like my instincts. For instance, as much as I knew it was the right thing to do, I was afraid to live on my own (I've always had a roommate; not necessarily a good thing). So despite the fear (and the sense of "unnaturalness"), I landed myself a funktastic 60s-era mid-town apartment with huge rooms and 15-foot ceilings. It's so natty in a Christopher-Walken-as-The-Continental sort of way. I adore it. So what if my neighbor hosts his own personal Sunday Boom-Boom Bass Party that makes my ears bleed. So what if the toilet mysteriously flushes itself every 5 minutes. So what if, like last night, I came home from work and encountered a slightly sinister-looking beat-up old Mercedes with a giant "metal rules" sticker across the windshield and bald "black-wall" tires parked menacingly in my space. That's just city living!

Does all of this sound horribly selfish? Like I am some conceited beast who left a sweet, trusting man in the dust because he didn't do the dishes? ...and what if that's true? ... Yikes. Don't get me wrong - despite my acerbic voice I'm a sappy, mushy bundle of sweetness. I value fealty and honesty, and I give as good as i get. I like being affectionate, and I like that the EH is a sensitive guy. I also like his sense of morality and his sense of humor (mainly b/c he thinks I'm funny - occasionally). And I loved doing things for him - those warmly satisfying little things that say "I love you." But I've come to realize that what I really enjoy - at least for now - is doing things for myself. And I don't want to feel guilty about it anymore.

When the EH and I spend time together it's very low-key and gentle, but I often feel like I'm running him over with my personality. That's me in a nutshell, I guess: Steamroller Bride. I love you, but I'm going to squash you.

Maybe it's just too darn easy to think about what you want when you've already got something. When I was single, I was always of the mind that I couldn't predict what kind of man would turn me on. (When I got married, I thought it was right to go with "safety" and forfeit "possibilities." We were best friends, and in love, and we were living together, and I even told him once that if we weren't going to "move forward" then we should think about splitting up. That's so me, right? Never satisfied! What a jerk.) But now I see clearly what I need from a partner to keep me within my comfort level: it has to be someone driven, passionate and fairly fearless. Someone who enjoys making decisions. Someone with a big, big laugh. (EH...if - god forbid - you're reading this, you know that you're a "silent laugher." How many times have I asked you to "let it out"? It's so Seinfeld of you, and perhaps indicative of the other things you keep inside...?)

It's also quite obvious that I need someone who has just as much to say as I do.

Also: It’s seriously weird how my attractions have changed in only a few years. I now look at men in their 40s with a lust that only a new pair of pumps can rival. My "new" ideal is a 38-year-old guy with a wacked-out sense of humor, shelves full of books, an appreciation for cashmere pull-overs, a stocked pantry, a yen for travel and live music, a bit of his wild child still intact and functioning, and a deep appreciation for kooky girls. Which – ha ha? - is the only thing that would attract said man to me. I definitely need a man who appreciates a woman with a sense of humor.

On that "new man-flesh" note, NYC D told me today that New York Magazine just ran a huge article about how many Americans have herpes - one in four, they say. Is that even possible? I can't wrap my brain around it - that is a fuckload of contamination! D exclaimed, "I'm not having sex with anyone ever again - not even my wife!" (I advised him to keep his hands off himself, as well, since he obviously has no idea where he's been.) And then he told me that even if (ha - "if") I divorce, I should not have sex with anyone other than the EH.

Oh no...I just turned around to the tv and saw Hulk Hogan's daughter - um, who the hell is this person and why does the world care? She was behind a keyboard, heavily made-up, hair bleached to a shade that borders on "clear," dressed like an 85-year-old Appalachian stripper, and she was singing. Thankfully, there was a narrative voice-over so I didn't have to hear her song. And based on the way she looked...I'd say she likely can't sing, but she's definitely got the herp.


Note to Self: Fuck Closure

Everyone has someone in their life who has been "left behind," or perhaps you are that person for someone else. Whether it was by your will or theirs, you may feel that you still have unfinished business with this person, even years later. And I hate to be the one to tell you this, but actually, you don't. Your business with that person is finished - this is why you're no longer friends/lovers/family. Trust me on this one. No need to elaborate, really. Just...trust me...

In other news, I had a lovely time Friday night hanging out with one half of the Lesbian Folk-Singer Duo, though the main theme of the night was the demolition of our respective relationships. We've known each other forever, and have the chops for helping each other "keep it real" (* see note below) during breakups and makeups, but all of them have been with men. This particular relationship was her first experience as either a lesbian or a folk singer. And since I had the history with her (and no sense of tact), I was dying to know: Was she Ellen or Anne? Would she continue along the Sapphic path, or trade in chicks for dicks? Turns out that she doesn't even know herself. Ah, life. There's always a surprise around the bend.

We hung first at Dick's Hideaway, because it almost goes without saying that a place called Dick's Hideaway is the perfect place to take a lesbian friend after a breakup. Plus they have decadent prickly-pear margaritas. When we could no longer handle the human press (it's a tiny place, and after the fifth reach-over by a friendly but intrusive patron for a beer/bill), we were ready to plow more fertile drinking ground. On to the Swizzle Inn, milady! The Swiz, as mentioned in this blog before, is a dive bar that can only be described as "genius." There is just enough good music on the jukebox to keep you interested, the lighting is dark and moody, and there is a bizarre island theme throughout - topped off by statuettes of seagulls, rustically framed seascapes, and a small atrium filled with tropical plants and sundry ship-related paraphernalia. Likewise, the drinks are strong and cheap. So strong, in fact, that The Swiz is widely known (among the few who know about it) as the only bar in town where you have to sneak in your own mixers.

Just in time for the holidays, which I'm sure are more than slightly depressing for some of its patrons, the Swiz was decorated for Christmas. All the whatnot brightened the place up, but in a hugely demented way. Every inch of the walls was covered in sheets of holiday lights, the ceiling was strung - cracktacularly - with a thousand fuzzy, white streamers, and hung from them every few inches was a glass ornament in gold, green or red. There must have been a thousand of them. And no surface was left undreckorated - even the restroom doors were considered - and duly covered in Christmas wrapping paper. I was very, very afraid.

What made it even more surreal was that the extra light the decorations afforded gave us girls an uncompromising view of the other barflies, and they're not, um, "conventionally" attractive, if you get my drift. One couple went in for a long and what surely must have been sloppy kiss, and I stared in fascination. I could not, for the life of me, determine if they were two men, two women, a woman and a man...? It was only clear that both of them had thick necks, mullet-ish haircuts and goatees, but that was all I could ascertain until they broke...yeesh.

I haven't been to the Swiz in about six weeks, and it looks very much like I'd better wait another six to return. Or at least until they go back to their usual dank lighting scheme.

What else? Well, I am hugely excited about my new computer. I spent about two hours just now burning CDs. It's so addictive, and I feel like I'm back in high school, making mixed tapes that leave my friends going, "Wha?" My musical tastes were always significantly different from my peers' until I graduated from college. For example, in the third grade I did a project that involved background music. I chose "Major Tom," but the general zeitgeist at that time was more about "Keep on Loving You." In junior high, I listened to U2 albums from the import store, while all around me there was a Wham! fixation and an explosion of Durannees in asymetrically collared shirts. In high school, I was devoted to Elvis Costello, while the Bon Jovi bandwagon raced by with big-hair-raising speed - my entire high school upon it. In college, I rebelled against Top 40 - in protest I went back to the 70s for Earth, Wind & Fire - with an occasionnal dabble in The Beastie Boys during their Check Your Head phase and a bit of Jane's Addiction - while my roommates listened to Vanilla Ice (freshman year), Madonna (sophomore year) and Pearl Jam (junior year). (Side note: Was there anything worse than early 90s rap? "Bust a Move"? "Ice, Ice, Baby"? "Hammertime"??? Late 80s rap was brilliant, however. * On Saturday night EH and I watched "Ali G Indahouse," and I found it hilarious - which the EH attributes to being stoned out of my gourd, not the hilarity of the flick - but in any case, the opening theme music was "Straight Outta Compton," which played as Ali G ran his hot-yellow rag-top through its hydraulics while wearing a hopelessly gaudy track suit and looking incredibly uncool, and it was genius.)

In other motoring news, there were odd dashboard lights flickering on lately in my car and I was getting worried. Little icons on the dash, yelling "oil!" and "water!" and since the car had 9 miles on it when I bought it in April, and the dealership said I wouldn't have to do any maintenance for 15,000 miles, I was freaking out, just a little, so I drove my vehicle to the dealership bright and fucking early Saturday morning. The service-writer was so nice - considering that he was dealing with a moron. I mean, I figured that my electrical system was on the fritz. ...ahhh, nope. Turns out that I just needed to top off the oil and water.

But the experience felt good - truly - everyone needs one of those "you're kind of an idiot sometimes" reminders every now and then. I just happened to get mine at 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning. And this is after I had spent a few hours drinking on Friday night. Amazing. And frankly, sometimes I cannot believe how high my energy level can be. I discussed it with D, because I was like, "I feel like I'm cracked out," and he assured me that I am just energized from a brain-stimulating new job, a delicious sex life (despite the separation), and the cooler weather. (That is why I love D - it's nice not to be taken too seriously by your friends.) And despite the embarrassment, there was one highlight about the incident at the car dealership: I got to see the new M5. It was the sexiest car I've ever seen. I feel the need to lick it.



11.14.2004

One More Day

It has been killling me not to blog recently, but since I am too busy at the new job to spend the QT online that I could at my previous post, I haven't been very regular about it. It has been more like a kamikaze effort - stopping by my parents' house and using their office while they're out. And since I hate using my mom's laptop, and my dad is usually parked in front of his desktop, it can be a frustrating wait. But I have solved the problem.

Yesterday I picked up a new system, all for me, me, me. I've got a 17-inch flat screen monitor, a CD-writer and a DVD-writer, and the printer also scans, copies and folds my laundry. All for $800! It feels like Christmas.

And speaking of feeling like Christmas, I'm about to venture to the local Macy's to pick up a pair of tights. (I just bought a pair of distressed brown leather motorcycle-girly boots and plan on wearing them with a Club Monaco skirt that I picked up in NYC for $9.99 - god, I heart bargains like that.) Anyhoo, I am afraid that the Macy's will be all Christmas-ed out - with gaudily decorated trees and horrible piped-in Celine Dion holiday songs following me through the accessories section.

Christmas in Phoenix is especially bizarre, though, no matter where you go. First of all, this city has a rather large Jewish population - not to mention a plethora of other religions, natch - and yet not a single store-owner has thought twice about setting out nativity scenes or choosing "Silent Night" over "Winter Wonderland" on the in-store playlist. Second, the nearest snow is 100 miles from here, and it's usually about 60 degrees, but come Xmas you'll see SUVs with wreaths on them, and pedestrians in ski parkas and mittens. As if.

So my brother just showed up. He is a King among men and I must send this off so we can spend a few minutes making fun of each other. Ah, life. It can be golden.

11.10.2004

Breaking Up is Hard to Do...

"I find that alcohol, taken in sufficient amounts, produces
all the effects of intoxication."
~ Oscar Wilde

"Alcohol, will you please forgive me? For if I cannot love myself, I'll use something else."
~ Barenaked Ladies

Just found out that one of my closest girlies drove herself to AA Sunday morning after a brutal Saturday binge (that culminated in a humiliating early-morning appearance at her ex-fiance's house), and has been going to AA every night since.

I am very proud of her. That takes some goddamn willpower, doesn't it?

xoxo



11.09.2004

But Then Again, No...

For those of you who don't know where "but then again, no" is from (of all the thousands of people reading this mess out there in tv-land), it is a lyric from my favorite Bad Elton John Song. (Of which there are many.) It's from "Your Song," and it goes, "I could have been a sculptor, but then again, no."

Which leads me to...

It turns out that I prematurely blogged yesterday about possible reconciliation with El Hubbito. Last night I dropped by his/our house to pick something up (got a gooood look at the motorhome in my side yard - oof!), and while hugging our goodbye he said that he was still freaked out about everything and not sure where his head was at. I was okay with it, didn't wind up bawling like I used to, but again, I felt confused. After knowing him for more than 5 years, I still cannot read him. (I thought he was committing to reuniting. You know, like Peaches & Herb. I'm Peaches, natch.) A good sign for a successful marriage? Not so much.

To be fair, we've discussed waiting until after Thanksgiving to make decisions, but he doesn't exactly get me all excited about the pastabilities, you know?

So, the new (old) plan: trudge on, sister. Trudge on.

In more delightful news... one more person has learned about the wonders that are Earlimart. A girl I used to work with. Go, K, go! Now I must continue on with my mission to spread the gospel - next up, Ted Leo + the Pharmacists...



11.08.2004

Mmm, the Wine Does Go Well with the Chicken

So I'm 33 years old, and having lunch every day at my parents' house. Is something wrong with this picture?

Mainly it's for two reasons:

1. I would just shop for shoes if I didn't go there, since I (weirdly) am not a big fan of going out to lunch. (Love going out to breakfast and dinner, so there you go.)

2. I won't get a paycheck until Nov. 19, and then only for 8 days of work. Then not another one until Dec. 2. So the good news is that I'll have three delicious paychecks in December. The bad news is that I have like 75 cents to my name until then. My dad has a PO Box. I'll happily supply the address if you'd like to send donations. I like dark chocolate, expensive handbags and Vietnamese food. Do with that what you will.

Oh, and then there's this: the Estranged Hubby and I (I almost didn't call him estranged!) are at this amazing new juncture where we make each other happy again. (Editor's note, two days later: Pathetically, i just remembered that the last person I said "we make each other happy" about was the Puppy, who wrote me off for a spiral into self-destruction and cocaine use. Good times.) He invited me to a barbecue at his brother's house, and I invited him to the holiday party for my new job. (I need him as a chaperone, natch.) And emotionally it seems that we're over the hump (but not the humping) and have finally been able to put past hurts where they belong - in the past - and consider a new future together, starting from where we are now. I never thought we'd get here. We've even talked about moving me back into the house when my apartment lease is up...and then, there's this: the lesbian folk singers broke up, and one of them is moving to L.A. She was going to take her motorhome with her, but last-minute got an invitation to crash at a friend's place. Which means the motorhome stays in Phoenix. But here's the twist: either A) the girl who is staying doesn't want the Winnie parked in front of her house anymore, or B) the L.A.-bound girl doesn't feel comfortable leaving it there, SO IT'S NOW PARKED AT MY HOUSE.

Yes, kids, if I move home, I will move to the Ozarks. Next up, a sofa for the front lawn! What say?

And just as an aside...yesterday I finished off the fabbo (as D would say) weekend with two tremendous viewings:

1. “Sideways,” with Paul Giamatti, one of my favorite actors. It was hilarious and touching and grown-up - not at all my usual fare! But thanks to my mail-in movies I'm branching out, and have gained an appreciation for flicks that use multi-syllabic words and don't throw in emaciated girls with implants every 5 minutes to keep the man-viewers alert. Plus my parents bought me a ticket. If they had bought me a ticket to "Team America" I would have seen that, too. So there you go.

2. “The Times of Harvey Milk,” an account of the powerful effect that one man’s briefly held seat in San Francisco city government had on every minority in the city in the early 70s. It was heart-wrenching and a must-see for anyone who – like me – can forget that civil rights aren’t a given.

And speaking of civil rights!!! I just this moment found out that Bush is reinstating a commission that has been out of commission for a number of years. It's the FDA's Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee. The main guy is Dr. W. David Hager, author of "As Jesus Cared for Women: Restoring Women Then and Now," a "book that blends biblical accounts of Christ healing women with case studies from Hager's practice." He's "a practicing OBGYN who is pro-life and refuses to prescribe contraceptives to unmarried women." And, here's one that I can't help but share: he believes that women who are suffering from PMS need to find relief from READING THE BIBLE AND PRAYING. Do I even need to comment? Oh, but I so need to visit this dude's office when I am PMS-ing! I guaranfuckingtee that I can change his mind about praying for relief...

And there's more sizzling juice about this enlightened, open-minded forward-looking motherfucker, but I can't repeat it without being violently puketastic all over this keyboard.

Be afraid, girls. Be very, very afraid.


11.06.2004

Office Attire

So the new gig is going well, though it has only been three days. My main problem is that my work wardrobe for the past eight years has consisted of jeans and saucy sandals. And this is a closed-toed office. And they're dressing for winter, even though it's still 80 degrees outside. THIS IS PHOENIX, PEOPLE. I refuse to buy into The Man's proscription that since it's November, sweaters will be worn. I'm still using the AC in my car! There is no way I'm not wearing short-sleeved shirts to work. But back to their dress code: it's positively archaic. But everyone does look really nice. I just can't do nice. I can put on a blazer just like anyone else, but my blazer will be lavender velvet - not boring black suiting. I have mid-heel pumps, but they're shiny lizard-print with kitten heels, or hot yellow. And my hair! Oh! These people don't have chic hairdos, but they do know how to pull their tresses off their faces and attach something more than a black band to their ponytails. And they wear makeup every day...oof, I can't do it. I'll try to Stepford myself up as best I can, but gosh darnit, I gotta be me.

So here's what really blows my mind about the new oficina: everyone - to a person - is intelligent and well-spoken. This is a real departure for me. Usually some to many of my office-mates are still dragging their knuckles, discussing the latest "Everybody Loves Raymond" and grunting over Lean Cuisines at the lunch table. This practically goes unsaid, but it is truly intoxicating to work with smarties.

Yesterday, the woman who sits across from me divulged her secret television obsession: she's a news junkie. She says she reads 5 papers a day and flips through news stations on tv when she gets home. I told her how I like to watch home shopping when I'm feeling sinister. She was not impressed. For once, I'm the dumb one! Ah! It's truly refreshing.

By the way, I am getting fatter every day. No doubt Richard Simmons will be pulling up to my door in a matter of moments, wearing sparkly short shorts, crying, and carrying the Jaws of Life. No, really. Right now I'm in my gym clothes, and I just looked down to see my left boob puffing out above my sports bra. Dude. I've really let myself go! But at least I'm still getting the A+ Nookie from the Estranged Hubbity. Last night was a real barn-burner, too. He came over for my Chinese eggplant dish and stayed for a little conjugal visitation. Yahoo! God Bless America!

So this morning my parents aged 30 years. Because my idiot downstairs neighbor started early with his Weekend Boom-Boom Bass Party, I went to the rents' house to find my mom in bed at 10 am, watching - this is so disturbing - Operation Dumbo Drop...because it was the only movie that was starting at the time she turned on the tv... And my dad was in his office, typing his latest manuscript, and avoiding Operation Dumbo Drop, when the phone rang. My mom called out, "Pick up the phone - the one in here isn't charged," so my dad answered, and a moment later yelled back, "It's for you - discount." I won't go into the extended "who is it" "I don't know" volley, but Mom's curiosity was piqued, so she got up and walked through the house to the office, only to return moments later with the announcement that on the other end of the line was someone trying to sell her discount computer parts. And apparently, my dad knew this. I was hysterical - it was seriously one of their most comedic exchanges on record - and my mom was like, "Why is this so funny to you?" Why, Mom? Because you just became old people.





11.04.2004

And That Was The Week That Wasn't

First of all, let me express my significant displeasure with the election results. As I was driving this afternoon, my adrenalin started pumping ... I was behind an extremely slow driver who had not one, not two, but three Bush/Cheney stickers on her vehicle, plus one that read "Boycott France." I'm not proud of what I did, but I got in the next lane, floored it, and flipped her off! I couldn't help myself...then this evening, at a grocery store, I saw one that read "W is for Women."

Please, you closed-minded morons...if "W" is for anything, it is most certainly not for women. All I want to do is scream FUCK YOU FUCK FUCK FUCK YOU to these people. They bring out such rancor in me, such disgust, such violence - the exact things that I find the least appealing about them. For me, driving would be a whole lot more enjoyable if bumper stickers did not exist. All I need is a nice, juicy abortion sticker right now to send me completely postal.

So this afternoon, my friend S and I were commiserating (though SHE DIDN'T VOTE, so I am very, very upset with her). She had been listening to an L.A. classic rock station (her first mistake) and reported that "they were talking about how they agree with a lot, a lot of things that bush is gonna do but a lot of the other "moral things" and then they go into this conversation about how at least racism is improving....and i'm like WHAT? WHAT? oh moma, it sends cold shivers down my spine. i really don't know what to hate more the ignorant, the greedy or the no lip satan himself."

And I recalled that in the book "The Pillars of the Earth" there's a pig-stealing outlaw named Faramond Openmouth. He bashes a young girl in the head, steals a family's hard-earned pennies and spends them on ale and whores, and finally, is accidentally killed by the nonviolent father of said family. The father had no intent to kill - only to retrieve what was his. He had no instinct to avenge the violence done to his daughter, and then committed a heinous act of violence himself.

Just food for thought. And I'm thinking "Bush. Bumper stickers. Peacenik Alisa. All those 'fuck-yous.'" Please, everyone, keep me away from pigs.



11.01.2004

Oh No I Did-int!

Oh yes, I did. Yesterday I watched a Lifetime movie...starring Dan Cortese...it was a thriller...based on the book "The Lottery"....Keri Russell was in it...she threw a rock at her mother...and did I mention Dan Cortese?

So today it's like 70 degrees here in the Valley of the Sunstroke...and my officemates have turned on the heat. They're all complaining about having cold hands. They can never, ever leave the state. Sad. But I think the most disturbing part of this "it's November, let's just call it winter" trend is watching the morning commuters hugging coffees and wearing scarves in the car. This morning I saw a man on a bike...he was wearing a knit cap, a scarf and a ski parka. Huh?

Also: today is a banner day. My last day at work! Well, not forever; I haven't won the lottery or anything. (And if I do, don't come hitting me up for money. I might spring for a few dinners out, but what's mine is mine! Muh-hah-hah!) I start the new gig on Weds and I'm truly excited. The only bad part (other than that awkward first month where you try to figure out the office politics and who the cool kids are) is that nobody wears jeans. Wha? It's like twinsets and khakis. I can't handle that. It's so not me. I'll look as nice as you want me to, but between the waist and the shoes I only have one look: denim. It's going to be a major transition.

Of course, my mother says that "it's about time I started dressing like an adult" and that "I'll feel better once I start taking care of myself."

But she might have a point. I brushed my hair today, and damn if I don't feel just a skinch better than yesterday, when I didn't brush my hair.

ps: did you just read this entire post? here...read this and cleanse yourself. the nice boy makes a funny. http://www.jeffreyrosslive.com/article.htm

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