Saturday, January 1, 2011

2010 ABCs of the Snarky Girl's LIfe

This was a list inspired by a terrifying website about preppies (yes, I may wear Sperry Top Siders occasionally and own some Ralph Lauren shirts, but this was over the top in the manner in which baking a cake is nice, but then Martha tells you to bake the cake with eggs from your own chickens, shape it into a sailboat, handcut doilies out of napkins, and create a punch with home-grown strawberries and the blood of the idiots who do not get up before 4am on Saturdays to do all these things. That intense.) Included on the preppy list (which I shit you not is written by a woman named Muffy) were "Birding," "Volvos," and "Wool." God that all sounds fun.

So I whipped up a few of my own. If any of these sound familiar, you've come to the right place.

A – Alcoholic tendencies while remaining moderately functional in life (ie – not puking at work or out-of-doors, avoiding Jagerbombs and beverages that are on fire, beating that 'drunk in public' charge, not drinking out of brown paper bags, holding down a six-figure job where 90% of your office drinks just as much as you, so…. financial something or other probably.)

B – Belittling people, mostly internally, that you are jealous of – like how Megan Fox sounds like a moron every time she opens her mouth, Jennifer Aniston and her perfect abs will likely die alone, and how even though all your friends are married, their husbands are probably mostly bald, subservient douchebags.

C – Constantly forgetting the endings of TV episodes because you were drinking, and then when you go to watch the new one, you have no idea what is going on. Easily remedied when you watch shows on premium channels that do the “Last time on True Blood, there was lots of violent sex, Jason was revealed to be an oversize leprechaun who can shoot lasers out of his eyes, Tara cried a lot, everyone looked hot/sticky, Eric’s super hot, and Sookie is in the middle of all of it.”

D – Daydreaming about how what an awesome rich person you would be – skinny, tan, saving puppies and dolphins, amassing a colossal wine collection, and throwing epic theme/fancy dress parties. You would be fast friends with Victoria Beckham with whom you would talk mad shit about Katie Holmes and that looney toons “marriage” of hers (or worse those huge jeans she wears and rolls up.)

E – Excitedly squealing like its Christmas morning when you find that bottle of vodka you hid in your rain boot because your boyfriend seems to be monitoring your weekly bottle count. (Also effective is switching to box wine – I recommend the Target cab/shiraz blend.)

F – Fighting every urge you have to the contrary, posting a ‘congrats on your new baby’ message on yet another friend’s facebook wall, while you pause your DVRd episode marathon of Dexter to fix yourself yet another cocktail of vodka and loneliness, pondering why a serial killer can get married and have babies but your sorry ass can’t.

G – Groaning in anticipatory agony as you reach for your phone in the morning to read through the texts filled with garbage, nonsense, sexual innuendos, proclamations of love like “I loooooovbbe you soooo much we neeed to hng out morrrbe!” to the bitch you have been mad at for three months but then “Umbrella/Goldigger/Womanizer” came on and it made you miss her.

H – Having to go to dinner with your friend and her remarkably douchey husband whose tie knots are the size of half a grilled cheese sandwich and ‘stores’ his sunglasses on the back of his head and says things like “Yeah we totally started to crush it yesterday at like noon,” which in douche means that’s when he and his douchey friends began drinking adult beverages, most likely some Jaeger-Red Bull-Sparxx concoction.

I – Instantly thinking, “Stupid bitch” when some girl stares at your shoes/purse/whatever, and then feeling like an ass when she says how much she loves them.

J – Justifying eating a cheeseburger from McDonalds because it is simply the only thing that will cure your hangover. And of course fries, because you are not a communist. Other days, however, you skip meals to save the calories for alcohol. Duh.

K – Knowing that you are totally happy just going home to put on sweats advertising a university you did not attend, nor did you ever visit and have no idea where said sweats came from, drink Target box wine from a mug and cry at Glee because you wish you had some kind of talent, (or at Grey’s because you don’t have 25 friends who you conveniently work with, are related to, married to, and/or married to your BFF/soulmate who totally ‘gets you.’)

L – Learning that Esquire and GQ have articles that are 10,000 times less intelligence-insulting and more useful than chick magazines. Cosmo has given us a billion tips for giving blow jobs upside down with a mouthful of Jujubees or how to make a pile of lettuce more fun by throwing in some… beans! Whoo-hooo! But the guys actually get to read about things like Cocktails Every Decent Drinker Should Master (Manhattans, people! Not Sex on Your Face, or whatever sluts are drinking nowadays), How to Sew a Button (no really, I could use that), Best Recipe for …something including MEAT – ribs, steak, chili -- real food that can be eaten with fries and/or cheese! Also articles about pirates, con-men, spies, the crazies at Comic Con! Those sound interesting.

M – Mourning the death of simple manners and decorum. (And by that I don’t mean it’s not ok for us to act more like Don Draper than Betty.) I mean that no one says please and thank you, handwrites notes, holds doors, offers seats on the train to ladies like us. But I’m old-school. I think we can at least agree on not displaying muffin tops or thongs, not cursing loudly into your phone when in public, being genteel to your waiter/housekeeper/janitor at work/order-taker at McDonalds because God Bless You that you don’t have to do that job. Everyone should have to watch the great Louis CK’s “Everything’s Amazing and Nobody’s Happy” clip. Brilliant.

N – Never answering your phone. If it’s important, they can text you.

O – Ordering a bottle of wine with dinner and defiantly snarking back at the judgmental server that “Yes, I said just ONE glass, thankyouverymuch, Britnee.”

P – Pretending that simply by being the funniest of all your friends, word of this will get out, and you will be offered a late night talk show. Any day now!

Q – Questioning your choice in men, when in the course of one week, he has asked you in all sincerity – “Who is this Gordon Gekko?”… “Is hot mess a good thing or a bad thing?”… “Why do you throw the remote at my head when I drink the last of the vodka?” … “Do you think you could help me clean up around here instead of just laying there watching football?”

R – Requiring that your friends never wear in your presence: crocs, tennis shoes with jeans, Tevas, cycling wear, most American Apparel items, leggings as pants, jaunty hats, strapless dresses displaying prominent tan lines, any fragrance from Victoria’s Secret, anything on your body that sparkles/shimmers, rompers of course, ass-shaping shoes… just to name a few fashion crimes.

S – Silently wanting to punch all girls in the face who talk about the last cleanse they did, say no to nachos at happy hour, have half a slice of 97-grain bread with egg white omelets for breakfast, talk about how great their workout was (especially if while still in douchey overpriced LuluLemon workout gear), get up before 11am on weekends to grab coffee with hubby at some quaint outdoor bistro/take the dogs for a hike in actual mountains/practice for a 20k/snag the best organic produce at the Farmer’s market/etc…

T – Trying to make it sound like being single is simply THE way to go! I can take a vacation on a moment’s notice! (Alone.) I can drink my face off on any night because there will be no loud crying at 4am to wake me up! (Mostly because it’ll be me.) I can curse all I want! (Why in the fuck don’t I have a goddman decent guy when that whorebag Jessica from college lands a rich funny guy who adores her?! FFUUUUUUUUCCCKKKK ME!!!” *sobbing*

U – Usually greeted with warm “Heys!” and “Hellos!” upon entering your neighborhood liquor store to purchase cheap wine, sweet tea vodka, or a giant bottle of Arrogant Bastard ale. Bonus points if they ask where you’ve been. Triple points if you send your boyfriend the next night to buy more. (Or you pull the “Yeah, big dinner party last night! Cleaned us out!” line.)

V – Violently objecting to all movies that star or feature Jennifers Lopez/Garner/Aniston, Matthew McConnaghyeyee, Kate Hudson, Cameron Diaz, Tara Reid, Ashton Kutcher, …and about 100 more. We all have that one friend that LOVES those, which is useful because you can say:

“Hey Katie, did you like JustFriendsExesSillyMistakenIdentityTrappedSomewhereLearntoLove?”

“Yes it was ADORABLE! And so many peppy/touching montages!”

“Thank you, I will now avoid that film like toxic waste and/or Hot Topic.”

W – Wink at your pill bottle just like our rich, snarky, heartless, boozing hero, Lucille Bluth.

X – Xanax, clonazepam, lexapro, ativan, wellbutrin, adderall, ambien… Valley of the Dolls is alive and well in my purse.

Y – Your senior quote may have been “Wickedness is a myth created by good people to account for the curious attractiveness of others.” By another of our snarky heroes, Oscar Wilde.

Z – Zzzzzzz’s – perfectly acceptable to grab a few on your couch most nights. Because you are tired from work, not because you are passed out. Ahem.

Of Rags and Riches

If I were to believe the wise fashion owls over at Vogue, and even at the slightly less absurd InStyle and Allure, apparently the modern woman is making millions of dollars by the day. Really, those $1900 boots are a “must-have” for Fall? No, having a roof over my head to protect me from the shit that passes for weather in San Francisco is far more worth my $1900 than your crazy fleecy lumberjack hooker boots. People, do you recall “duck boots”? – you find them in Lands End and LL Bean, they’re the ones that lace up and have the ribby tan bottoms for wearing around in the rain? Somebody, I believe one T. Hilf. has produced a pair that have a 4 inch heel and extend above one’s knee!!! Who are these marketed towards? I used to wear those to muck out horses’ stalls. Yes to shovel shit. And T. Hilf. either assumes that I have hit paydirt and married rich and these boots will remind me of my childhood, but in a super slutty way…. Or that the fancy people will think fondly of the “help” that shovels their horses’ shit and think “how quaint” – just like shabby chic! Oh and cotton cargos for $225? Yes please! InStyle assures me I will love them all season, so thank goodness. How do you just have $2,000 handy to buy a snakeskin clutch? And why would you? The best lip treatment of the year, aka the best chapstick is $22.50. Maybe the tube is 12 inches long, then it makes sense. Except that a foot long chapstick would be pretty inconvenient, even with all those pockets on your $225 cargo pants.

Also, yes, Tiffany’s, I should just start collecting those cutesy “remember special moments” rings, oops that would be “Celebration” rings, that are thousands of dollars each as well (one is actually $13,000), ya know, just to reflect on the little milestones in life. This is how that would play out in my life: “Oh honey, here’s the one from the time we robbed that 7-11 to buy you this ring. Awww! Oh, here’s the one commemorating when you sold your eggs to that research clinic in France. Tee-hee! This one celebrates that black market kidney deal back in ‘04! Awwww! I love us! And money and things and stuff!”

I mean, I’m not sporting a casio watch and sketchers, and thoughts of TJ Maxx and Ross terrify me, but really? Am I doing something horribly wrong because I can’t afford a pair of Louboutins? What the hell, world? Sorry… America? Yes, J. Crew you make an excellent point -- you were considerate enough to make your cashmere cardigan in 24 colors, I should nab a whole bunch. They’re only $116 each. I honestly have a gift card for J. Crew from a birthday three years ago because I am crippled with the pressure of what to buy.

However, when one is forced to use public transportation (by not being able to pay $410 per month for parking at work – seriously, for a parking spot. Cause that’s not insane. My car could have its own apartment in Las Vegas for that. Oooooh I smell sitcom!) Anyway, where was I? Oh so being forced to ride public transportation (which I would rather shovel shit than do), I realize that yes, I may be pretty well off. I am fortunate enough to live in a nice neighborhood that unfortunately falls in the path of the infamous T line – which originates from the worst, dirtiest, most crime-ridden ghetto in this fair city by the bay. Or it’s possibly a Spike Lee movie set. So this makes my commute endlessly fascinating. I think I’ve ranted about it enough previously so I digress.

Here’s my “hell-in-a-handbasket” revelation for the day: Riding this train is a hot mess of emotions for me because on the one hand, I am probably far better off than most of the other patrons and quite thankful for that…but then I end up feeling icky because while I am sitting there judging Mr. Gold Teeth with his speaker-backpack, and Precious’ twin with her flowery “Flirt Alert” messenger bag, it dawns on me that I am on the same train. (No I did not just get hit by lightning for saying that, but thanks for your concern.)

Here is where I would write some sappy ass “we are the world” revelation about humanity and how blessed I am and how envy is a sin and blah blah blah, but no sorry, not being rich fucking sucks! That’s the moral of my tangent! Kanye West just got DIAMOND TEETH, and all I want is a simple rainbow of classic cardigans! I have tasted a $2,000 bottle of wine and it IS better than anything else I’ve ever put in my face!! Oh god why did I mention wine?? I’ve awakened the sleeping (passed out) demon who makes me drink. My dark passenger. I am the Dexter of drinking! It is rumored that yesterday, I watched Date Night, hid vodka in the oven, cooked pasta fully nude, and shaved my cat. Get out of the gutter, you, I am talking about a real cat! It was just a trim, anyway. She drew the line at letting me paint her nails. Feisty. So clearly, a great weekend was had by all. Also, of note: Target, mecca that it is already, is making their own brand of crystal-light-type bottle packets…. in MARGARITA flavor. Happy Monday.

10 Things I Am Not Happy About

10. Member of the Enormous Douchebag Club, Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino has just published a BOOK. An actual book. On Amazon and everything. If his complete lack of skill in merely titling the book is this good, I bet the rest will be amazing: “Here's the Situation: A Guide to Creeping on Chicks, Avoiding Grenades, and Getting in Your GTL on the Jersey Shore” Now, I don’t actually watch the show, I monitor its comings and goings on gossip sites, so I don’t know if “creeping on chicks” has grown a more positive reputation, but last time I checked, it’s what crazy, sad, desperate men do and often get in legal trouble over. I wouldn’t advertise being a creeper.

9. Amy Winehouse as a guest designer for fashion label, Fred Perry. Perfect for those days when you want to look like a cracky skeleton who just climbed out of a dumpster and is wearing a dead animal on her head. Accessories include bedazzled coke vials, snazzy hospital bracelets, your own personal raccoon to do your makeup for you, and a fancy hammer with which to knock out a couple of your teef.

8. I walked into the living room the other day while Boyfriend was channel surfing. I absent-mindedly thought to myself, “that sounds like the Kardashian girls.” AND IT WAS. This is a chilling development.

7. The willy nilly appearance of tortured animals photos all over the interwebs. If I want to read Go Fug Yourself or whatnot, I do not want to be distracted by the dying elephant on the right of the page thankyouverymuch. Also, hey facebook friends – quit with the TMI on animal abuse! Just TELL me things are bad for dolphins in Japan or dogs in China – I do not need horrible images branded into my brain for all of eternity! That is what I will picture when I am lying awake at 4am and can't get back to sleep, and cursing you all the while.

6. Speaking of facebook, hey Jesus-y people! Pump the brakes a bit, eh? You really think that all the great shit that happens to you is because you love Jesus? It’s like thanking God for winning the Superbowl. Yep, he picked you to win because you are clearly an entirely better person because you love him so much. He hates the other team, that’s why he made them lose. Quit making life sound like a popularity contest with Jesus. I can’t help but think that you are implying that all my dreams have not come true yet because I’m not tight with Fairy Godfather Jesus and his magical wish-granting powers. You quote the Bible in your updates so obviously JC tucked the man of your dreams under your pillow one night. I am going to be alone forever because I don’t say the word ‘blessed’ in two syllables.

5. Boyfriend is constantly finishing my food and drink in a very unauthorized, uncool manner. Then claims that because we are a couple there is no ‘mine and yours’ – it’s all ‘ours’ – fuck that, I bought that snickers for ME! Do you know what it feels like when you are happily tipsy on your couch, watching something charming like ProjRun or Intervention (hilarious!) and you experience a joy explosion because you remember that you have a fucking snickers bar in your house!! This will be the most delicious snickers of your life! After searching in vain for a few minutes, Captain Jerkface asks what you are looking for, and he says ‘Oh I had that for breakfast the other day” – just like that, non-chalant, tra-la-la. Suddenly a montage of blood and ballpoint pens in eyeballs and fury flash through your mind. Then you remember you look terrible in orange jumpsuits and “murderer” is such a strong label. He literally had no idea why the fires of hell and vengeance were unleashed inside me. Excuse me, sir, that is CHOCOLATE AND PEANUTS AND NOUGAT AND WHEN YOU HEAT IT IN THE MICROWAVE IT IS THE FOOD OF THE GODS!!!! You don’t just eat someone’s fuckin snickers. Period.

4. Willow Smith. Dear god, have you seen this little person/alien? We all know that the Smiths were sent here to take over the Earth and this is just another step in that process. This child FRIGHTENS me. Have you seen the (brilliantly written, I might add) Whip My Hair video? If it does not alarm you, you need to put down the valium and gin. She is TERRIFYING. Mostly because she is NINE. Eat a grilled cheese, don’t shave half your head! Be socially awkward and wear socks with sandals like I did, don’t sing to the camera with so much attitude that I fear you will cut me. She could fuck a bitch up.

3. Though I despise all things Mariah Carey (except that x-mas song that fills me with magical Christmas joy akin to that of Buddy the Elf) I am actually excited about her pregnancy for two reasons. Number one – it’s a boy! How hard did she cry into her Hello Kitty pink velvet/silk pillow in her butterfly fairyland themed bedroom when she realized that she can’t dress her new baby up in glitter and PINK and feathers and lollipops?! Muah-ha-ha! Though she may just say ‘fuck it,’ do it anyway, and then we’ll have the next generation’s coming of Liberace. Yay sparkles!!! Reason number two – she’s 40. There’s still hope for me.

2. I have basically lost the ability to do anything of substance. Just this morning, so far I have spent around three hours reading totally useless things on the interwebs. It’s like a time-sucking game of telephone – I click on one link, “Oooooh, Jon Hamm does have a really big bulge in his pants at all times…” (It's not letting me share this glorious link with you, but go to Celebitchy dot com, then search for Jon Hamm, and it's the 2nd story down. You're welcome.)(Also of note, the damn slaughtered piggies ad that I just bitched about in #7 show up here!) Annnnyhoodle, then I remembered that I wanted to show BF this photo of a hunter with a deer he just shot with a puma lurking in the background… thus I wind up on snopes, both to learn that the photo is fake (booo) and then spend an hour or so looking at their ENTIRE real or fake photo gallery. Then I come upon this page called Worth1000 which has photoshopping contests that are amazeballs. So, hello, 1pm, you’re here inconveniently early since I have a week’s worth of schoolwork to squeeze out before 9pm, damn youuuuuuu!

1. I just received an email from my mother that says, and I quote, “Say, what's this blog you mentioned that you don't want me to read? What on earth is it about if I can't read it? Of course you know the rule -- never put in writing what you wouldn't want on the front page of the newspaper, and double that for the internet.” Ummmmmm so yeah. In what drunken blurty phone call did I drop that tidbit in? Well, really none of this is about me, it’s all jokes jokes jokes, ha ha ha, make believe silly tee-hee...look what’s that over there?!? I’m off to church kthxbai!

Bad Idea Jeans

Tips for How to Terrify Land a Man, According to Cosmo

Those wily minxes over at Cosmo took a minute out of their busy bunny-boiling schedules to bring us “20 Fun, Fearless Ideas to Help You Meet a Man.” Fearless is a stretch, Senora Cosmo. If any guy caught wind of these desperate shenanigans, you has best believe that you already have that feller locked down with some sexual magic that I won’t go into here. Here are my favorites:

"Hit a sports bar the next time a game is on. Wear a tee with the logo of the team you’re cheering for, and sit near a guy rooting for the same team. You can connect over your shared fandom."

Yeah, great plan, cray-cray. What happens when he asks you about the last game or what you think of the trade between blah-blah and blah-blah?? You will blankly stare at him and have to yell, “ooooohhh look what time it is!!! Patron time!!” Just to distract him. Because a sober man will figure out that it is really fucking creepy that you somehow acquired a shirt representing a team you do not actually support. And how dare you say ‘fearless,’ Cosmoron, have you ever seen what guys in sportsbars act like during games? Loud, crude, drunk, with nachos on their shirts and any sense of decorum left squarely at the door. And you, little sweet cute you, is just gonna sidle up to a table of these apes and expect some adorable attention?? Guys are jerky by nature… gather a herd of them, pour liquor in their mouths, put on testosterone aggravating competitive events with bright colors and loud noises?? All I picture is something akin to deer-in-the-headlights girl in the middle of Pamplona.

"The best thing about a cute guy in a Laundromat? He’s not going anywhere for a good hour. Pretend you’re out of detergent, and ask to borrow a cup. You’ll have a few spin cycles to chat…and find out if he’s a boxers man or a briefs man."

Thanks Cosmotards, I want to date a guy who can’t afford a goddamn washing machine.

"The next time you see a hot dude on the weekend, look for a clue to his personality before starting a conversation. For example, if he’s wearing a NASCAR cap, approach him with "I noticed your hat. Are you into racing?" It’s an opener that seems natural, not contrived."

So now not only do you think I should settle for a loser without in-home laundry facilities, now I should hit on Nascar fans?? And once again, what if he says, “yes, I am into racing, as my hat clearly suggests, what do you think of blah blah and blah blah?” Once again you look ridiculous and stalkery, even if you think you are so clever as to mention Dale Earnhardt’s tragic death because that was way too long ago. Plus, why would you be such a buzzkill as to shit on this fellow’s night and remind him that his childhood hero is racing cars with angels now??

"I noticed your hat. Are you into racing?"
                                    
"Next time you’re out for dinner with your girls, smile and make eye contact with a cute server. When the bill arrives, leave your number on the tip line and write that you owe him a drink."

This assumes two things. One, that you are hot enough that this guy will be so stoked that he will say “Fuck tips!! I don’t need to pay rent, I want this chick’s number instead!” and Two, that he is even available to date – other wise you just dbagged your way out of respect from this entire establishment.

"Tap a cute guy on the shoulder. When he turns, feign surprise and exclaim "I thought you were [insert random boy name]!" Then bond over the fact that you fake-know his back-of-head twin."

Don't even get me started on WTF is a 'back-of-head' twin?!?!
 

FYI -- This is my "back-of-head" twin.
  ___________________________________
SOOOOOO, basically all of these tips can be boiled down to: Go everywhere alone, act like a dipshit who gets confused easily. Other gems I won’t fully go into include pretending to be lost, then asking for him to show you to your destination, buying two different drinks at a bar, then offering him one because the bartender “got your order wrong” (This one is especially ridiculous because aren’t we all double-fisting already?) Ask him for cheese recommendations in the market, ask him to put lotion on your back at the pool, ask to use his phone to locate yours, ask him to be in a photo with you, ask him to help you put YOUR NECKLACE on as though it just accidentally fell off. If I were a dude, I would immediately think: Why is she randomly by herself? Why is she so needy?

Oh Cosmo, bless you for your naive idiocy and humor. I don't know about y'all but I'm off to wander the streets like a lost lamb, looking to interrupt men in a variety of awkward situations to demonstrate my incredible air-headedness, lack of direction, inability to grocery shop, and loss of fine motor skills when dressing myself! Wheeee!!!

WOOOOOOOOO GIANTS.

Forgive me interwebs, for I have slacked. It has been five days since my last post. That'll be three Our Fathers and five Bloody Marys. Har har. Old joke, lame! I have been really busy doing totally important things. Let's discuss.

First, I've been occupied with hating the Giants. Yeah yeah yell at me whatever you love them way to go blah blah. Like I said I'm from LA and we win shit there a lot. And I spent time in Boston when the Celtics won a lot. And I was in college in SA when the Spurs won (bleck!) I do not need to go 'check out' the city coming together in gleeful herds to yell and wear paint. As I was toodling along on my bike this morning -- yeah I rode to work, that's right!!! (mostly to justify the McDonalds I knew I would eat later.) Anyway -- so I'm riding along weaving in and out of these black and orange dweebs milling about the stadium at 8am for some dumb reason, and I think to myself, "Self? Why do we hate the Giants so much?" Self came up with these top four reasons:

1. I am from SoCal, which is essentially a different STATE than NorCal and natives from each end tend to dislike the other. NorCal is for hippies, banana slugs, liberals attending Bezerkely, biking through forests, rejecting commercialism, being progressive, and beaches that are fucking freezing. SoCal is palm trees, awesome Randy Newman songs, hot beaches, celebrities, people who are actually proud to be rich, surfers, Universities of Spoiled Children, and (according to people who have never actually lived there -- craaaazy traffic.)

How SoCal sees NorCal

How NorCal sees SoCal, (clearly superior)



2. Selfish, I'll be the first one to say it. I hate the Giants because Boyfriend's bromantic partner, (let's just call him Sparky, why not?) looooooves the Giants and has season tickets. Sparky also lives near the ballpark and its many bars and is generally single (and I personally feel that he sits by the phone waiting for Boyfriend to call because he ALWAYS seems to be free whenever BF wants to hang out!!) Now in your best King Leonidas voice, say it with me, THIS.... IS.....ANNOYING!!! Firstly, because I want to spend time with BF, and second-of-ly (and probably more importantly) because I do not have an 24/7 on-call available bff. I am jealous of their magical date nights drinking beers, whoopin it up in the stands, calling each other Brah, high-fivin while Jock Jams blasts through the stadium, and whatever else happens in my mental montage of guys at sporting events. And since it's sad to leave poor Sparky to drink alone, BF must meet him at sports bars, take him to dinner, go to more bars, do shots, shots shots, Yeeeeah!, pass out in his car, then drive home at an ungodly hour, and finally drop his 200 pounds of whiskey nasty stinky ass self onto my beautiful bed. Which of course makes me bounce in the air from the impact (because we do not have the magical mattress that you can simultaneously stand a glass of wine and dance on and not spill a drop, which is just weird because that's what we have tables and floors for) and that is just not a pleasant way to be awakened from your beauty slumber. Annnnnyway.... so I think I blame the Giants for lots of days and nights spent with MY bff's, Mr. Cabernet and Mr. S. T. Vodka. We do super fun things like clean the weird fluff from the back of my hairdryer with tweezers, open and close the fridge 24 times without taking anything, and writing nonsensical posts on people's facebook pages. So for that, I say damn you Giants!!

Yeeeah! I love you Sparky! No, I love you more!



 3. Selfish one again, shocking, I know. I have to take the dreaded "light rail" aka MUNI, aka Satan's Train, aka Wu-Tang video, aka Most Unreliable Public Transit Known to Man, to get to and fro home and work, and it goes di-rectly in front of the ballpark. For the entire length of the ballpark entity/complex/block/whatever. And somehow, Giants traffic makes my train have to sit still for insanely long periods of time. This I do not understand. We are a fucking train here, people! We have our own tracks! There are presumably no cars or people in our path! Who is keeping us from moving? (I actually took the time to yell these sentiments at the driver one time, clearly to no avail, and the dipshit had no answers anyway.) I've already ranted about my commute on here, but just had to throw in that I definitely did a lot of voodoo spells in my head hoping they would just lose, dammit! Stop coming home! Don't make the playoffs! Oh dear god NO NOT THE FRICKIN WORLD SERIES!!

Actual photo. THAT'S how long we sat there. I believe that was game # I Don't Give a Fuck.


4. Because I think the city of San Francisco should fall into the sea.
Therefore it deserves no accolades. Especially not the highest honor given in a sport that represents summertime, sunny days, green grass, summertime, and did I mention summertime??? This frickin frackin hellhole with its Satan-run trains has angered the sun god so intensely that we appear to be cursed to 5,000 years of darkness, fog, rain, cold, wind, and other things that want to shit all over your summer. I painstakingly researched the actual weather data one day (cause I am very busy and important here at my company) and found that in the last year we had had like 5 days over 80 degrees and a puny 24 or some shit that were over 70. SEVENTY! That is not even considered warm on my personal lizard-like scale of comfortable temperatures!! You wouldn't give Mexico the Stanley Cup, now would you? You wouldn't have an AA meeting at my house! Ludicrous.

Now, this is in fact an ACTUAL photo taken by moi, at a Giants game,
IN AUGUST.


 

SLUT IT UP!!!!

Okay sluts here we are. I had my first post-less day yesterday. SHAME! I was extremely busy doing homework, running my one woman empire from my ridiculously large desk, and taking calls from morons. That kind of includes Boyfriend because he called repeatedly to sing to me the new songs that he makes up about our cat. But really, I must confess, I got back the proofs from a photo shoot I did with my old horse (it was a Groupon and I am a Groupon addict, so don't ask about relevance), so I was severely preoccupied with clicking through photos of myself for possibly 85% of the day. Vanity, thy name is ME! Plus my favorite work friend was out sick so I had no one to snark in person to, and to top it all off with a big pile of poo -- I drove to work, so I couldn't even start drinking til I got home!! Stupid Thursday.

That reminds me of a really lame joke that my mom and I adore, primarily because a small childling was the one who told us, so it's best done in a child voice. Which I just did to Boyfriend this weekend actually. I'm a dork, I know.
Knock-knock
Who's there?
I'm a pile-up
I'm a pile-up who?
No you're not! Don't be so hard on yourself!! Hahahahahahahaaaaaaaa!!!

Ahhhh it delights me so.

Halloween is here, whooooopeeeeeee, right? Since sluttiness is the requirement for us ladies on this hallowed eve, I am still debating my outfits because I like to be original, while maintaining acceptable levels of slutsy. Normally I just dress as Lindsay Bluth-Funke and wear a shirt that says SLUT and then visit a men's prison. Hi Pop Pop!



But this year I may go big. So far, I've narrowed it down to Slutty Garbage Man, Slutty Buzz Lightyear, or Slutty Mrs. Potato Head. Oh-ho-ho! You laugh, but bear witness to THIS!!!!!:

My va-jay-jay is smiling at you!
Choices, choices, choices. I also shit you not, I found Slutty Cookie Monster, Slutty Big Bird, Slutty Optimus Prime, and all four Slutty Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Seriously? What year is this? (Don't call it a comeback!) That show was big in like 1988! Why not Slutty Mr. Belvedere or Slutty Doogie Howser?? Of course after writing "Slutty" 97 times just now, I realize the appropriate title is "Sexy Whatever." Which makes me feel the need to mention, Dear Costume Websites: "Sexy Whatever, Plus Size" should NEVER be a name for anything. Sorry, but it's true. I'm like 10 pounds overweight and wouldn't be caught dead in these miniature scraps of fabric... why would we want to see Kirstie Alley as Sexy Bumblebee? I call shenanigans.

I think I will wind up going as Inebriated Girl in Longhorn Pajamas with Box Of Wine and Halo of Lame. And by "going as" I mean going in a triangle from my couch to my kitchen to my loo, then repeat. My metamorphosis into a full hermit is almost complete. Conveniently I just blame being broke (mostly true). Last year I tried to have the "Say Yes to Everything, You Never Know!!!" ridiculous idea, and I wound up at a party that HAD NO ALCOHOL. I repeat NO ALCOHOL. If that was their way of making a house of complete and utter horror and fear, they succeeded. Then to get to the next party we WALKED at least 1,000 blocks (in sub-zero SF temperatures, mind you) to find that the "theme" of that horror mansion was to serve only Pabst Blue Ribbon! I would have to drink 84 of them to get sufficiently trashed happily tipsy. So F that. The next night was a vast improvement, quite fun, with copious amounts of wine and shots and mechanical bulls, so all was not lost.

I have a very important task I must now embark on. Apparently my FAVORITE journalistic authority on life, (yep Cosmo!) has put out a list of ways to have a Sexy Halloween!!! Fear not, citizens, I shall do the dirtywork of deciphering their magical advice and bring it right back to you, I wouldn't dare deprive any of my friends the opportunity for a Slutty Sexy Halloween!! Ok, I'm off -- alakazaam! I say that so that I can tie in this parting moment of utter shame and total blasphemy. So many levels of WRONG.

I'm dressed like a young orphan nerd boy, doesn't that turn you on?

POBRECITA, PART UNO

So I started today's joyous addition to the world of literature ranting about how I'm poor. It segued into a tangent that is now so epic and involved that it's getting it's own identity. So, I give you the first part now:


Tis the season where I pretend I am not broke and undo all the hard work of paying down credit cards that I've been doing for the past year. Why? Well, first I need a dress for my office holiday party. And really, first-first, I should mention that this is no Office with Michael Scott & Dwight Schrute party with streamers and a punch bowl. No no, in private equity land there is no recession. Our parties are insane. The catering alone costs more than my life is worth. Like we rented the Academy of Sciences one year (yeah, the whole thing) so had cocktails while admiring the albino alligator. The decorations are ridic, food amazing, gifts fucking phenomenal, and so forth. It's like something out of a movie. Though I suppose this year may be downsized, since "we" are still in a time of economic woes, so we'll see. They did in fact downsize our damn suite at the Giants stadium. THAT'S RIGHT! I FORGOT THIS IN MY RANT YESTERDAY! Wait, this should be a sidebar.

SIDEBAR: reason #5 from yesterday's list: I used to like going to Giants games because we had a pimp ass suite. My first year at the firm it was debauch. Endless bottles of Patron, Stellas, Goose, warm cookies, taco bars, finger foods, leather couches, plasma TVs, and yeah, if you wanted to, you could go out the little glass door and watch some guys running around on some grass with masses of poor people yelling for them and singing songs. Whatever. It was like my personal Diddy VIP party. We got dressed up for these parties. We were sexy and Very Important People, with our own entrance so we didn't have to go through turnstyles with people from like Oakland or the Mission. If you wanted a beer, you walked five feet and poured yourself one for free, not wait in line and shell out $47.50 like at the concession stands. There was not an annoying large man carrying 500 boxes of ice cream Nibs yelling at you about their cost and that you could get them right there. The bathrooms were glorious and you rode unicorns to and fro your suite to them. I loved the Giants that year. But alas, when the great depression of last year hit, such magical times were no longer part of my life. The firm got a smaller suite and shared it with another firm, which translates to like 10 tickets for the season, further translating into "these golden tickets will not trickle down to the likes of you, Cinderella, and uh, don't you have a phone to answer?" So now when I see fancy rich people leaving work to go bask in the splendor suite-land, I am reminded that I am POOR. Pooooooooooor.

Happy place.


Poor people. They are eating on their laps, on their laps, I dare say!



Annnnd so we come full circle to where I am poor. And now I need a party dress. If you had never had the pleasure of looking for a party dress on tha interwebs, you are in for the treat of your life!!! I went through the usual suspects -- Macy's, Nordstrom's, blah blah - but then I ventured off into the wilderness of "dress sites" -- generally meant to cater to prom goers, quinceanara chicas, and apparently fully fucking mad-dog crazy-ass bitches. Perusing dress after dress, squealing at them, sending the links to coworkers, receiving OMGs in return -- this went on for hours. Fave Co-Worker says "You know you have to write about this." To which I responded, staring into the distance, stone-faced, "There are no words."

But it's meeeeeeee, so of course there are!!

Turns out, I have much to say on this issue. To be continued....