Bacon Grease

Dear Christian,

2007-03-16T17:51:00.000-07:00

You don’t know me but fifteen years ago, you changed my life. You officially made me crazy.

You and your stupid 1992 shot, that is. That’s right, I’m not capitalizing the word “shot.” I’m not putting a “the” in front of it to give it any more attention or reverence than its already gotten. If I wanted to be sportwomanlike, I’d give you your props. I’d say that it was pretty amazing that with only 2.1 seconds left, Grant Hill could inbound the ball eighty feet, and that you could catch it, turn around, even dribble, for God’s sake, and still manage to sink a shot that would end a double-overtime and send Duke to the Final Four. All with :01 seconds to spare.

But the thing is, Christian, I’m not feeling so sportswomanlike, even after fifteen years. And I bet Aminu Timberlake isn’t feeling so sportsmanlike, either. Remember him? Or have you forgotten about the player whose chest you intentionally stepped on as he lay on the floor after being fouled? Does that ring any bells for you?

Despite your bad behavior, I was impressed with Coach K, he seemed like a nice guy and an amazing coach, though he proved himself to be a bit of a whiner a few years later. (You can’t always play in Greensboro, Coach K.) I had no problems with Grant Hill and Bobby Hurley was fine too. But you. You, Christian, changed my perspective on college basketball forever. You made me crazier about it than I ever was before. And for that, I have to thank you.

Because before 1992, I had only one team to cheer for. After 1992, I cheered for Kentucky and anyone who played Duke. Crazy, right? Maybe so. But there’s an entire state that will agree with me and gladly stand behind me.

Some people pick their tournament brackets based on records, statistics, and skill. Not me, Christian. I pick with my heart, and thanks to you, that always involves picking Kentucky to win and Duke to lose. I can’t tell you how many brackets I’ve tanked with that theory, but I’ve had the pleasure of watching and cheering for teams I might never have taken an interest in.

Had you not made that shot, I might never have gone to the ridiculous trouble of rearranging my life to be at the rematch in ’98. I might never have bought a plane ticket on Monday—four days before I knew if we’d even win on Friday—in order to advance to the potential game with Duke on Saturday. I might never have gotten up at three in the morning to take two Southwest flights, rent a car, then drive three hours across the state to Tampa to meet my brother—all without even having a ticket to the game. I probably wouldn’t have cursed myself as I sat in the middle of thousands of Duke fans—not a Kentucky t-shirt in sight—wondering why in the hell I’d made the trip, and if we’d be able to come back from being seventeen points down. I definitely never would’ve stormed the floor when we won and I for sure wouldn’t have gotten to high-five Ashley Judd. And I probably wouldn’t have Cameron Mills’ face—the one he made after Cameron Mills sank the three-pointer that put us ahead for good—permanently etched in my memory. See what I’m saying? I’m nuts.

In fact, as soon as I’m done writing this, I’m heading to a sports bar so I can watch my Cats take on Villanova, another team I learned to love in 1985 when they beat Georgetown to win the national championship. I wanted Georgetown to lose too, because like you, a few members of their team seemed a little too cocky. See how it works? There’s a method to my madness.

In another hour or so, I’ll be hoisting my shot glass of Maker’s Mark to mark the beginning of Kentucky making it to yet another March Madness. They probably won’t make it very far this year, and that bums me out. But I’ll sure have fun cheering for the VCU Rams, my new favorite team as of last night at, oh, about eight pm Pacific time, when they beat your Dookies. It’s sick, I tell you, how I latch on to teams.

So thank you, Christian for pushing me over the edge into complete hoops insanity. And thank you, March for finally getting here. I’ve been waiting.

All the best,
Rebecca

PS—This is a link to the real Greatest Game Ever Played (note the caps). Take note.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=P9bh0dWbNPE

I Don't Need No Stinkin' Boyfriend

2007-02-12T19:25:00.000-08:00

As I stared out the car window that grey, rainy morning, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. How much longer did I have? Would I accomplish everything I hoped to in the little time I had left? What was my purpose in this life? Oh, it was all just so unfair, this fleeting life of ours!

I was eight. My mother was driving me to school and Kansas’ “Dust in the Wind” was playing on the radio. It was a milestone in my life because it was the first time I experienced how music could uncover emotions that I never even knew I had—emotions my eight-year old self didn’t yet understand.

From that day forward, music became my faithful servant. I used it to hide, to cope, to motivate, to laugh, to cry, and to remind me of special people and places. As I got older and life became more complicated, I used it to manipulate my emotions, to suck out painful feelings I’d buried so I could (in theory) spend some time with them and hopefully move on.

That’s why I love my iPod. It allows me to organize my emotional manipulation by mood. My combined playlist titles read like a strange poem composed by a Chris Martin-Missy Elliott hybrid: “I don’t miss him,” “Move your ass,” “London,” “Don’t Panic,” and “Yep, I’m hot” (hey, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do).

But my trusty playlist stand-by is still “Good cry.” Because sometimes I just don’t want to move on or cheer up. I want to wallow in the self-pity that only Damien Rice’s “Blowers Daughter” can evoke. I want to marvel at how Ben Folds Five hits the nail on the head in “Brick” when they sing about feeling loneliness in a relationship instead of companionship. I want to believe the Indigo Girls when they tell me that love will come to me. I want to be transported to my favorite bench in Hyde Park again while I listen to Zero 7’s “In the Waiting Line.” Is that so wrong?

Since I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person to throw myself a musical pity party, I wanted to share my favorite playlist with you. Maybe you’ll see a song on here that you forgot about that resonates with where you are right now. (Or maybe you’ll just laugh at how I shamelessly worship at the altar of heartstring-tugging Brit pop.). As always, lurkers are discouraged - feel free to post your favorites. I’m always looking for new material.

Good Cry:

Long Road, Eddie Vedder

High and Dry, Radiohead

Don’t Panic, Coldplay

Run, Snow Patrol

The Last Goodbye, Jeff Buckley

In the Waiting Line, Zero 7

Strange and Beautiful, Aqualung

This Is the Last Time, Keane

The Scientist, Coldplay

The Wings, Gustavo Santaolalla

Heartbeats, Jose Gonzalez

All I Want Is You, U2

Pictures of You, The Cure

Brick, Ben Folds Five

The Blower’s Daughter, Damien Rice

Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd

The Dance, Garth Brooks

Iris, The Goo Goo Dolls

Love Will Come to You, The Indigo Girls

Fix You, Coldplay

Rewind, Stereophonics

Walk On, U2

Cannonball, Damien Rice

You’re Beautiful, James Blunt

So Cruel, U2

It’s raining again, Supertramps

2006-11-07T16:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you just coast along for days, months, even years and nothing exciting happens. Then all of a sudden, you experience a massive downpour of excitement that generally lasts for approximately three minutes before you return to your drought. Well, welcome to my downpour. When most of you finish reading this, you’ll probably scratch your head and wonder where the aforementioned excitement is (except for maybe one thing that actually really is exciting). But that should give you some insight as to the state of my drought.

In any case, let’s start with my exciting Saturday. I’m sitting on Fillmore Street having coffee with the lovely DShaw and CEinie. C, eagle eye that she is, brought a potential star sighting to our attention. D and I rushed into Noah’s Bagels to see what was truly an amazing site for our uncelebrified San Francisco.

There she was, barely past five feet tall, practically drowning in an oversized hoodie, oversized white sunglasses, leggings, flats and a ginormous bag. Let me give you a little clue (if the picture isn't enough): she’s worth billions and she had (has?) an eating disorder. And Uncle Jesse wasn’t present to monitor her eating. That’s right. I saw. An Olsen twin. Can you even fucking believe it? Even better – she was ordering half a dozen bagels. Get your carb on, girl! The ridiculous part of this story is that I’m 25 days shy of being somewhere in my (mid to late) 30s yet I ran into Noah’s Bagels to get a glimpse of her. Oh the shame! But seriously – an OLSEN TWIN. That’s rich.

The second piece of exciting news is actually reallllllly exciting. It’s so exciting that I need a moment to place the html commands for bolding and italicizing around it. And I need to hit the caps lock button. Here goes: I’M LEAVING ADVERTISING. Again I say, can you even fucking believe it?? For something I’m SO (all caps) excited to do. I’m actually going to write – lots of words, not just taglines and lame credit card copy – for a women’s website that’s launching on January 1. The crazy part is that my collective “learning experiences” (i.e, failed marriage, online dating shenanigans, yo-yo dieting, crazy in-laws, proclaiming that I’ve found the perfect exercise for my body, leaving a career in my 30s) will finally pay off: I’m going to be the Relationships editor and the Body & Soul editor. No, seriously. I am. Really. I know it seems odd given what you know about me from this blog, but it’s true. When I sat down and made a list of things I’d like to write about and talk to women about, those themes came up over and over again. God help the women who read this site – and I hope there will be gazillions. Our mission is to empower. Can I empower? I hope so. At the very least, I think I can make a few people laugh and go “What the fuck was that girl thinking??” In any event, from what I can tell, I’ll be working with an amazing group of really smart women (and probably a few men too, but I haven’t come across any yet).

I have to admit, it felt a little strange to have spent so much time on creating a portfolio, traveling around the world, freelancing, sacrificing and working like a pack mule to walk away from something that used to be such a big deal to me. But the strangeness went away after about 7 seconds. The truth is, I like writing. Lots of words. Not just three. I don’t get to do that in advertising. But this door probably never would have opened if I hadn’t gone to portfolio school because I’m not sure I would’ve found my way back to writing at all. (My dream as a 16-year old: to be the editor of French Vogue. Yeah, I got a little off track, with writing, with my French lessons and with fashion.) And I never would’ve had any writing samples without this blog, which I owe to the wise guidance of my girl Crazy V (moment of reverent silence in her honor), or without any of you fine people who actually read this thing. So thank you. You guys are really taking the sting out of the (insert enormous monthly dollar sum here) I pay monthly to those hideola student loan people.

So that’s my downpour.

Oh, I also bought a bike, which would’ve been the highlight of my quarter so far had I not spotted an Olsen twin and just landed a great new job.

Now, if I could somehow be lucky enough to spot either George Clooney, Colin Firth, Chris Martin, Clive Owen, or Cillian Murphy buying a Noah’s Bagel, my life would really and truly be complete.

Please, karma, hook a sister up.

You complete me, October

2006-10-25T17:51:00.000-07:00

Maybe it’s different in your world, but in mine, every day has it’s own special feeling to it. Take Mondays, for example. I can feel the dread of Monday the second I wake up. Wednesdays are good because that delicious feeling of optimism and freedom starts to seep back into my psyche. I love the anticipatory feeling that Thursdays bring. So close to the weekend! Only a few hours left! And then of course, there’s Friday. Two whole days of freedom await. Sleeping late, farmer’s markets, coffee with your peeps, dinner, movies and exercise. Fridays are all about possibilities. Fridays are just plain excellent.

But for as long as I can remember, the entire month of October has felt like 31 Fridays in a row. Not just any Friday, more like 31 Fridays before a 3-day weekend. Maybe a little bit of 11:59 p.m. on December 31 thrown in there too, with a dash of “it’s my birthday and a bunch of hot guys are coming to my party” added for good measure. It seems that no matter what’s happening in my life, where I work, who I’m dating (or not dating) or where I live, October just kicks ass, plain and simple.

Why is this? How can one month transcend all the crap in every day life and the world at large? Here in no particular order are a few things that make me count the days every year ‘til October 1.

College football and tailgating – There’s nothing better than a long Saturday afternoon spent with a bucket of Kentucky Fried, a little beer, a little bourbon and a little SEC action (yes, even Kentucky).

Better sunlight, crisper air – October sun has a unique color and intensity that I love. The air just feels and smells better, especially when there’s a bonfire blowin’ my way.

Back to school – This officially makes me a dork but I loved school. As awkward as I sometimes was in high school, sometimes I still wish life was as simple as who was gonna drive us all to the big Tates Creek/Lafayette soccer game on Friday.

Summer in San Francisco – I challenge any of you – nay, ALL of you – to come to San Francisco on one of our perfect Indian summer October days and tell me it isn’t the greatest city in the world. Go on. I’m waiting. A clear view of the bay, a glass of wine in hand, and - merciful God - finally a day that requires no jacket. I love it here every day but October reminds me that every penny I spend to live here is 100% worth it.

My first date ever: October 18, 1985 Thanks, Kevin. That was the best Pizza Hut pizza I’ve ever had.

Halloween – Admit it, the only thing that keeps Halloween from being everyone’s favorite holiday is that you don’t exchange gifts. Can we change that this year? Because really, dressing up like an idiot, drinking too much and carving gourds, you really can’t beat that. Nothing really captures the spirit of fall like dressing up as a buttery nipple shot or a fluffer.

The World Series – You can hate baseball all season long but you can’t hate it during The World Series. That’d be like spitting in the eye of autumn and who wants to do that? Even with Detroit and St. Louis, I still love catching a few innings with a cold one.

Beginning of college basketball season – All hail the official first day of the season of the GREATEST of all college sports. I loves me some October 15 stroke of midnight.

Pumpkins, apple cider and caramel apples - Don’t worry, I’m not about to pull a Julie Andrews and break into “Raindrops on Roses”. But come on. How can you be in a bad mood when you’ve got a chill in the air, a full moon, crisp leaves underfoot and a hot apple cider in hand while you walk through your neighborhood checking out the pumpkins?

Q4 and the Great Birthday Countdown - October is the passageway to all things fun. Haunted houses, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Chanukah (for my Jewish readers), holiday parties where I’ll dress in my finest black revealing velvet only to spend the night sipping cheap wine out of red Solo cups, Christmas, Boxing Day, a week of vacation that doesn’t count against my vacation time and of course, the holiday I spend kissing the same posse of beloved friends on the cheek (“I love you too, Grandma”), New Year’s Eve.

Oh, and no pressure, but there are only 35 shopping days ‘til my 23rd birthday. I’m just sayin’.

"What's up with the quotes?"

2006-10-04T10:29:00.000-07:00

I’d just popped in a Brach’s sugar free cinnamon hard candy and was perusing the nutrition facts on the label when I saw it. A statement in quotes. And not just any statement….this statement:

“Excess consumption may have a laxative effect.”

Now, aside from my initial shock and delight at the possibility that cinnamon hard candy could actually replace my Fiber One cereal and Ryvyta crackers, I was confused as to why this statement needed to be in quotes. Did someone famous say this? George Washington? Mary Kate Olsen? Calista Flockhart? Was the nutrition-label-typist-person just so embarrassed at the mere mention of anything having to do with (shhhh) bowel movements that they had to put it in quotations so that no one would mistake this for a first person statement?

I can almost hear the inner dialogue now of Bertha, in Chattanooga, Tennessee (where my Brach’s candies were manufactured): “Ain’t no way I’m puttin’ nothin’ havin’ to do with shit on the back of this bag.” Maybe Bertha is afraid that her friends over in Monteagle, Tennessee, knowing that she is ultimately responsible for what goes on the back of that Brach’s sugar free cinnamon hard candy bag, will read it and give her shit for having to type something about bathroom habits? I just don’t know.

Why, why, WHY? Do people put things in quotes that don’t need to be in quotes? Does it drive anyone else crazy but me? When I’m reading a menu and I see “The best pancakes in town…guaranteed!” I want to know exactly who is making this guarantee.

It’s even worse when quotes are used for things that aren’t even interesting, like “Since 1959.” That’s not even a complete sentence. And it’s not interesting. And who cares? And who said it?

If there’s a reason for these random quotes, someone….please enlighten me.

“Bringing you quality ranting since 2005.”

Txting and my GLORIOUS return 2 the blogging world

2006-09-26T23:43:00.000-07:00

Forgive me blogging world, for I have sinned. It’s been 87 days since my last post.

I can’t explain what’s been going on with me other than a bad combination of creative constipation caused by a job that’s supposed to make me more creative. That combined with some health problems along with a tiny onset of laziness have made writing hard…and writing anything interesting near impossible.

But today, I’m going to try, try my best to entertain you with my humble opinion on something really annoying. It’s a trend so offensive that it managed to get my lazy, uncreative, unenergetic ass back in front of my lonely keyboard so I could say my piece to all you fine people. It’s called texting.

I know, I know, texting is how all you young’uns keep in touch with your posse. I’m not completely against texting, mind you. In certain situations it makes complete sense. You want to give someone a quick piece of information on where you are, what to pick up at the store or which row they can find you in at the movie theatre. All perfectly acceptable uses of the text message.

But it really starts to chafe my unmentionables when people use this as a tool for dating. Truthfully, “dating” isn’t even the right word because that implies that you’ve been out on a few dates with someone and that you’re in a comfort zone that allows for such conduct. Nope, where I’m seeing a gross misuse of texting is in the beginning stages of dating, the courting as my grandma liked to call it, or the wooing stage as I myself like to say (are there still people capable of the woo out there? Where the hell are you?)

Guys, do you really think the best way to impress a girl you haven’t taken on a date yet is to send her a text message that says: “Hey, what r u up 2? Jon (from Tony Nik’s)”. Or stated more bluntly, do you really think that you stand a snowball’s chance in hell of EVER seeing this girl naked or having any of your parts fondled by her with a message like: “’sup with you? Tim (Onion Guy)”.

Let’s just go ahead and establish a few facts:

*This should be COMPLETELY OBVIOUS (and I’m all-capping and bolding you so consider this me yelling): you should NOT be asking girls out on texts. Period. Shhhh. No. Uh-uh. Stop. Don’t speak. Nope, don’t do it. Shut it.

*If you have to put who you are in parentheses, it’s probably better to call. Because we can forward this shit on to our friends – and don’t think we’re not doing that because we are. Seeing things like “Jay from Amante” actually typed out on a tiny phone screen in conjunction with the no phone call route won’t score you very high on the smarts index. Admit it, even you felt a little stupid having to type it out, didn’t you?

*If a girl tells you she doesn’t like to get texts and won’t respond to them, don’t pull the text-equivalent of “Swingers” on her and text her 11 times in 2 hours.

*Nothing makes a woman swoon like reading a flirtatious communication where words have been reduced to simple letters, numbers and symbols, right? No, no, NOOO! Which of these would you rather get from someone you like?

Example 1: had a gr8t time with u last nt. hope 2 see u soon. R (from last night)

Example 2 (email): Hi, Rebecca, Just wanted to say that I had a really great time with you last night. Looking forward to seeing you again soon. Rob

Example 3 (phone call): Rebecca, hi, it’s Rob. Can you get your sweet, hot ass over here so we can get it on?

Ahem. Ok, so that’s not exactly how it goes but that could be the result for you, my friends, if you use your communication tools wisely.

Now, I know there are some of you out there who think that texting is a perfectly fine tool (oh the irony of that word) to string along as many guys/girls as you possibly can. Or that it’s a nice way to “not get all serious.” I have one word for you people: MANNERS. As my first grade teacher Mrs. Varney used to say “You’ll catch more flies with honey.” My modern day version of this would be “If you’re trying to get laid, a phone call will get you a lot closer.”

Finally, let us not forget the words of another sage, my dear friend Bberk: “Don’t be dum….get you sum.”

Without further adieu...

2006-06-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

...I present 3 brand spankin' new blogs to enjoy. And yes, all writing parties involved are big fans of the spankin'. I predict you're gonna want to add all 3 to your favorites.

Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for my Mistress of Creative Kwan, my first wife, possibly the only person who can put me to shame in the quoting department, my 24-7, attached-at-the-hip, pop-up-in-my-dreams-like-the-Microsoft-paper-clip, Walkabout-lovin', best-quality dear friend. Say hello to Paging Dr.Freud. (You may know her from this blog as Better Darker Half). Trust me, once this little lady fully gets her blog on you won't want to miss her warped and hilarious insights. They've made my life a happier, funnier place. How's that for an intro? No pressure! "Mmmmhmmm. You're lovin' me now, aren't you Jerry??!!" (insert family appreciation kiss towards the screen here)

Paging Dr. Freud

Meet Steve, the man who's willing to take a few corrective spankings just to get this blogging thing right. Such a selfless act...and from a Red Sox fan! Doh! (Just kiddin', you know I'm on the bandwagon) He's witty, funny, smart and maybe a tiny bit sarcastic at times but that's just part of his charm. (don't try to merge in front of him on the freeway, though...for God's sake). Oh, and he's hot too. Methinks you will likey the book man and his quirky insights.

Eternal Blogging of the Thoughtless Mind

Sometimes don't you just wish you could just way what you want to say...without worrying about being all PC and shit? Read this. Sheer genius. Super funny too. Gosh, these girls are really SMART.

Open Letter To Someone

And I thought I was strange

2006-06-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

Thank God for the miracle of YouTube which gives me opportunity to mock others and pass it along to you fine people. I feel so...normal after watching these.

Seriously? A pickle phobia? I love the graphics...PICKLES coming at ya.

Crazy Pickle Phobia

This one's older but involves freaking out and screaming of the southern Christian variety. Always a treat. (Overlook the bad spelling. Apparently "spouses" is a tough word to master)

Christians Gone Wild

My country tis full of a few jackasses

2006-06-21T11:37:00.000-07:00

Testing, testing…is this thing on? I’ve been absent from the blogging world for almost a month so I’m not sure if anyone even reads this thing anymore. But no matter. I’ve got something to say again and finally a little bit of time to say it.

This past Saturday as I walked through my neighborhood, I overheard 2 dudes - sporty, I’’m wearin’ a baseball hat and flip-flops with my shorts but I won’t shave so I can cultivate an extra manly look – talking sports. The convo went something like this:

“You watching any World Cup?”

“What’s the point? We suck. I can’t believe ABC is wasting all their air time on fucking soccer.”

This, my friends, is why the rest of the world DESPISES America.

Apparently, if we can’t kick – nay, BLUDGEON – the asses of any competitor we take on in sports - or pretty much anything for that matter - it’s just not worth our time or attention. But let’s have a little baseball tournament and call it the World Series, even though very few other countries in the world actually give a shit about baseball and in said tournament, only teams from our country play.

Let’s also give our Super Bowl Champions rings that say “World Champions”. I don’t know about you but the biggest nail-biter of last season for me was that Ghana vs. Steelers game. Whew – talk about a close one!

Don’t get me wrong. If you’ve read this blog for more than 5 minutes you KNOW I loves me some American sports. All of them. Ridiculously so. I ran through my little Lexington neighborhood ringing an antique cowbell when Kentucky won the championship in 1998, for God’s sake. I’ve almost gotten into bar fights with (stupid and misinformed) Duke fans over their number of total wins vs. North Carolina’s (that one’s for you MCannie).

But guess what? This year? When Kentucky didn’t win as many games as we’re used to winning? I still hauled my ass out of bed at 8 am pacific time to watch a fair amount games, knowing we’d probably lose, but still maintaining optimism. Why? Because it’s fun. It’s fun to be a fan and it’s fun to be with and watch other crazy fans. March Madness or March Morose-ness? Which would you watch?

The point of this is less about playing “God Bless America” in your head as you watch our underdog American soccer team (or football team, but that’s another blog entry for another day) try to accomplish something huge.

No, the point is this: just watch a game. Just one. That’s all I’m asking. And then tell me you don’t understand why ABC is broadcasting World Cup. Since this isn’t an every year kind of thing that we seem to be so fond of doing in this country, the fans get a little crazy. They sing and chant the entire game, they paint their faces and chests and some spend their entire savings to get to ONE GAME. They make the craziest Kentucky/Duke/Carolina/Yankees/Steelers, etc fans look like a bunch of corpses.

The players are dedicated and passionate. Some are dirty (in the “I’ll elbow you if I feel like it kind of way”, not the “Daniel Cleaver I’m enjoying your see-through top kind of way”).

Also – and I know this is really shallow but it has to be said – a soccer body is just hot. Period. There’s no standing in left-field, staring at the crowd, dreaming of the next gold chain I’ll buy while rubbing my slightly protruding beer gut. Wait – a ball’s coming my way….where is it? There it is….GOT IT! Thank God, I can’t be sent back down to Birmingham again, that would just suck. Where was I? Oh yeah….I wish I had a Sam Adams and some Gordon Biersch garlic fries right now….

Nope. Lean and mean. We’ve busted the ratings nut with hot housewives and a bunch of unknown teenagers from Orange County. Why can’t the executives at ABC figure out that smokin’ English/Swedish/Italian/etc. soccer players might also be a windfall for the network and thus worthy of more than secondary broadcast on weekends and ESPN2?

Anyway, just watch a game. Pick a team, have a pint, stop calling it soccer for a day and just give in and act like an idiot for 90 minutes or so. It’s fun.

My teams:
America (duh)
England (double duh)
Australia (just ‘cause)

The early bird gets a big eyeful of bad naked

2006-05-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

I’m not an unpleasant morning person. Unless something forces me to rise before 6:30 a.m. Then, all bets are off. I can’t guarantee matching shoes, my hair probably won’t have its characteristic round-brush flip and I’ll have a really hard time offering up a friendly smile to the lovely gentleman who sells N Judah Muni passes at Carl and Cole.

So you can imagine the seriousness of my situation when I recently decided to wake up At 5:15. A.M. Three days a week. Oh. Holy. Jesus.

The process of making the decision was gut wrenching. I looked pensively into the distance for hours. I cried. I laughed. I cursed Jeff Goodby and Dan Wieden. I threw away the pen John Hegarty touched (but retrieved it later). I accused chestnuts of being lazy. I even ripped the cover off my copy of “Hey Whipple, Squeeze This”. And when the realization of what I had to do finally washed over me, I wept like a newborn.

My realization, in case you’re wondering was this: because of advertising, exercise no longer has a consistent place in my life. Used to be, I’d work out after work. Now I have no idea when “after work” will be. Even though I’m not working typical lowest-low-person-on-the-advertising-totem-pole hours right now, I’m so drained after work all I want to do is go home and sit. And do absolutely nothing until I fall asleep.

This has not been good for my psyche or my ass. Hence, my 5:15 a.m. plan.

I’m blogging about this for 2 reasons. The first is that by telling people about it, I’m hoping I’ll be forced to stick to it. You know, accountability and all. The second is that I’ve made a few key observations after 2 weeks of doing this…and let me tell you, some of them are really not pretty.

Bad naked: You’re familiar with shirtcocking. Many of you may even recall Tampon Lady. Allow me to now acquaint you with “Lather Up the Pubic Hair Like I’m Karen Silkwood and Forego Pulling the Shower Curtain Across the Rod” lady. Please also meet “Examine My Vagina With a Compact On the Locker Room Bench” lady. Add those to the normal assortment of “No, Really, It’s More Convenient To Blow Dry My Hair Completely Naked” lady and “I think I’ll Prop My Leg As High as I Can On This Locker and Apply Lotion So Everyone Has a View of My Gaping Hoo-Ha While Completely Naked” Lady and you’ve got yourself quite a crew. I get strange looks because I put on my Gap cotton pants and a bra before I leave the shower area. Perhaps in a parallel universe someone is blogging about “I Can’t Apply Makeup Without My Gap Cotton Toile Pattern Pants” lady. But hey, I’m fine with that.

Something about you seems familiar: You know how you see people walking around and you think to yourself, “I know them from somewhere…but where?” Imagine your confusion when you discover - on a routine, lunch-break walk to Walgreen’s - that you know the woman you just passed on the sidewalk because you saw her at the gym that morning. Buck-naked. And you observed to yourself that morning – as women often do in a non-sexual, complimentary kind of way that men can’t understand because they can’t apply the same behavior to their gender - “Wow, she has really huge boobs for a woman of her small size.” Only on the sidewalk you obviously see her in clothing and your brain registers a thought like “She looks really different with her clothes on” and you want to slap yourself at the sheer bachelor-sounding ridiculousness of the thought.

Now imagine having about 3 of those moments a week. It’s like I’ve been whoring around San Francisco, only without the sex and without the men. Just a bunch of naked, soppy-from-the-shower women. And where’s the pleasure in that for a straight, single girl, I ask you?

Bench Warmers: I’m apparently in the minority of people who find it disturbing to sit naked on the gym benches. I put a towel down, for God’s sake – who wants their girlie bits all up on the plastic covering of the gym bench? I mean, who’s been there before me?

Locker Creepers: I arrive at the gym by 6 am which means I have about 98 lockers to choose from out of a possible 100. But it never fails. I choose a locker, I come back from my workout and someone has chosen to occupy the locker directly below mine. The available lockers have red keys dangling from them, mind you, so it’s not like people can’t see the ample choices available to them other than the locker under mine. Generally, the inhabitant of said locker is trying to access their belongings at the exact same time I’m trying to access mine. And they’re naked, or bending over to pick things up, or, even worse, crouching to put on shoes. Need I say more? Bending and crouching. Naked. Why ya gotta be up in my space, lady? Take your crouchy ass down to spaces to locker 173. It’s available.

Trimming the Topiaries It has to be mentioned – because I can’t help but notice, what with people’s legs all propped up on lockers and the furious open-curtained pubic scrubbing going on – that there are some SERIOUS gardening problems going on down below for a lot of ladies. Bush has gained back some popularity points if you know what I’m sayin’. Someday soon, I fully expect to hear someone’s crotch scream “What’s happenin’, ROG???!!” Razors. Sally Hanson Home Waxing Kit. Tweezers. Please.

The Great Urban Energy Legend: The people who tell you that exercising in the morning gives you more energy? Those people are big, fat LIARS. I do feel great for about an hour. But sometime in the morning, something happens…a time lapse of sorts. In my mind the clouds are speeding by my window, the sky is darkening, the day is waning. I look at my laptop to confirm the time I estimate to be approximately 6:11 p.m. and it’s…9:57 a.m. FUCKING HELL. Right about now you might think would be a good time to take a break and go for a coffee. But you’d be wrong because…I gave up coffee during the week. I know. Crazy.

Context

2006-05-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

(This one’s been sitting in my drafts for a while. I was afraid it sounded too angry and that perhaps people who never read my blog might actually pop in and see this and maybe get their feelings hurt. But you know what? Maybe it would do them some good. Maybe it’ll do us all some good. Please enjoy…and please know I’m not angry. Just wondering why we (especially me) sometimes choose to ignore our internal editors when it matters most.)

Maybe I’m just experiencing an extreme and prolonged bout of PMS/DMS but it seems to me that people are either a) getting ruder by the second and/or b) are just incredibly stupid and insensitive about the shit that comes out of their mouths these days.

I know, I know, I can skew a little Sensitive Susan at times (yes, my eyes welled up at Reese Witherspoon’s Oscar acceptance speech. Fuck off! She said she was just trying to live an honorable life – I thought it was a sweet thing to say!) but come on, people…THINK. As I’ve aged, (read: gained wisdom) I’ve learned a few things about what to say and what not to say and unfortunately I’ve learned it by being both the deliverer and recipient of some real zingers.

Believe me, living in a world where I tiptoe my opinionated-self around on proverbial egg shells is not my idea of a life worth living. For God’s sake I’m in advertising. I’m paid to mock people and have an opinion. I’m just saying, perhaps a little caution could be used in certain situations outside our respective Board of Directors of Friends. (And sometimes within that group). I’ve been told by every writing mentor/teacher I’ve ever had to choose my words carefully and remember context. Good advice for all of us to remember from time to time.

Below are some of my faves I’ve either overheard or been a part of over the years along with some real (and fantasy) responses. Please feel free to add your own.

When are you two tying the knot? I especially love it when this question comes from people in an unhappy relationship or a boring marriage. Why do people constantly feel the need to rush you over to the other side? If married life is so great, why are so many of us divorced? I’d love, just once, to hear someone say something like “Well, we don’t know if we really like each other, let alone LOVE each other, but the sex is really great so this is it for now.” Or “I can’t afford a ring.” Or “Really she’s just a bookmark until I meet the right girl. I refuse to break up with her because I’m terrified of being alone.” Fun, huh?

When can we expect the pitter-patter of little feet? (effect southern accent) “Gosh, I don’t know, seein’s how my doctah just told me I’m BARREN.” This one gets me the most riled up as I’ve had many friends who’ve tried for years to have a baby and were heartbroken by the mere mention of children. Also remember, to have a baby you have to HAVE SEX, so people probably aren’t running around talking about the various positions they’re trying, the number of times they’ve shoved a thermometer into an orifice to see when they’re most fertile, etc. Not everyone gets it on the first try. (Thank God).

Perhaps a better way to inquire is “Do you guys want to have a family someday?” The “someday” takes the pressure off when it will happen and you’re not assuming that they actually want kids. Because not everybody does. Which leads me to….

She doesn’t even LIKE kids. A comment recently made ABOUT ME (raised voice) by close friends. Apparently because I’m a “woman of a certain age” and I’m living in a metropolitan area without husband or child it is now OK to jump to the conclusion that I simply do not LIKE children and that I don’t even WANT them. My feelings on this are clear and have never changed but just in case you guys are reading this let me be crystal clear yet again: YES I LIKE KIDS. If I’m lucky enough to find my wonderful, funny, hot, sweet, sexy Mr. Right and he TOO wants kids then we will have them.

But what if my Mr. Right shoots blanks? Or what if my eggs have no yolks? What then? I’ve always said I would never hinge my complete happiness on something that I may ultimately have no control over thus setting me up for disappointment. And let me be extra crystal clear on this: I will not SETTLE for an average marriage just so I can squeeze out some kids. I’d rather have neither. If that makes me the token Samantha in the crowd then so be it. She ended up with a male underwear model. Worse things could happen.

Have you thought about freezing your eggs? Have you thought about cryonics? Hair implants? Breast implants? Maybe sewing your mouth shut so you’ll stop saying such ridiculous things?? NOOOO!!!! Fine for some people, but not for a person who, at the time of suggestion had no health insurance. Again I’d have to say, my life is not guided each day by “will or will I not have kids?”. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe that’s not wise. I don’t know. But for me, it’s right. I’m focusin’ on the MAN, right now, girl. (Snap! Yank neck and purse lips)

(after having a baby) Why did she go back to work so soon? Apparently this is a hot debate amongst new moms along with “why are you not breast feeding?” vs “Why ARE you?” and – the hits just keep coming for these poor women – “why are you STILL breast feeding” and “why did you feed your kid THAT at xxx age?” I mean, come the fuck ON, people. Shut it. Really. Advertising whores like me will nitpick and find enough to make parents feel guilty about (Now with Ziplock closures! To protect your loved ones from suffocation!). You don’t need to do it too.

When are you guys buying a house? Um, when we can get the $75,000 down- payment it takes in the city I live in without robbing or killing someone. And yes, I know that living in Monkey’s Backscratch, Middlestate would be a lot more economical but (for me personally) until a man can birth a baby out of his pee-pee hole and pigs can poop out Benjamins, I won’t be moving there. No, I’m not making fun of your choices but don’t make us urbanites feel bad for ours.

Is that why he had to do online dating? Yeah, so I’ve covered this before. “Had to do” implies that people who do this are desperate. We’re not. (Wait, hang on, I’ve got to chase down the clumps of my hair that fell out before it gets snagged in the fingernails I’ve chewed off.)

Why is he/she single? Why are you such a dolt?

Why is she having surgery? My favorite suave answer, overheard recently at work: “Because she had to”. Good one! Shut that person right up. Or how about this clever one? “Because her uterus turned black and was starting to smell.”

Why’d you get divorced? My all-time favorite question, asked of me once the asker found out I was about to get divorced: “So you’re just choosing to ignore God’s plan?” (I was asked this in Kentucky as I ran on a treadmill)

15 seconds of my stunned silence ensued, followed by me hitting “stop” on the treadmill.

“I’m pretty sure that I was out of the loop on God’s repeated messages, voice mails and emails when I hooked up with the wrong guy in the first place. So I’m not sure it was really a planning issue, per se. But thanks for your concern.”

Context, people. I’m just sayin’.

More tales of vegetable dating...now with graphic detail!

2006-04-27T14:41:00.000-07:00

Back from the dead. Yeah, I know – does anyone still come here to read anything? Is this thing on? Testing…hello, hello?

Better if it’s not. I have nothing of… ahem, real value to say today except this: I still maintain that online dating is ASS. ASS, I tell you.

Here’s why: (and now is the moment I’ve chosen to divulge seriously personal information on this blog. Screw it. It’s my blog. Nobody’s reading this thing anymore anyway. If you’re my brother, please stop reading this post NOW).

We now resume our normal blog entry. ANYhoo, I had a SECOND date last weekend with this really, really cute boy. Really, he’s a MAN, he’s 36, for God’s sake. A MAN! (I just like the sound of that…a man. GRRR.) And he’s totally dreamy. Did I mention that? Really funny, very nice, seems like a genuinely nice and good-hearted person, cares about his family, values time with friends, I mean – a GOOD guy. And totally my look. (Remember, MetroDad when you questioned my crush on Matthew Fox? He kinda reminds me of him in a small way. Only better looking.).

Anyway, you get the picture. Let me bring you up to date. First date was fun. After the first date, I emailed him the next day (mistake?) to thank him. In my wittiest and least scary stalker-girl kind of way, I did my best to let him know I was interested lest he have ANY CONFUSION. He writes me back – 2 days later – (which I know is normal but pre-date he had been shooting me emails all the time and way faster, but whatev) a very nice, looong, funny email with links to funny things we talked about on our date. But he didn’t ask me out or mention seeing me again. I emailed him back the next day an equally funny and nice yet not quite as long response. He emails me again, 2 days later, yet ANOTHER funny, loooong email. Again, no call to action (henceforth referred to in marketing speak as CTA) for a 2nd date. So I write again. (stupid). No response until 1 week and 2 days later. He calls me on a SUNDAY NIGHT and we talk for an hour and a half. Again no CTA. But an excellent convo.

So at this point I’m consulting Jeff, my dating guru who resides on the nightstand by my bed and goes by the handle “He’s Just Not That Into You”. I specifically read and RE-READ the chapters entitled “He’s just not that into you if he’s not asking you out” and “he’s just not that into you if he’s not calling.” And (cue dramatic music) I broke up with him. In my head. But it was a break-up nonetheless. I appropriately donned a sexy scarf, dark glasses and all-black outfit. Goodbye, Onion boy. Our time was brief, yet satisfying.

Then, one week and 2 days later, he calls me again at 7:30 in the evening. To “touch base”. OK, I’m still at work otherwise I would’ve asked this so-hot-it’s-burning-my-brain question: exactly what BASE are you touching, man? ????? Because from my perspective there’s nothing being touched!!! NOTHING!!! NOTHING!!! And since he hasn’t asked me out, I have to assume he’s put me in the friend bucket, though we don’t know enough about each other to really BE friends yet (OK, I’m pretty sure I’d wanna be his friend if I didn’t have such a crush on him at this point but again…whatev). Is this a courtesy call? Am I the Honda Civic in this scenario? Is this my routine 3-month oil change call? Guy friends tell me NO GUY will take the time to call if he’s not interested on some level. So WTF? I mean, just go away. You had an out. That’s what men have being doing since the beginning of time. And it’s OK. Girls are used to it. At least it answers the question of “are you interested?” But this…this continued communication?? For God’s sake, man! Help a sister out!

One week and 2 days later (I’m starting to see a pattern here) he emails me to see if I want to see a movie at the SF Film Festival…on Friday night. I can’t. (I think I’m being cool here though I really did have plans). He calls me - on the TELEPHONE - to suggest Saturday. Coolness goes away, I say yes.

So, he picks me up (a car date! I’m actually house-sitting in San Leandro so that was nice),we go to dinner, we see the movie. He drops me back at my friend’s house after the movie. An uncomfortable period of me trying to fill any silences that may occur ensues. (why do I do that?) “Do you want to come in for some blueberries? Some water? A neck rub?” (background: he enjoyed some blueberries while waiting for me to finish up upon pick-up, he flirted with me – I think – by mentioning several times that he’d like a neck rub to cure his ailing neck and thighs from snowboarding and soccer).

What the….?? HOLD ON!! Am I “coffee guy?” Maybe I DO have whore tattooed on my forehead?

Anyway, he comes in and here’s the question. We mess around a little. On a second date. Now I’ve consulted my Board of Directors of friends but I need to know from the masses – are girls who mess around a little on the 2nd date forever written off? What’s normal in the dating world now? And normal for someone of my age…you know somewhere in my teen years x 2. I have needs, people! Anyway, when people say they “messed around” what does it mean? I need to know! Jeff doesn’t talk to me about this from his perch on the nightstand.

When he leaves, there’s no CTA. Just “I had a great time, thanks for going, etc”. But I’m used to no CTA. So why would I expect it at this point? I think he’s out of town so I haven’t expected a call. I’ve been re-reading Jeff occasionally to uncover some kernel of wisdom and my kernel is this: he will not call. I told this to another friend who told me that I really should try putting positive energy out there instead.

SFX: Dream-like music. Insert soft-focus screen with fogged out corners over any images that may appear in your head.

He WILL call me. Right now, he’s somewhere on a plane, heaving a deep sigh of fantasy ecstasy, chin resting dreamily in one hand while the other hand lazily scrawls his first name in cursive with my last name. He’s probably drawing some pretty daisies by it too. He’s got a plus sign with our initials in it: OB + RB (onion boy). He’s consulting his magic 8 ball: does she like me? (maybe). If I ask her out again, will she say yes? (chances are good).

Riddle me this, blogosphere (and anything else you think might be helpful):
1) Why does he keep communicating with me? Why can’t he do what every other guy does and just stop calling if he’s not interested? Or am I back burner girl ‘til he can figure out something else with a different main course girl? I’m not really into being back burner girl. I do not aspire to be a side dish, you silly, trifling man! I clearly have “MAIN COURSE” written on my forehead (which I think is blending in with “WHORE” so it might be hard to see).

2) What does “messing around” really mean these days? Get graphic, please. Sign in anonymously if you must. But I need to know.

3) Did I sign a 3rd date death warrant by letting him touch me anywhere below the neck? Or by touching him anywhere below the neck? (Ummm…OK, so maybe below the belt).

Don’t worry. I’m working on dates with other people too. I’m not CRAZY, for heaven’s sake. (nervous laugh, twitch, twitch). I’m just looking for some answers on this. To fill in the gaps where Jeff can’t. Thanks, bloggers. (twitch).

Ri-goddamned-diculous

2006-04-14T17:04:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh yes, to dream the impossible dream. Leaving early as a junior copywriter. I’ve been working like a farm animal all week. And I’m tired, people! It’s Good Friday, for the love of Christians! Open the cave and let us leave early!

Dramatic pause as I wait for roof to part so I can leave.

Hmph. OK, well instead of leaving early I guess I’ll just offer up some Friday fun. Some things that made me say “Well that’s just ri-goddamned-diculous” (copywriting violation: using headline in copy). You know, like a sassier version of C&C Music Factory’s “Things that make ya go hmmm….”. Only no one dies.

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.
Read what’s
on his plane. Crui-fucking-sazy. Ewww.

A wax figure of Lindsay Lohan? You have GOT to be fucking kidding me.
Does anyone else see the irony here? A wax figure for a girl who probably pays a waxer to walk around as part of her posse? What happened to the golden days of yore when a wax figure was associated with status? Oh right. There never was such a day.

I’m on here somewhere.
Hilarious. And yet so sad.

We got muthafuckin’ snakes!
In case you haven’t heard about this,
check it out, yo. Google it. It's crazier than Tom Cruise. What was supposed to be a lame working title turned into the actual title and bloggers and commenters worldwide decided that what the world needs now is NOT love, sweet love. Nope. We need Samuel L. Jackson and a bunch of fucking snakes. Apparently using “SOaP” is the new IM equivalent to “shit happens”. Seriously. SOaP. I’m just sayin’.

No, seriously.
Watch this dog walk.

I told you people it was expensive to live in London
The $149 sandwich at Selfridge’s. Have it your way!!!!!!! You deserve a break today!!

Tales of vegetable dating

2006-04-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

Hello, my name is Rebecca. And I’m online dating.

(Readers respond in hypnotized unison): Hello, Rebecca.

There I’ve said it. That wasn’t so bad. I’ve admitted to the fact that I’ve uploaded a first-date version of myself on the World Wide Web – the information superhighway -for the entire fricking globe to view and subsequently pick apart like a Hooters chicken wing.

Because I cannot in good conscience align myself with a site that aligns itself with a Dr. who goes simply by his first name (“you better get REAL, people!”), because I’m not Jewish, because I have no patience to complete a survey that takes roughly 2 hours to complete and because I do not choose to spend $60 a month on a site when I can’t even afford the Comcast upgrade package which includes HBO on my copywriter’s salary, I opted for the free version of a website that makes me laugh without fail, thinking that perhaps I might find a free version of a man who makes me laugh without fail. That’s right, in my attempt to alter my romantic destiny, I chose a site named after a vegetable (cue lame Pibo Bryson song from 1991). I chose… The Onion.

Why am I writing about this? Because it’s confusing as hell. I’ve discovered there are indeed – pun not intended - many layers to online dating, on The Onion and elsewhere. And I’ve been riding on the back of the short bus wearing a helmet and headgear for regular dating so this whole thing is quite disturbing.

Let’s talk about the stigma of online dating that people SWEAR is gone. “Oh, honey, everybody’s doing it…you need to get yourself ON there!” Yet in the area of the profiles where people list their most humbling moment, roughly half the people ON THE ONION list “Using this” or “Resorting to online dating” as their most humbling moment. !! ?? Um, hellOOO, Neggy McNeggerson: you’re not only calling yourself a loser but you’re now calling me a loser too for using this site and thus taking time to peruse your profile. Way to sell it, man. I can’t wait for our first date!!

Then there are you people in committed relationships. (I believe my girl Bridget refers to your kind as “The Smug Marrieds”. Easily interchangeable with the “The Smug Daters”). You know who you are. Some of you are dear friends and some of you are casual acquaintances. I know you’re trying to be supportive and sensitive to the single person’s plight and that you’d probably be horrified if you realized how the things that come out of your mouth sound sometimes. And I know you want to believe you’re still in touch with the scene but here’s a newsflash: YOU AREN’T.

Because when I say things like “I wish that one guy I went out with that I actually liked would’ve called me back”, responding with things like “Well maybe THAT’S the reason he had to go on The Onion in the first place…he doesn’t know how to date” doesn’t really make ME feel so good even though I know it was directed at HIM. The reason he HAD to go on The Onion? To me this somehow implies that online dating is the last stop before my ovaries and their testicles just crackle up, get pissed into city sewage and then show up at some freak exhibit at Moma, after which my reproductive organs will be featured in a minimalist, yet crafty Illustrator design on a refrigerator magnet, a postcard, a jigsaw puzzle and a flip book at the Moma store. NOT COOL.

Oh, and when I show you someone’s profile I’m interested in going out with, saying things like “Well he’s 36 years old – why does he need to go on The Onion to get a date? There’s gotta be something wrong with him.” HELLO, PEOPLE! The mirror has two faces!! At least that’s what the Barbara Streisand movie said. Lest you forgot, I AM 36 too!

Please. Stop doing that.

OK, then there’s the whole etiquette of online dating. I mean, please. It’s just exhausting. I recently checked out the list of guys who “hot-listed” me and I got to thinking: If I’m hot enough to be on your fucking hotlist, why don’t you just email me, you lazy asses? Or wink at me? (which is lame, but hey, we’re in the world of online dating so when in Rome….).

I winked at a guy last week who hotlisted me. He proceeded to contact me and tell me that my profile so moved him, that he had to break his rule of not responding to girls who only winked at him. Is it just me or is this skewed logic? Since you can view the people who Hotlisted you, isn’t hotlisting just a different form of winking? Or is it a fancy way of saying “I want you to know I think you’re cute but I have better stuff going on right now but I don’t want to lose track of you”? That’s totally fine but don’t then try to bust me for winking at you, Mr. Serial Hotlister. (He may be reading right now. But probably not. He requested to see some of my writing and I sent him to my blog and never heard back. Bah humbug.)

The other annoying thing is that people have time to craft their profiles. I’m not saying I didn’t spend time on mine because I did. But after doing this for a few months and going on some not-so-exciting dates, I get the distinct impression that the non-original people take snippets of wit from the original people and frankly, that just pisses me off. Also, SOME people who are funny in writing do not also possess the quick wit and natural humor to be funny in person. Maybe they’re nervous or shy. Because I get nervous and shy on these dates. But after a couple of glasses of wine, even the most nervous or shy person utters one or two funny things that gives the other person a glimmer of hope for the future, even if that future is the next 15 minutes. I’m not asking for the whole stand-up routine. Just a glimmer, people. A FUCKING GLIMMER!! A PULSE!! After all, if ya got, ya got it and it might come out slowly but it’ll come. If it doesn’t, consider yourself busted for being a profile “poser” and once you’re in that category you’re there for a while. Like Purgatory, treading in boiling oil and balancing a 2-ton Liger on your head, for the next 6000 years. And don’t be lying about the books you read, either. That’s just WRONG.

And what of the serial emailers? The people who cannot commit to asking you out on a real date to save their fricking lives but continue to flirt with you online, even after you suggest the in-person encounter? Why do you do this? Why do you waste my time? And yours? What do you hope to accomplish with this? DELETE.

And you, Mr. “I can’t stop looking at your profile” subject line. STOP EMAILING ME. You’ve sent me that email with that subject line FOUR TIMES.

When you finally go out on an actual date with someone, it seems one of two things happens (besides it feeling like a fucking miracle that anything is happening at all): 1) you have a pleasant time. Yes, pleasant. I’ve had pleasant and have been told I’m pleasant. Pleasant. Tulips are pleasant. Afternoon tea is pleasant. Who wants or wants to be pleasant? I want to be overtaken by chemistry so powerful that we can barely keep our lips apart and we seem to never stop talking. Yes, I realize this is why it’s called dating and that not every date is a love connection. But online dating seems like a shitload more work up front for a lot less likelihood of a payoff, even a small one. I mean PLEASANT. Come the fuck on, people. (See? That’s not the sentence of a pleasant person.)

The second thing: you could really find someone you like. This has happened once. He seemed to like me. He called me again and emailed me again. But he never asked me out again. I guess he just wasn’t that into me, as the book says. Bummer. So don’t email me and call me. Just fade to black, man. It’s easier that way. It’s the way of the world.

So the moral of this story is….a question mark. Right now it feels like I’m doing triple the work for the same result. Can’t somebody just have a house party or come forward with a really hot friend who just moved here from Australia? Anyone??

Don't cry out loud

2006-03-24T10:12:00.000-08:00

JJ cried the day the Tigers came to town…

OK, enough quoting of bad Judy Collins songs from the 70s. My brain is exploding with such happiness right now that I can scarcely think of anything funny to say. So I’ll just settle for HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU LOST YOU FRICKING BLUE DEVIL, BASTARDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And now we chant. LSU! (SEC!) LSU! (SEC!) LSU! (SEC!)

Can I get a HELL FUCKING YEAH, people??!!!

We now return to our normal programming.

iPole

2006-03-21T17:55:00.000-08:00

Over dinner recently with CEinie, I met a new acquaintance that told me about a fascinating revolution in the world of exercise and body image. I can’t remember the exact name of it, but I thought it was called “The X Factor” (though I tried Googling this today and found nothing related…but that’s what I’m calling it for the purpose of this blog).

Apparently, the X Factor is a series of 8-10 classes where you go for a combo of exercise and self-esteem building via pole and lap dancing techniques. Yep, you read that correctly: you pay to pole dance (and lap dance too I think). Genius! Not only do you perform individually, but they actually encourage you to wear “strip club”, excuse me dancer-type attire to class. You know, to get in the spirit. My new acquaintance informed us she had just purchased 6-inch platform heels and a very, very naughty short skirt and cut-off shirt to wear. Double genius! And it’s not even Halloween!

Initially, this just sounded like some good crazy fun to me. Being the karaoke microphone hog that I am, I naturally thought: “Me + pole + audience of non-pervy men = fun!” My initial reaction was “CEinie! Let’s sign up!”

My new acquaintance was quick to point out that good crazy fun is NOT the purpose of the class. The purpose (I think) is to get you (women) comfortable with your body by seeing other people dance in an uninhibited fashion no matter what their body flaws are. Let’s face it, we all have them (remember Tyra’s sage advice on “America’s Top Model”: “Girl, I got a stomach too…you just gotta learn to hold that IN.”) and we all think that the body flaw world revolves around each of us and that there are gigantic arrows pointing ours out to everyone else. Or maybe the point is, the more frequently you get your stuff out there and get comfortable with it, the less it will bother you. Clearly, I do not know the point. Clearly, I am not yet on this higher plane.

The class is $450 for 8-10 sessions. Since I’m mulling over how to work in basic cable and wireless Internet at my new home, this probably won’t happen for me right away.

It did get me thinking though. What song would be my pole/lap dance signature sound? And what would my naughty attire consist of?

After a quick sift through my iPod, I quickly remembered the song that always seems to make me run a little faster and with a little more ‘tude when I actually make it to a treadmill and inspires me to dance 80s video-vamp style when I hear it at bars. Without further adieu, I give you, the RBrown pole-dancing tune of choice:

“Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard.

I think a pair of very tall white go-go boots with a very short but fitted 60s-style shift dress would go nicely with this song (yeah, I know it’s an 80s song but it’s my blog, people! Let me have a moment here!). I see hair and makeup similar to Sienna Miller’s 60s look donned in the 2004 version of “Alfie”. Yes, yes. My sound and look is coming together nicely.

Now, dear friends of the blogosphere, it’s YOUR turn. What’s your song? What will you wear? Guys, don’t think you can get off so easily (look at that – a copywriting pun…go figure). I’d love hear any one of the following:

a) what your song would be
b) what you’d like to see your girlfriend dance to (note the distinction here: I did NOT say what you’d like to see the local “dancers” dance to
c) if you’re just too uncomfortable with the whole thought of this, tell me what you “at-bat” song would be if you played for (insert favorite pro baseball team here).

Come on! Don’t be shy! Let it all hang out, people!

The madness behind The Madness

2006-03-16T18:32:00.000-08:00

There are a few types of people in this world that I’ll never understand: people who rob people during funerals and weddings, people who watch absolutely NO TV, people who don’t like dogs and – most timely for right now - people who vehemently refuse to succumb to March Madness in some manner, either by filling out a bracket or by just watching the last 10 seconds of some particularly exciting game so they can add something to the water cooler convo at work.

Basketball has always been the great equalizer for me. Yesterday, I was the Quiet Girl at work. Today, I’m “Girl Who Knows You Always Pick At Least ONE 5 Seed Over a 12 Seed” girl. And if my luck holds out, I’m “Girl Who Picked Montana over Nevada” girl. I’m a GENIUS.

Growing up in Kentucky breeds an assortment of quirky behaviors and a head full of useless knowledge that only fellow Kentucky fans and a handful of fans from other diehard sports schools/teams actually get.

For example, everybody knows that it’s not just the team and coach responsible for wins during the tournament. The consistent contribution of each individual fan matters too. And I’m not talking about just showing support at games.

Let’s say you watched the 1996 NCAA tournament at Trump’s Sports Bar in Lexington, KY with your 2 friends John and Matt (hypothetical friends, by the way). Kentucky won it all that year. But in 1997 Matt couldn’t make it because his wife was in labor with the birth of their first daughter. Kentucky loses in the national title game to Arizona. Way to go, Matt. Way to fuck it up for all of us. You can bet your sweet ass that even though Matt’s wife was open to hosting a viewing party at their house for the 1998 tournament, Matt’s ass was back at Trump’s with you and John. ONLY you and John. In the SAME chairs you sat in in ’96, ordering the same items off the menu you got in ‘96. And if those same items weren’t on the menu, Matt and John just explained the situation to their server, who explained it to the cook, who then called a friend to go find the now defunct jalapeno poppers and make sure they were served to Matt and John on exactly the same type of serving plate to ensure everyone was doing their part in helping pull out another championship.

You think I’m making this up? Trust me. I’m not.

What’s happened to my Cats since 1998 you might ask? I can’t speak for the rest of the fans’ behavior since then but I do know that I am solely responsible for last year’s Kentucky loss. I flew to Cyprus. That’s right. Cyprus. To meet Ex British Lover’s family. During March. Cyprus is beautiful but there are no sports bars playing the NCAA basketball tournament, there are no Internet cafes to catch scores at, and EBL’s family is on a waiting list to get Internet and phone connection at home (usually a couple of years in Cyprus). So it wasn’t until I returned to London – ONE WEEK AFTER OUR GAME – that I found out we lost in a tight one to Michigan St.
I’m so sorry, Tubby and team. Never again will I leave the country for ANYONE during March. Period.

Don’t even get me started on grudges. Christian Laettner, 1992. That’s just dirty fucking basketball, people. That launched a hatred for Duke that can never be reversed, a dislike for any and all teams that Laettner ever played for and an intense distaste for pretty much all Duke fans who, for the LIFE of them cannot get one single fucking statistic right to save their lives, even the simple ones like which schools have more championships than theirs (never argue with a Carolina, Kentucky, UCLA fan (possibly Indiana?) on that issue for sure, you useless fuckwits.) It also ensures my support of any team who ever playsDuke. There are other grudges, but the Duke one is more permanent because, in my opinion, their fans are the most know-it-all and offensive of pretty much any other school.

I also reserve a special category of annoyance for what I like to call the “new money” schools. Arizona, for example. OK. So you beat us in 1997. Good for you. But building a dynasty is a marathon, not a sprint, and only a handful of schools are in the club, and as painful as it is for me to say it, Duke’s one of them. Sure, it’s cool to get to the Elite Eight 4 times in the past 6 years. It’s cooler when you’ve actually won championships – PLURAL - over a longer period of time, under different coaches. Call me in, oh, 100 years, you Arizona whores, when you’re actually a threat.

But your off years. Suck. And you want. To die. Really. I’m only slightly over-dramatizing. Kentucky hasn’t showed this poor of a performance since Nixon was in office. Seriously. I can’t decide which is worse: the pain of knowing that your team will do absolutely nothing in the tournament or the depression you experience after a loss in a year in which you were supposed to do something. Whereas tournament days feel as exciting as 5:30 on Christmas Eve in Lexington, with everyone bustling about to get to their destination so they can soak themselves in bourbon and beer cheese, days following a tournament loss feel like half the city was killed in a freak earthquake, tsunami or some other unnatural-to-Kentucky disaster. It’s unbearable.

But if anybody knows how to celebrate it’s a bunch of people from the south who like bourbon and worship basketball like it’s a religion. All pretense of normal behavior is off. One of my favorite family memories is from ’98 when we beat Stanford in the national semi-finals. My family watched the game together and as tacky as it sounds, we all got ridiculously loaded (didn’t we? Or was that just me?). So after we won, we did what any all-American family of drunk basketball freaks does: we got a huge bell and the Kentucky flag and ran through the neighborhood ringing the bell, ushering our neighbors out to celebrate with us in a kind of gigantic Kentucky basketball conga line. Klassy – with a K!

This year, though, I’m not pretending. We’re not going anywhere after game 2, max. I’ll still enjoy the tournament, rooting against Duke and for my other picks. My final 4: UCLA, Texas, UConn and Villanova. I’ve got Villanova beating Texas in the finals.

Why Villanova? I used a mixture of statistics, tempered with a tiny bit of emotion. RPI rankings weighed less into the decision than did their team name (um, they’re Wildcats too).

Oh, and last time they won a championship? 1985, Rupp Arena, in beautiful Lexington, KY.

Told you it was madness.

It's time to fly my freak flag

2006-03-15T00:10:00.000-08:00

I’m composing this entry on my lunch hour. As I eat my salad at my desk. Alone. I think I’m in dangerous territory at work of getting labeled as “The Quiet Girl”. Holy. Fricking. Shit. Where have I gone wrong?

I’m having lunch-table flashbacks to the first day of school at elementary, middle and high school. Don’t get me wrong – everyone here is really nice. I just have that feeling that people don’t really know what to make of me yet, they’re still in the critical “decision phase” that we all know we put people through but maybe don’t want to admit doing. Now is the time when I need to take the bull(s) by the horn(s)! Bring out my best material! Regale with my Gregory Peck stories! Dazzle with my quick wit! Harness the camraderie of co-workership with my thoughtfulness (“I brought you a muffin for all those great layouts you did!”). So why am I freezing up? As Tom says in “Office Space”: “I’m a PEOPLE PERSON, goddamnit!”

I’ve never had this problem before. Ever. And I’m trying to figure out what it is now. I just realized today it’s been 3 1/2 years since I started a job without the comfort of having a partner by my side. And the first day of a marketing job is a lot less intimidating than the first day of an agency job (it was for me, anyway). Better Darker Half and I had a theory: all it takes is one big night of drinking with your co-workers and you’re in. The truth is, this job seems to have brought out my quiet, shy, deer-in-the-headlights side and I need to rid myself of this faster than that bad prairie shirt look from 1983. Me! Quiet? Serious? The people who know me outside this blog are checking the URL to make sure they’re at the right place. It’s ridic, right?

But what do you do when you a) have no money to go drinking b) have no money to go to lunches c) have no energy to do either anyway d) don’t really want to get into the fact that you’re trying to “do a cleanse” of drinking and meat-eating since your co-workers are all young and vibrant and healthy as a bunch of fucking horses and e) want to protect your out-of-work time like Ft. Knox so you can spend it with the non-work friends you barely get to see now? Anyone? Bueller?

I have a few ideas. But I think they’re a little progressive. For example, I’m reading “Lullaby” by Chuck Palahniuk right now and I’m thinking of writing a culling song that I can sing around the office…you know, the modern day version of getting people to drink the RBrown Kool-aid.

Perhaps a culling blog would be more appropriate for an agency that specializes in interactive media? I could send a link from an anonymous email to an entry that, following reading, would somehow encourage people to stop by my desk and chat, accept my impromptu invitations to step out for coffee, part their happy hour social circles when I approach. The little things. I think this is a good plan save a couple of minor flaws:

1) Culling verses/songs are meant to kill people. And I think that’s just taking things too far. I just want them to like me, for Christ sake.

2) This seems fairly obvious but it is conceivable that while researching the elements of culling songs/verses I could read something that actually does kill me, ironically defeating the need for anyone to try and get to know me. But an untimely death would make me ridiculously popular at work posthumously. I’d probably even score a movie on Lifetime or the Oxygen Network. Hmmm. Probably not worth it. OK, so kill the culling blog.

So what now? I need some advice. Set me straight, blogosphere. Any techniques that will knock me out of my solitude and shyness and back into the warped and dark stratosphere I normally inhabit would be much appreciated.

PS - Don't tell me to have them read my blog. Cause then I'll feel all restricted about what I can write. I know you'd think that Krazy RBrown would rear her warped head in her work somewhere but honestly...I'm not sure people even read the stuff that's been the funniest and the other stuff is financial-related. (translation: NO ONE WILL EVER READ IT EXCEPT THE CLIENT)

March Madness...a little early

2006-03-03T13:12:00.000-08:00

For anyone out there who doesn't like basketball, doesn't "get" March Madness (gasp!), thinks brackets are hard to understand (it's choices, people, just choices) or doesn't understand what people mean when they talk about Cinderella in relation to basketball, please watch this. 2 minutes. It'll make you a believer and it'll make your Friday. I promise.

www.collegehumor.com/movies/1667265/

And by the way, even though my team is experiencing the worst suckage since pegged jeans were popular, I'm still excited about March Madness. Because I think I just heard a Blue Devil choking on a little nugget called pressure to perform in March. Too bad, so sad. I don't know the Heimlich. Bye, bye, Devil.

Happy March.
**********************
Late addition: This has absolutely nothing to do with March Madness...unless the word "cock" getting worked into advertising is considered "mad". This, my friends, is why I love the Brits. Any excuse to work in a cock.

Click on the top left hand film:

www.littlerbritain.co.uk/

Am I a communication hack?

2006-02-28T23:08:00.000-08:00

Not long ago, Concha blogged about how much easier life would be as a montage.

(cut to me reading Concha’s blog, laughing, looking off in the distance, fade to Concha and I on the swings in Covent Garden, cut to me all drunk telling Concha I only slept for 10 minutes, quick cut to a still shot of our happy ad school group at my London birthday party, cut back to me reading Concha’s blog, fade to black)

That particular entry raised my consciousness on a habit of mine that over the past 4 to 5 years has gone from infrequent to ridiculously manic levels. I think and speak in movie. It’s maddening and not just for the people on the receiving end. See, not only can I expertly weave in and make relevant the crowd-pleasing favorites, I can also conjur up the obscure, Valerie Bertinelli Oxygen Channel quotes with equal ease. Why won’t they go away? Why could I never remember science things or…math? (I was trying to remember what the things in geometry are called. But my brain’s too full of “Zoolander” quotes and Judith Light cancer scenes to hold such a memory).

What’s more disturbing, though, is that I use entire scenes from movies to convey my feelings in everyday conversation.

Take Valentine’s Day, for example. Someone asked me what I did and I told them I went to Borders after work and perused the new hardback fiction section. As if that wasn’t sad enough I added: “Kinda like in “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Remember? When George gets to see what his life would be like if he’d never been born? He sees Mary and she’s a haggard spinster librarian? And he says ‘Don’t ya KNOW me, Mary? It’s George! George Bailey! Your HUSBAND!! ‘ “I’M MARY!’”

Imagine the crowd of co-workers I turned into friends with thatlittle story.

Here’s another one. On roughly day 4 at my new job, a friend asked how things were going at my new job without one of my regular art director wives. The truth is, I liked it (and still do) but I was having that uncomfortable “I haven’t made a lunch buddy” kind of discomfort you often have at a new job. I was missing the familiarity of having a someone like BDH or BLH by my side. So I said, “Remember in ‘Up Close and Personal’ when Michelle Pfeiffer moves to Philadelphia? And they make her color her hair because the viewers told her she’s better as a brunette? There’s this scene where she’s sitting at her desk and she’s, like, SO completely lonely. So she calls Robert Redford just because she needs to hear a familiar, friendly voice, right? But when she talks to him she pretends that everything is OK. It’s kind of like that.” It sounds weird, but it described how I felt perfectly.

It’s sad, really. I fancy myself a (air quotes)“writer” (end air quotes) but often I rely on others to do my dirty communication work for me. Does this mean I’m a poor writer or a poor communicator? Or both? (Don’t answer that please, it’s rhetorical….honesty is such a lonely word. Shit! I did it again! This time with 70s song seepage!)

The truth is, sometimes people just beat you to things. And why waste all that time trying to clue people in to what I’m feeling when someone’s already done it so flawlessly?

Just last week I was watching a “Sex in the City” rerun. The one where Miranda makes Carrie try on a wedding dress in an attempt to calm her fears about getting married. Remember what happens when Carrie puts on the wedding dress? She begins to suffocate, she breaks out in a cold sweat, hives begin appearing on her torso. She makes Miranda rip the dress off her. Watching that, it hit me. That’s exactly how I felt when I fled Seattle to come back to San Francisco. Suffocating. Cannot. Breathe. Get. Me. The. Fuck. OUT. Of. This. CITY!!!!!! I GET it, Carrie! I underSTAND!

It’s sick, this blurring of reality and fiction, not only in my head but in the heads of so many of us these days. It’s as if fiction is directing reality now. People write lies for memoirs but think they’re true. Reality TV stars become celebrities. What’s wrong with all of us? Or is it just me? Too much Diet Coke? Too many lattes? Enlighten me, blogosphere. Please. I need to rekindle my faith in original thought again.

In an odd note of irony, Judith Light appeared as a judge on Law & Order SVU tonight. I saw her AFTER I’d written her into this entry. Did I WILL Judith Light to appear? Or would she have appeared anyway? See what I mean? Fiction….directing reality. Does that mean this blog entry is fiction? Or is it a memoir? Shit, I’m totally confused now.

The Ick Clause, 2006(a)

2006-02-26T23:06:00.000-08:00

Thanks to everyone who commented, called and emailed after reading about my untenable tenant situation. It’s been a tough week. But I finally came to the decision that no matter what my landlord’s situation is now with regard to the old code 288c situation, it all comes down to me and what my comfort level is with the place I call home and the people who share the keys to my home and ultimately, my peace of mind. So I decided against moving in.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I feel so crappy about this and I think it comes down to a couple of things. First off, ignorance really is bliss. From now on, I think I’ll choose ignorance. And vodka. Blissfully uninformed, never saw a link, never Googled anyone, Absolut drunken bliss. Because putting in my address and creating an interactive map in which sex crimes – with pictures of the criminals who committed said heinous crimes – revolve around my little world is just taking information and interactivity way too far. That, my friends, requires vodka.

There’s also the whole judgment issue. I’m not perfect – far from it. I may never have committed a code 288c, but I’ve done things that haven’t turned out so well that people have judged me for and that didn’t feel so hot. For example, I was married. I’m now divorced. I’ve lost more than one fish off the hook once I revealed that little gem and I’m sure I will again. I know what happened, what mistakes I made and what I should have done differently but those few people didn’t stick around to hear about it, having already made up their mind about me and what I might be like in future relationships. And there wasn’t one thing I could do about it. Their mind was made up. That sucked.

It made me wonder, what would the world be like if there was one cohesive offender site out there? A site that let you type in your address and returned a full range of morally reprehensible crimes in your neighborhood? Imagine how your day would change if your favorite Starbucks barista popped up under the “gets hammered and always sleeps with guys on the first date” square. Or your next-door neighbor’s pic popped up under the “steals money from kids college fund and hasn’t told wife yet”? Or maybe your dog-walker shows up under “addiction to porn”? Would you change dog walkers? Would you get your key back from your next-door neighbor? Would you hit on your Starbucks barista? Would you tell them you saw them on the Offender site?

See what I mean? It’s just too much. Ignorance is bliss.

Sometimes it sucks being an adult. Somebody pass the vodka.

Help!

2006-02-22T15:06:00.000-08:00

Friends of the blogosphere, I desperately need your help and advice. With something serious. Quickly.

As many of you may have read, I rented an apartment recently. I didn’t mention that the apartment is an old Victorian home and that the owner of the house is the landlord. And the landlord actually lives in the apartment….sort of. He has a small room in another portion of the house but he shares our kitchen and comes in and out of our apartment quite frequently to make repairs, help people do things around the apartment, etc.

This seemed odd to me at first but when I went to sign the lease, my fears were put to rest after meeting him in person. He seemed very nice, I got a good vibe and he was actually happy to have someone of my “mature state” moving into the apartment. We also somehow got on the topic of how he had changed his life, he used to be a “wild guy” but now that he’d “turned his life over to God” he was a changed man. And he seemed like a really nice guy. I signed my lease, felt safe and went on my merry way with plans to move in on March 4.

Fast forward to last night. A friend of mine forwarded me a link to a sex offender web site. It was odd that I opened the email because I almost never read forwards – I’m not sure what possessed me to open this particular email on this particular day. But I did. The site allows you to type in your address and see if any registered sex offenders live near you. Those listed on this site could be rapists (yellow squares) child-related sex offenses (red squares) or “other” (green squares). I typed in my new address and almost had a heart attack. Up popped a picture of my future landlord and partial roommate. As a green square. Upon further investigation (thank you to BDH for her efforts in this), I found out he was convicted of a “lewd and lascivious act with a child under 14” under code 288c, which is “oral copulation”. So basically, a child under 14 gave him a blowjob. Whether that child was forced or not forced, it’s weird. I could be living with a pedophile. And I’m completely freaked out.

I’m trying to decide what to do. It seems obvious since I say I’m completely freaked out but there are 2 sides to this. People do change. Maybe he’s just trying to live an honest life. Who am I to judge? Besides, I’m not under 14. I’m out of his interest range (seriously, I’m not even trying to joke about this). As ASkor wisely put it, if we all made decisions based on people’s pasts and never trusted anyone, everyone in the world would be required to live alone on their own tiny, sad little island.

But what if he hasn’t changed? Who’s seen “The Woodsman” with Kevin Bacon? I know, I’m always bringing it back to movies, but think about it. Kevin Bacon’s character was really trying to change. He wasn’t a bad guy. Just a guy with a serious fricking problem that in the end he couldn’t overcome. (He moved across the street from a school and flirted with disaster by letting some teenager sit on his lap in a park). I don’t want to end up being inspiration for an episode of “Law and Order SVU”. And I don’t want to live constantly worried about whether someone’s rifling through my panty drawer or has installed a camera in the shower.

I’ve consulted my board of directors of friends and they are split, 60/40 in favor of me trusting my original gut opinion, formed without the sex offender info and going ahead and moving in. Many of them are saying “it’s probably nothing, he says he’s changed…..people DO change.” I’d also like to point out that the Board of Directors of RBrown friends is a collectively well-educated, high-earning, intelligent group of people, several with infants.

I consulted with someone at the Bay Area Housing authority (or something like that) and told her the situation. She told me how to remedy it if I wanted to try and get out of the lease and get my deposit back. She can’t offer legal advice but the more I told her the less she felt comfortable with him and the situation. Of course, she also said she had a friend that peed on a tree in a park, a kid saw him do it and he was convicted of…guess what? Code 288c, lewd and lascivious behavior with a child under 14.

For the first time in a long time, my gut has abandoned me and is completely split, literally and figuratively (I woke up with stomach knots at 4:30 this morning). I got a good vibe from him in person. But I also believe in signs. Why would I – the girl who makes fun of forwarded emails and almost NEVER opens them – choose to open that one? What are the odds? Is someone sending me a signal?

So, I’m asking for your honest opinions and comments. Thanks for reading and for (hopefully) not thinking I’m crazy and naive for still considering moving in and perhaps trusting that people can change.

Here's the link, by the way: http://www12.familywatchdog.us/

Do I have "WHORE" tattooed on my forehead?

2006-02-18T01:30:00.000-08:00

No, seriously, do I? Because I feel like I must.

Recap: I’m out with my girls last Saturday, minding my own business when a guy they know approaches and chats with them. We get introduced. I pay attention to the mindless chitchat, I smile. I nod. At the end of their convo he says “Hey Dshaw, I need to get your email so I can get Rbrown’s number and ask her out.” What? OK. Cool.

Said suitor follows up with Dshaw, gets my number, calls me and we go out for drinks tonight. There’s a modicum of chemistry, we have a good conversation, he seems nice. We have a couple of glasses of wine and somewhere near the end he throws in the Ace card of “well I don’t have any chocolate at my place but maybe we can go back there anyway.”

What the fuck?

I reply with the nervous laugh “Um, well that’s probably not the best idea.” He seems satisfied but my red flags have been raised.

He drives me home, gets out to walk me to the door (extra points), kisses me goodnight and makes a comment about how my name isn’t on the directory. Naturally, I don’t bother to go into the whole “I’m subleasing” story. I make a joke of how I’m not directory-worthy. And he follows up with “Well, invite me up for coffee”.

Again, I must ask – WHERE ON MY FOREHEAD IS THE WORD WHORE WRITTEN??!!

“What?” I ask, confused. “Invite me up for coffee,” he says.

I’m not even sure what my reply was… something like “Um, well, it’s not really a (insert name here) thing, it’s more of a Rbrown thing. I don’t drink coffee. I don’t have a coffeemaker (no shit, I said both of those things, both lies). “ And then – and I’m sorry BLH – “my friend I’m subleasing from just had a baby so it’s not really visitor-friendly. Cribs and stuff.”

I got the “OK, it was nice to meet you”. Then the walk-off. I will never hear from this guy again. Nor do I really want to. I thought he was nice. Jesus!

OK, so it’s a fine line. We all have needs. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t invited someone up for some “coffee” before. So I’m not sure why I’m shocked. Nothing should shock me anymore. If there had been some more build-up…maybe there would’ve been a little coffee. But I’m not entirely convinced this guy knew my name at the end of the date. Remember, when he met me, I was merely a nodder and a smiler. So to go from that to naked coffee…well, it just seems wrong.

To channel Carrie Bradshaw for one lame moment, allow me to say for anyone who’s dated me lately, in the past, or may be considering it and reading this blog…let me be as clear as Carrie on this: “I’m looking for love. Real live honest to fricking God love. And if you’re really just looking to have “coffee” with me, don’t bother.” (OK, Carrie didn’t say it exactly like that, but it needed to be said). Is every girl you meet someone you just wanna DO??

I LOVE sex. Really, I mean who doesn’t?? But if there’s chemistry, let it breathe a little. Why ya gotta rush it and shit? Ok, once again I’d say, I too, have made this mistake more than once. But only if all the signs are right, for fuck’s sake! If I was wearing a skank outfit on Saturday or tonight and sending mixed signals, maybe I’d get it. But I wasn’t. I was just me, and I was me on level 2 on a scale of 1 to 10. Because I’ve been told Rbrown at 10 can seem a bit much, a bit flirty, even when I’m not meaning too. So this guy got me at a 2. And he wants “coffee”.

Where did I go wrong here? What signals should I NOT have sent??

In a “High Fidelity” moment, I even dialed up SilverFox. At 12:16 am. To tell him thank you. FOR BEING NORMAL. Because as screwy as all that got, he was always a gentleman, he always read the signals, he always treated me with respect. Which was weird. Because we drank a LOT of coffee. (sorry if you’re reading this….you always wanted to be the cool guy in my books and now you’re the sexy, cool gentleman guy. Hope that’s cool). Silverfox could merely smile at me and my stomach did flips. He touched my arm and it caught on fire. So on the occasions Silverfox and I decided to have coffee, it was really a no-brainer. Stomach flips and fire are coffee-worthy. 2 glasses of wine and someone I’m pretty sure doesn’t know my last name? NOT COFFEE WORTHY.

Are we all doomed, us single girls? Should I just go back to “inviting people up for coffee” and say fuck it to finding more? Someone give me hope. Please. I just don’t think it’s wrong of me to want the coffee….AND the coffee cake, the Splenda, the purple couches, the stir sticks and the soundtrack. The whole goddamned coffee fucking shop.

Right?

My TOTALLY RAD new apartment!!!!!!!!

2006-02-12T23:23:00.000-08:00

As many of you know, my search for a permanent home over the past 4-6 weeks has been a bit of a challenge. I’m not a vegan, I’m not unscented, I wear leather, I’m not a pagan, I watch TV and I’m not at all active in a single stuffed animal community that the Bay Area has to offer. Not one. (Ballsy of me, right? I mean everybody knows a good stuffed dog alliance will score you the best room the Outer Sunset has to offer.)

So you may be surprised to hear that someone as picky and scent-a-licious as me finally managed to sign a lease. That’s right. I’m moving into an apartment on March 3. But it was a tough choice between my two finalists. Allow me to explain.

Apartment 1
The post for apartment 1 stated they were looking for a woman in her mid-30s to balance out the 2 males (early 40s and 30) and 1 other female (early 40s). I went to meet the roommates and check out the apartment (located in Cole Valley) a week ago. Nice people, cute place, but it was as silent as a tomb at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon. Now most of the time, I’m out doing something fun and weekend-like at 2 pm on Saturdays. But on the off weekends I’d actually be in my apartment, it’s likely I’ll be sitting in my room watching whichever marathon of whatever reality TV show VH1, Bravo or MTV are offering. During commercial breaks, I’ll be listening to clips of songs I want to buy or illegally download in between reading from whatever book I’m enjoying that particular day while fielding calls from my friends on my cell phone with a very loud ring tone version of the “Hungarian Hat Dance” regarding what our plans for the evening are. What can I say? I’m a multi-tasker.

The interview progressed and one of the roommates asked if his practicing cello and flute would bother me during reasonable daytime hours. I answered honestly: not at all. He then asked me if I had a TV. Yes. He paused. And he supposed I’d want to watch the TV in my room? Um, yeah. Right. This might be a problem. You know. The buzz of TV carries. We might have to monitor this.

Pre-advertising, this hullabaloo wouldn’t have been a problem. Because me and my 24-inch hunk of TV would still be living in harmonious urban bliss at my ginormous studio with hardwood floors, huge closets (plural), separate dining room and hallway (that’s right, a hallwayin a studio). But now that I’m paying surgeon-like student loans back for social worker-like advertising checks, compromises must be made. Lines must be drawn. Cellos must be listened to. Volume must be curtailed. Hour long discussions about handling conflict endured. O, what fun we’ll have, apartment 1!!!!

Apartment 2
The posting for this apartment announced an open house hosted by four 20-something roommates. It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t go to this open house because of my advanced age. I figured they’d either like me or they wouldn’t, I’d get the apartment or I wouldn’t, end of story.

Me and about 15 other hopeful roommates showed up at the Pacific Heights Victorian last Monday. As the roommates guided us around, a “Bachelor” vibe ensued. Other roommate hopefuls began throwing elbows to get to the front, jockeying for position so they could get some face time with the roommates, throw a few clever words in. ”Look at me! I’m funny!” But being on time, being tall and wearing heels finally pays off – I was at the front of the pack and nobody was knockin’ me and my 6’0” frame (in heels) out of the way. Go ahead, bitches. (Keep smiling!) Try.

We all sat down in the hallway area for a Q&A. More hopefuls, saying things just to be saying them, asking questions just to be asking them, talking

What the…??? Is that a washer and dryer I see back there? A new washer and dryer?? Oh holy shit, the stakes just rose. Say something funny! Wait, what? I have to write a bio about myself?? Are you fucking kidding me with this? I get to write a bio? This place is SOOOO mine.

I wrote while the roommates talked. “Like, we’re all really good friends. And we just wanna, you know, like keep that vibe. Like, we all totally go out together every weekend, to North Beach and get totally crazy. It’s really fun. We want somebody that’s into that. It’s totally important to us.”

My pen froze. Abort! Abort! You’re not 20-something anymore! (I’m talking to myself now, for those of you who didn’t catch on) You’re a self-described “daytime friend” to your other 20-something friends because you know all you really want most of the time is a couple of glasses of really good wine, some sushi, your best girls, a few hotties to serve as eye candy and a midnight curfew and poof! You’ve got yourself the perfect Saturday night. Tequila and Jager shots? 5 am taxi rides home after partying in the apartment of some randoms for 2 hours after the bars closed? Totally 1996. And an occasional 2002. (Disregard 2003-2005 of ad school) Maybe a few times post ad school in 2005. OK. You got me. No one’s perfect. BUT NO MORE.

I couldn’t do it. I thanked them, got up and walked out. I could feel the eyes of the other hopefuls staring holes in my back. Their smugness, though unspoken, was deafening. She is SO not getting this apartment. She should totally be staying to mingle with the roommates. No WAY is she getting a rose.

And the winner is…..
The answer seemed so obvious as I walked out of the apartment that night. I’m not a youngster anymore. It’s time to be an adult. To live with adults. I’ve got adult debts and lines around my eyes that I like to pretend are laugh lines. My 20s were over eons ago. Ad school was forever ago. Real life is here. Real life is today.

But as I thought more about that, I rememberd how much fun, how many gut laugh out-loud $2 wine coming out of my nose moments I had living with my five 20-something hottie London gal pals in the Islington flat. I thought about what an incredible experience it was sharing a West Kensington dive with Better Darker Half, a 20-something gay Aussie boy, an Italian guy who spoke no English and a married Polish couple that partied like rock stars, boiled water and drank it to ward off hangovers and managed to get up every morning at 5 am to report to work. And how I managed to fit my 30-something ways into that life and still have fun. Did I want to live in a library? In a place where people would judge me for loving “I love the 80s”? Or did my pendulum swing more towards an occasional tequila shot with a low-cut silk camisole thrown in for good measure to highlight my mature bosom? I’m hip, I’m with it, tucka tucka tucka. Right? Besides, no one had offered me the apartment yet. I bailed early. Surely they were on to me. Surely. Right?

Wrong, my friends, SO WRONG. I was offered Apartment 2. And I took it. I fooled them- mooohoohawwhahaaaa!! Though my intent was never to deceive them, just to check the place out and see if they looked like people I could live with. Despite their 20-something ways, they did. They seemed cool. Like me 10 years ago. (or 2 years ago at times). Nice people. Just not lucky enough to be born in a year that doubles as a sexual position. But now they think I’m between 24 and 28. Shit.

So, all you 20-somethings….would you be pissed if you found out your new roommate was older than you thought? Even if she was like, totally fun, cool, and funny but sometimes like, abandoned going out on weekend nights altogether to enjoy Netflix, wine and a good book?

Oh my GOD. People think I’m between 24 and 28. SWEET!

Coldplay or Oldplay?

2006-02-02T12:25:00.000-08:00

Tuesday night I had the pleasure of spending an evening with one of my favorite boyfriends. While most of you recognize him as Chris Martin, mega supahstar and front man for Coldplay, I simply know him as “baby”. (When Gwyn isn’t around, that is).

We rendezvous-ed at an intimate little out-of-the-way place known as Oakland Arena where he crooned to me over a romantic light and graphics show as sweetly and lovingly as he does in the privacy (pronounced with a short “I” as any proper mistress of a British rock star knows) of my virgin-white ear buds. It was an evening to remember. The only flaw in this perfect evening was the 19,198 onlookers. (I shared Chris with my friend ASkor, so she doesn’t count in the disappointing debacle I’m about to outline for you).

Let me start by saying this: I hate – nay despise- the people of the world who feel compelled to tell you how out-of-the-uber-hip-loop you are for liking Coldplay (said with a sneer and downward voice inflection), a “mass appeal” band as I believe someone last described them to me. You know who you are and all of you reading know who they are too. They’re the people who’ve extended their music snobbery well beyond the acceptable years of high school and college. They’re the people who actually liked Coldplay about 3 or 4 years ago before anyone in our (slow to pick up the good Brit bands) country had ever even heard of them. The people who are so insecure they have to constantly tell you how cool they are, what new “films” (God forbid you call it a “movie”) you should see, people who mock you for watching Project Runway, for fuck’s sake, or for indulging in a harmless 10 hour marathon of “I love the 80s”. (What’s WRONG with these people?)

It’s one thing if you never really liked a band before they reached pop super stardom. But you poser-type people who liked them and then try to cop a ‘tude once more than 17 people listen to them? You people really piss me off. How can I prove that you ever liked said bands? OK, you got me. I can’t. But I was in the 11th grade once. (Actually, my music snobbery didn’t kick in until freshman year of college) I know your tricks. We all had our wear-all-black, fall-in-desperate-love-with-a-hackey-sacker-from-the-theater-department-who-worked-for-the-college-radio-station period, right? (Didn’t we?)

On a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being the uber-hip music snobs, the Jack Black shooing the dad out of the record store for trying to buy a Stevie Wonder CD in “High Fidelity” and 10 being the soccer mom who still wears high-waisted, pegged jeans, has permed hair, teased bangs and loves (LOVES!) Celine Dion, I’d say I’m about a 4. I’m not super hip. I’ve accepted this. I wear Banana Republic and H&M. But I’m not all that un-hip either. I’m cultural. I know what the kids are listening to yo, and I like a lot of it. And a few times I’ve even pointed the kids to things they didn’t even know about. Go figure.

BUT.

I had no idea – ZERO – of what I was in for when Chris, ASkor and I met up on Tuesday night. The people. At this concert. Were shocking. SHOCKING, I tell you. As God and ASkor are my witnesses, I think Olive Garden may very well have been the official sponsor of the Coldplay concert. And on top of that, I think Applebee’s, Chili’s, Chevy’s and possibly even Bob Evans mixed with a little Cracker Barrel bused in their clientele special, just to see that new band from Ain-glind (that’s my phonetic attempt at a middle American accent) with the fella married to the Esty Lauder model that the kids are listening to these days. Good Lord. The place was teeming with suburbia types. I think I even saw some acid-washed jeans. What the fuck?

On top of that, people started filing out before the show was even over. BEFORE the encore. BEFORE “Fix You”. You know, that incredible fucking song that’s on the ONLY Coldplay CD those people even have or even know exists. Filing out, I tell you. Like it was the bottom of the fricking 7th at an A’s game. Because they wanted to beat traffic. Oh. Holy. Jesus. They probably also hit the early-bird all you can eat special on the way up from Fresno.

Don’t get me wrong. The show was amazing. If you like Coldplay, you like Coldplay. But somewhere between their old gigs at The Fillmore (which made you feel like you were discovering this unbelievable new band in your friend’s really huge garage with a bar) to their show at Oakland Arena (which made me want to ask where on the mall directory Chico’s was) they started selling ring tones. And letting their music be used…in commercials. And thanking the guy at iPod for selling so much of their music. Thanking The Man! (yes, I have an iPod but why should a badass like Chris Martin have to kiss that guy’s ass?)

So maybe now I can identify with you #1s on the scale of 1 to 10. Just a tiny bit. Maybe the truth is that once a band hits it big, it isn’t the band you don’t want to be associated with but the fans. Truth? Anyone?

Now if you’ll excuse me, Fayette Mall from Lexington, Kentucky circa 1986 just called. And I’ve gotta figure out how I can screen that shit out.

I found a parking place

2006-01-30T23:24:00.000-08:00

Someone once told me that finding a creative advertising job in San Francisco is a little like finding a parking place: if you keep circling, you’ll eventually find one, but you have to be patient.

I guess patience finally paid off. Today - 2 years, 11 months and 22 days after I left my boring career in marketing - I slid myself right into an available space. And not a 10-minute zone freelance kind of space. A full-time you’re gonna have to pry my ass out of this space ‘cause I got the club across my wheel kind of space. That’s right, I’m gainfully employed as a full-time copywriter. Woohoo! Health insurance, 401 K, flex spending – you will be mine!

Ironically enough, I worked here part-time while I was in ad school so it was nice to return and see lots of friendly, familiar faces. Only now they have a lot more awards. Good for them. And good for me! A round of paychecks for everyone!

You’ve GOT to be kidding me
Believe it or not, I haven’t watched “The Bachelor” since my previous entry so I have no idea what’s going on. But I tuned in tonight and heard the most ridiculous, most naïve thing that only someone of the male persuasion could be clueless enough to utter.

Two girls that he rejected were invited back to “help” him decide which 2 of the remaining 6 deserved to go on private dates with him. The Bachelor’s take on this was something like this: “I mean, these girls are here to help me. I have no doubt that they only have my very best interests at heart despite the fact that I didn’t choose them.” OH. MY. GOD. Guys, really….tell me you’re not all that clueless. Girls, am I lyin’? We know those girls are only interested in exercising their new found power against the 1 or 2 girls that they didn’t like, right?

Oh, and one last thing. How come no one on this show even makes an effort to say the French words correctly? Is it so hard to say “bohn joor” instead of “bonn joo-er”? NO!! For the love of GOD!

The Devil went down to Bacon Grease
Alright, alright, I know it’s been a while since I’ve blogged but don’t worry, I haven’t sold my soul to Satan. I was merely nursing a slight injury which prevents me from waving around my laptop which once felt light but now makes my back feels like its supporting 600 pounds of titanium instead of 4.

Anyway, I said a quick prayer for relief – you know the kind, the “Overpromise, Underdeliver”: “Please God, let this ripping pain in my lower back go away and I promise to buy 5 ‘Street Sheets’ a week for the rest of the year.”. And lo and behold, when I next checked my email someone had forwarded me a new blog by this old guy.

Huh. Not sure what to make of him yet but given my recent musings about organized religion I think I’m gonna be checking him out regularly to see what he has to say. Is he the real deal? I don’t know. I can’t say that I really like him if he is who he says is but maybe he can shed some light from the other side on what the hell is going on in our world. It’s always good to have multiple viewpoints. Plus he says that Ryan Seacrest and Mark Burnett are part of his “team” (Terri Hatcher? That hooker’s gotta be on the list too…double-check). He’s like an In Touch magazine from the bowels of hell. And you know I loves me some celebrity gossip, no matter what the origin.

So Prince B, I’m adding you to my blog roll. Don’t for a second think you’ve “got” me, because you don’t…and you never will. I’ll be watching you.

Maybe the world needs one big colonic

2006-01-17T23:57:00.000-08:00

Life just sometimes leaves you shaking your head, doesn’t it? I’m on the hunt again for housing (this time I’m signing a lease so I don’t have to endure this hell for at least 6 months) and as usual, craigslist and the fine people of San Francisco do not disappoint in the “WTF” category.

But wait – there’s more! (Insert starburst and 800 # here)

I don’t usually “rant” blogger-style, but today I’ve been making a mental list of things I’ve seen and/or experienced in the past 24 hours that I just don’t get. I turn to you, dear friends of the blogosphere, for answers. Hook a sister up….please.

From the bowels of Craigslist…
*Multiple stuffed animals – I don’t know about all of you but nothing makes me feel more relaxed at the end of a hard day than coming home to my collection of 10 stuffed animals, perfectly lined up on both sides of my sectional sofa, “watching” TV with me. And I get such satisfaction, such a sense of camaraderie, when I eat dinner and more of my stuffed animal family joins me, propped up on the 3 other chairs at the table. I don’t feel quite so lonely.

(Cue Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill”) Meet Clio. A grown woman on a quest to find the perfect roommate…for she and her stuffed friends!

I wish I were kidding. (I opted “no” on the room”).

*Pagan/vegan/vegetarian/scent-free/freakish Nazi people– OK, it’s your house. You’re looking for a roommate, you make the rules. But let’s just say that we get along really well, we click personality-wise. (That should be a good thing for potential roommates, right?) Now here’s a crazy compromise: I won’t make you eat any heinous cow or pig, I’ll use my own pans to cook that shit up and I’ll even store the offending cookware in my bedroom after I’ve washed it, somewhere behind my scent-free detergent underneath my copy of the Bible, behind my Jehovah’s Witness handbook and adjacent to all my Halloween costumes that I’ll never subject you to seeing. If we like each other and you’re true to your posting when you say “we don’t need to be best friends”, why should that matter?? Why can’t we all just get along? Give peace a chance, friend. (See? I’ll even try to get into your “communal vibe” requirement.)

…To crappy advertising angles…
*Left weave– The latest signage around Gap stores touts their new left weave jeans. Did I miss the launch of their right-weave jeans? Does anyone know the benefits of left vs. right weave? Are these left-weave jeans perhaps more liberal with the fabric? Roomier in the hip region? It’s a mystery.

*Tide Coldwater – Did you know that you could save up to $63 per year on your water bill by washing all your clothes in new (starburst!)? Tide Coldwater? Do you care? Exactly. Not that I’m pooh-poohing saving money, but that’s a mere 17 cents a day. I’m pretty sure I could dig out 17 old-chewed-gum-covered dirty pennies from my purse every day and just use hot water on my whites like a normal person and not have to spend the $63 I’ve saved on 9 or 10 bottles of $9 Tide Coldwater, thus leaving me in the hole roughly $30. (I’m tons of fun at parties) Seriously, Tide. LAME.

….and back to more bowels, this time from Hollywood
*“Fashionista Lisa” from Access Hollywoood – How did this woman earn this title? From her stints on “Days of Our Lives”, “Melrose Place” and now…”Dancing with the Stars”? Is this a revival of the ‘70s when people who weren’t really famous became famous simply for going on shows like “Match Game” and declaring their celebrity-hood? (Please tell me someone besides me remembers Charles Nelson Reilly and Brett Sommers).

*Drew’s bra – Let’s see. I’m going on TV tonight in front of half a billion people. But it’s cool, I don’t need a bra. I’ll just let these jugs hang almost to my belly button in front of a good portion of the world’s population. And for added shits and giggles, I’ll select a (gorgeous) dress that’s so thin that the world can also see some nip action. Yeah, that’s a good plan. Because I’m already a star, it doesn’t matter. People loved “E.T”; they’ll love my nipples. Hey look, there’s Steven Spielberg! Hi, Stevie!

*ALL the “Desperate Housewives”/Melanie Griffith/Penelope Cruz/Mariah Carey – Do these women annoy the shit out of anyone but me? And Terry Hatcher! Stop acting like a 14-year old on a sugar rush from 2 packs of Hubba Bubba. For fuck’s sake! The world is watching, carry yourself with a modicum of adult dignity, woman!

And somebody, anybody, WHAT is the fascination with Mariah Carey? Do people really LIKE that heinous, hideola CD? OK, I hate it when people criticize my music choices…music is personal after all. (No really, people like it?)

Whew. I feel better just getting it all out there. Maybe this was my blogging colonic. I feel lighter and more radiant already.

Heads Carolina, Tails California

2006-01-12T10:09:00.000-08:00

For the past 4 weeks, I’ve been trying really hard to literally run my ass off. 60 minutes of cardio, at least 4 times a week, weights, walking and taking stairs when I can, extra hair brushing strokes in the evening – pretty much anything. My joints hurt just to type about it. This evil age I’ve become is one unforgiving bitch. After 4 weeks of doing this 3 or 4 years ago – even with the occasional burrito Sunday glitch – I would be seeing results already. But no more.

Yesterday, since I had no freelance booked (ahem) I got to participate in my favorite 2 hours of gym fitness: a 1-hour ultimate conditioning class which consists of an allover weight workout followed by a 1-hour Booty Kickin’ step class (yes, real name). I’ve been going to this class fairly regularly since I’ve lived in San Francisco so even though my fitness levels have gone up and down over the years, I’ve mastered a lot of the harder moves taught by the instructors that have come and gone. Quite an accomplishment for an un-rhythmic white girl from the south. This isn’t one of those corner-to-corner-knees-only kind of classes, no sirree. It skews a little dancey. So in my fitter days, when I’d gotten the moves down, I felt like quite the Laker Girl. Ok, so I didn’t look like a Laker Girl but damn, I could move and I could keep up and some days I just swore I was Paula Abduhl.

But that was then and this is now.

I showed up to class yesterday with many of the very same people who’ve been in it for the past 6 years. All of us were in standard SF gym-wear: mainly tank tops and yoga-like pants and/or sweat pants. We exchanged nods and hellos and went back to our pre-class activity of standing around.

And then she arrived. A woman, my age-ish, who had somehow hijacked the instructor on his way in to explain to him that she was new to our gym, new to San Francisco, fresh off the United Airlines boat from the great state of North Carolina. And oh, was she representin’.

Dressed in a Carolina blue fleece jacket and extremely tight, short, lycra Carolina blue shorts (typically worn UNDER a longer pair of shorts), she explained that she’d been extremely active in her gym back home. She took her Carolina baseball hat off and removed her Carolina blue fleece to reveal – that’s right! – a Carolina sorority t-shirt of some ilk which she then removed to reveal a half-tank top that perfectly matched her Lycra, Carolina blue shorts. She donned a Carolina blue and white sweatband on her head and began to enthusiastically stretch while the rest of the class watched - mouths agape and unmoving- and listened to her explain to the instructor that she’d just had a son.

Now, before I get on with the real reason for this entry, I have to point out a couple of things that are probably fairly obvious. I must preface these points by saying I mean no offense to my southern readers, you’re my people, after all, yo. Nor do I mean any offense to you Carolina fans as you will most assuredly see me wearing some ridiculous Kentucky hat come March. But come ON:

- If you have a child, you should not wear sorority gear anymore. In fact, I’d say sorority gear should be phased out by 12 months after graduation, if not sooner.

- When in Rome, step, lift, sweat and dress as Romans do. Translation: DO NOT matchy-match gym wear in San Francisco. This kind of shit may fly in Atlanta (I lived there too) as does curling one’s hair, applying a full face of make-up and showering and applying perfume before going to the gym. But not here.

- Do not announce your incredible fitness abilities when you’ve moved from one of the most unfit areas of the country to the most fit. This is a recipe for disaster. Which brings us to yesterday’s class.

Upon announcing her incredible activity at her gym “back home” a change in energy came over the class, a collective bristling in the air. I almost felt sorry for her for a second. Who the fuck did this woman think she was impressing? Aside from me, most of these are Californians you’re talking to, sweetie. They were eating wheatgrass when you were putting back Dip ‘n Licks. (a favorite of mine, circa 1974). Clearly she was fresh-off-the-first-class-United-boat. I noticed a couple of eye-rollings and overheard a few grumblings. Several people began to effortlessly stretch, the top of their skulls touching the floor a foot behind their legs. Uh-oh. To capture the mood with a favorite movie quote: “You better bring it.” “Oh, it’s been BROUGHT-en….”

The music started while she was talking. “How’s this, guys?” our instructor asked.

Carolina: “Um, wow, this is REALLY fast!”

Instructor: “ Yeah, it is. But this is how we do it in San Francisco. Have fun in your first class!” And for a second, I really thought I might want to marry my gay step teacher.

After that, I’m not sure what happened. The world’s fittest athletes and most accomplished dancers took over my body. I spun where I normally shuffled, I added jumps where only kicks were necessary, I did jumping jacks during water breaks. In fact, I noticed everyone had stepped it up more than a few notches. Someone took a lap around the room during a water break. One woman even added a toe-touch cheerleading jump after a cross-over, a move that we all tried to master (but I never could) at least three instructors ago.

Carolina looked concerned but she wouldn’t be defeated. I was exhausted and sweating like a farm animal but I WOULD. NOT. STOP. I WOULD. NOT. BREAK. FOR. WATER. NO!!

Finally, Carolina missed a crucial jazz-step turn mambo-shuffle. She stopped. She watched, slightly hunched over, red-faced and defeated as the rest of the class moved as one-finely tuned, ass-kicking stepping unit. And then the final battle cry: “One last time – FROM THE TOP!” Was that a small smile I saw cross our instructor’s face as Carolina broke down and left for a water break? We all knew what had just happened and the next 2 minutes were pure booty-kickin’ step bliss. Each of us had triumphed in the face of southern, post-sorority, know-it-all-gym-girl wearing too-short Lycra matchy-match shorts. And it felt fantastic.

I’ve been wondering lately if I have that competitive spirit still in me. Freelancing, job-searching and apartment-searching don’t always allow you the opportunity to see who you’re up against, or at least give you the chance to stick around long enough to make a valiant fight/argument for yourself. Even human golden retrievers like me need a face to associate their “battles” with sometimes, It’s nice to know I’ve still got it in me, that I’m not all collaboration and smiles all the time.

Here’s to kicking your ass again tomorrow, Carolina. I’m looking forward to it.

Amazing - and psycho - TV is back on ABC

2006-01-09T23:36:00.001-08:00

Nothing thrills me more than me having this blog to share highlights from one of my favorite guilty pleasures: “The Bachelor”. That’s right, folks, from the amazing chateau, to the amazing journey to the amazing (and catty) rivalries, “amazing” television is back.

I have to ask, where in the Sam Hill was Travis “The Bachelor” when I lived in Nashville? YUM! (Oh, sorry, I meant “He’s AMAZING!”) Seriously, so far he seems a damn sight smarter and more charming than all the other bachelors put together. (Though I do still pine away for Charlie during Trista’s reign as “The Bachelorette”…where are you Charlie? Charm and charisma with 2 capital C’s)

Dude, if I was on this show, I know I’d be nervous, but during the rose ceremony, I would MOST DEFINITELY be smiling. Come ON, ladies! National TV – try not to look like a psycho and for fuck’s sake, try not to look like you’re gonna cry over a guy you JUST MET. And if you don’t get picked, be gracious, don’t look so fricking DEFEATED. Don’t cast your eyes downward! You got to go to Paris for free, you ungrateful bitches!

A few of my favorite highlights and comments from last night’s episode:

-What’s up with the girl who stood with her hands on her hips during the rose ceremony? Was this intended to send a subliminal message?

-I think I may already h-a-t-e Yvonne, CEO of the marketing firm. You may remember her as the one who sat down next to Travis and the crazy doctor who was prattling on about how she wanted to “reproduce”. Yvonne sat down and said “Like, I’m gonna sit down here if that’s OK. Time’s ticking.” (points to watch). Surely the only reason this evil woman got a rose was because she saved him from any further time with Crazy. For the record, if I was on this show, I’d Flowers-in-the-Attic this woman immediately, feeding her some powdered doughnuts with arsenic. Get rid of her, Travis!

-How did the girl who gave him a shot glass from her hometown eke through? At least that crazy guy from Marin (that I used to see out from time to time down at Kozmo’s) gave Trista something from Tiffany’s. But a shot glass. That’s rich.

-After hearing Travis was a doctor, Crazy commented: “Good, because quite frankly my eggs are rotting”. Oh. My. God. Get a grip.

- “I need a guy who has, like, substance, like a manly-man, like a guy who chops wood.” Again, ladies, some key words to live by: NATIONAL TV and CRAFTY EDITING. Choose your words, like OK??

The end was the best. For those who didn’t see it, Crazy Doctor cried AND she marched up to the poor guy and asked him “So why didn’t you pick me? Am I too short? Are my boobs too small?” And to his credit, he was honest, telling her that the reproduction comments were just too much for him. To which she replied “You don’t want reproduction. You’re just playing around. “ and then proceeded to call him a fucking asshole “like every other doctor” on her way out the door. KRAZEEEEE.

And the capper, which I loved: “Maybe I just won’t date anybody anymore”. Good idea, ‘cause I’m pretty sure that after any guys get wind of your crazy-ass psycho-ness on national TV, those eggs will be drier than an autumn wreath on the sale rack at Pottery Barn in January. Those eggs: not so amazing.

So who are the early odds-on favorites? Anyone?

We interrupt the regularly scheduled blogging to say… GO ‘HORNS! (and a few other things that have nothing to do with football)

2006-01-04T22:32:00.000-08:00

I could not be happier if it was my own freaking school. I LOVES ME SOME TEXAS TODAY!!! Happy (belated) Birthday, DShaw!!!! Am I a man? Is it natural for a girl who didn’t even go to Texas to be THIS excited? What a great game and an incredible comeback (did USC even HAVE any defensive players on the field??) And Vince Young….all I can say is that guy was like a hot knife through butter…nothin’ was stopping that kid. At 4th and 5 I knew he was gonna get it, somehow, someway. Thank you, Vince and thank you, Texas for taking down the Evil Empire of USC. It almost feels like Duke lost.

*************
Whew. OK, time to take down my heart rate.

It saddens me to report that over my Holiday “break” (is it really a break when you freelance for a living?) I heard that the Dunkin Doughnuts “Time to make the doughnuts” man died. Damn, that broke me down. I thought that was some funny shit back in the 80s and it must’ve stuck with me because almost every day of my adult working life those have been the very first words that pop into my head when my alarm blares at dawn’s crack. See kids, copywriters CAN make a difference in the world!

In fact, outside of a few key programs (the Sunday double whammy of Disney and Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom along with every Charlie Brown holiday special ever) TTMTDM’s death reminded me that most of my childhood TV memories were of commercials, not programming. So sad. I remember the taglines, the melody of the jingles and a good portion of the copy. Because the bulk of these are from the mid 70s, some of you younger whippersnappers that have befriended me may not even realize that pretty much every single one of these is deeply woven into my vocabulary and has somehow shaped my sick personality and sense of humor. While other kids were playing doctor with dolls, playing astronaut on the high slides or practicing to be a mom on Barbies, young Rebecca was basking in the warm glow of an 18-inch, dancing and singing "Coke is it!" and other jingles at the top of my lungs. Seriously. And just look at me now. Behold! The power of advertising!

My sick sense of curiosity is dying to know what everyone else’s first and/or favorite commercial memory is. Also, any guesses on what current commercials will make our kids’ blogs someday? (Hopefully my kids will be too cool to have a blog).

And now…please enjoy my walk down Consumer Hedonism Lane.

Palmolive and Madge – You’re soaking in it! Anyone who gets remotely domestic around me when I’m feeling lazy automatically gets nicknamed Madge.

Pearl Drops Tooth Polish (what the hell is the difference between polish and paste?) - A sexy girl runs her tongue over her teeth and declares “Mmmmmm……what a GREAT feeling!” VERY racy for 1976ish, no? Separate note: I once did this on a first or second date 10 or 12 years ago thinking – stupidly – that my date got it since we were discussing 70s commercials previously in the evening. (why? Yes, that’s a good question, isn’t it?) Later, he tried to aggressively stick his tongue down my throat and fondle my breastage on the dance floor of the Ace of Clubs in Nashville, TN. Note to self: Do not imitate Pearl Drops Girl. Ever. Again.

Chiffon Margarine: It's not nice to fool Mother Nature (I fricking love that line). If you think it’s butter, but…it’s NOT….it’s Chiffon. I’m surprised Lay’s hasn’t tried to bring back this strategy. “If you think they’re really fried, but…they’re not. It’s Olean (and runny, bloody stool).” Yeah, maybe not.

Calgon Bath Crystals: Calgon, take me away! Apparently I used to make my Barbies and dolls say this to each other when I played with them.

Enjoli: “I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never, never, never let you forget you’re a man, ‘cause I’m a WOOOman, Enjoli.” (is that an original song that Enjoli ripped off?)

Wind Song: A pensive looking man walks along a lonely, rain beach while background singers croon “I can’t seem to forget her, her Wind Song stays on my mind”.

Folgers - "We've secretly replaced Folger's Crystals with..." This might be my most used to this day. "We've secretly replaced DShaw's Emergen-C with..."

Ronco's Mr. Microphone - "Hey, good lookin' - we'll be back to pick you up later!" In fact, pretty much any Ronco commercial was a winner in my book. I loved me some Ronco Studsetter for jeans too.

Jean Nate: I don’t really remember the rest of this song, just the peppy chorus of singers singing “Jean Nate, Jean Nate!” while some horses ran around a track (and no, this was NOT a local-to-Kentucky spot). I LOVED it when my mom would let me splash on a little Jean Nate as a little kid after my bath. I know. Freak.

Agree Shampoo: This is part one of a 3-way tie (+Doughnut Man) for my VERY FAVORITE spot of all time and my only all-visual memory. The camera pans in close on an Agree Shampoo label and it opens like a door into a mystical, beautiful world of gorgeous hair models getting shampooed by a handsome male spokesman. Their hair is draped over a sink and he’s sensually rubbing her scalp (others are getting a similar rub-down in the background) while he talks about the many fine benefits of Agree. Not much of an idea but I consistently BEGGED my mom to buy Agree Shampoo because I thought that the labels really would open like a door and I could somehow crawl inside and get a scalp massage and live in the land of the gorgeous hair models. (My mom never gave in, by the way. I think I got the cheap Prell shit) I honestly believe this is why I revel in my haircuts and colors to this day. I also loved the Prell, Breck, Wella Balsam and Gee! Your Hair Smells Terrific! commercials. Clearly my hair product fetish was formed somewhere around age 3.

Calgon Washing Detergent - This one’s part 2 of my tie for Favorite: “Ancient Chinese secret, ehhh??” That just never gets old and even as a kid I knew that was some funny shit for 1975ish. Please tell me someone else remembers that saucy Chinese laundry-doing man.

Shop our online store for even LARGER quantities of faith!!!

2005-12-31T00:13:00.000-08:00

I thought I’d heard it all. And then I heard this:

Me: Hey, mom, which service are we going to on Sunday? (Christmas Day)
Mom: Oh, church is closed on Christmas Day.

Oh no they DIH-N’T.

That’s right. Closed. Church. On Christmas Day. Forgive me if I - the girl who goes to church only a few times a year - asks, do these people think they work for Banana Republic?

Apparently, this is the trend among many of the country’s “super churches”. The massive memberships require hundreds of volunteers, and apparently church officials seem to think that most members would just rather be “home opening gifts with their families” than going to church.

I realize I’m a bit of a hypocrite complaining about this since I almost never go to church. But I’ve honestly never heard anything more cockamamie in my life. So let’s dissect this a couple of ways. Let’s just say that of the church’s 10,000 members only 1,000 show up on Christmas Day. Isn’t it worth it to have at least ONE service (as opposed to the normal four services) for those 1,000 faithful who really want to worship on Christmas Day? And of those 1,000 let’s just say that 100 people have had a really tough year. They’ve lost a family member to cancer and it’s their first Christmas without them. Or maybe they’re contemplating suicide because the holidays are a tough time of year to get through when you’re depressed. Or maybe they’re alone or they don’t have anywhere else to go. Or maybe – and this is a really crazy notion – maybe they just want to celebrate the birth of Jesus. They actually care more about that than any presents they could possibly receive. Surely there are still a few of those people left. ?? Right?? Are there? Isn’t it worth it to scrounge up enough volunteers to have one service to help those 100 people who really, really need it or who really, really want to celebrate Christmas?

Let’s look at it from a business perspective. Take Jesus and Christmas and everything meaningful out of it. If you’re a church official, don’t you instinctively know that Christmas and Easter are THE biggest days of the year for you? The time to shine, the time when the non-regulars like me show up in their special hats and finery to not feel so guilty for not going the rest of the year and see what church is all about? Wouldn’t this be your big opportunity as a church to recruit some new members? Garner some more tithes? Maybe find a few new members that will eventually help you add on another annex and basketball court to the church?

I don’t know, I just don’t buy the whole “we don’t have enough volunteers” thing. For example, when you want to volunteer for the SPCA in San Francisco, you sign something, you commit to working at least (I believe) 12 hours per month for at least 6 months. If you can’t commit to that, you can’t be a volunteer. Period. Sure, church volunteering is very different from walking dogs at the SPCA. I thought about being a volunteer at the SPCA during ad school but after hearing the requirements, I realized I didn’t have the time to commit so I couldn’t do it. Maybe churches should consider something similar. Weed out the people who aren’t serious or ask in advance if they’re willing to volunteer during peak times of need or attendance.

And for those who’ve chosen the church as their profession, I have to ask, don’t they know they’ll be making some sacrifices? It’s kind of like a manager at Macy’s saying “I’ll work every day of the year EXCEPT the day after Thanksgiving and the day after Christmas.” Those are the biggest days of the year and they’re NOT optional. If you want a career in retail, you give up those 2 days. Period.

Maybe this is just an elaborate reverse psychology-type move to get people like me in motion, to help us realize that we want the option of church on Christmas Day. By taking it away, you’ll make me want it more. Aha! You DO care! We GOT you!

Guess what? You DIDN’T get me. In fact, you’ve left me more confused about religion than ever. Church is always open. That’s what I was always taught, anyway. Does sending a DVD sermon to every member via the US Postal Service really compensate for the live service on the actual Day? Even an irregular churchgoer, heathen sinner like me knows that’s NOT What Jesus Would Do if He was here.

Macfisto, my spiritual guidepost…what say you? Anyone?

KY: The state, not the jelly

2005-12-21T01:03:00.000-08:00

I’m going home for Christmas today. That’s right, I said Christmas. Because in Kentucky, they don’t say “Happy Holidays” they say “Merry Christmas”. “Holidays” doesn’t really refer to Channukuh or Kwanza or Ramadan. Nope, “Holidays” refers to Veteran’s Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas and New Year’s.

Don’t get me wrong. There are plenty of people who observe other holidays besides Christmas in my hometown of Lexington and my home state. But from what I can tell in my 19 years away from home, the whole “Happy Holidays” sentiment hasn’t really caught on as much as it has in other places. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard someone wish someone else a Merry Christmas in my 5 San Francisco holiday seasons, even when someone’s positive the person they’re sending their wishes to is Christian. Yet I could almost guarantee that tomorrow I won’t even make it to baggage claim before I hear someone wish someone else a Merry Christmas. While I know this is wrong and I still wish people happy holidays myself, there’s something comforting about hearing the words “Merry Christmas”. Like Pavlov’s dog, the words “Merry Christmas” send signals to my brain that I’m home and I’m about to see my family and I have to admit, when I hear it tomorrow, it will finally feel like Christmas to me and I’m looking forward to that.

In fact, as much shit as I’ve listened to people dish out about the south, about me making out with my brothers (ewwww), about how my teeth are mighty plentiful for a southern girl blah, blah, blah, I have to say, there are a gracious plenty things I love about my state and about my holiday traditions that I’d never change, no matter where I live the other 364 days of the year.

For instance, people out here laugh when I tell them the first earthquake I ever felt was in Kentucky. I couldn’t possibly understand the seriousness of a real earthquake. True.

But, to you sassy people (or to all y’all, if you will) I also have to say, in MY native state, a tree that falls through the roof of someone’s house after some low-grade thunderstorm does NOT headline EVERY SINGLE NEWSCAST on EVERY LOCAL STATION for 2 days. If that was the case, we’d never have time for the important news. You know, the basketball updates.

Because out here, the number of choices and causes you can choose to support is mind-boggling and that’s why I love it. But it’s also why I love returning home a few times a year, to slow down the pace. At home in the KY, the biggest discussion point is pretty much blue or red, Kentucky or Louisville, Tubby or Rick, do you still eat Golden Flake chips? (one of Rick’s old endorsements when he coached Kentucky) do you still buy Ford cars and trucks? (Rick’s chosen endorsement car brand when at KY). The answers, of course, as anyone with any horse sense will tell you are blue, Kentucky, Tubby, no and HELL NO. In Lexington, you like Kentucky. In Kentucky you like basketball, Kentucky bourbon and horses. Period. And if you don’t like any of those, you might as well put your family in the witness protection program and ship yourself out to North Dakota or some other no-name basketball/bourbon state.

Yep, in the KY the choices are pretty simple. Nobody sums it up any better than the Aunt in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”: “Whaddya mean he don’t eat NO MEAT?” Mmmhmm. In the KY, meat’s bigger than Chip and Pepper jeans or Havania flip flops. Vegans? Organic meat and produce lovers? Low-cholesterol, low-fat, low-carb diets? Je m’appelle cou cou shou shou WHAT? Those haven’t really caught on yet, at least not at Christmas.

No, when we come a callin’ on ya mama an’ em, we bring homemade biscuits, potato chips dipped in chocolate, bourbon balls and of course, the mother load of the Kentucky Christmas: a country ham, which is basically a ham rubbed in salt and aged for about 100 years. Yep, it sounds gross, but you slap a piece of that on one of your mama’s homemade yeast biscuits and have a few sips of your Maker’s/Booker’s/Woodford Reserve and water and you can damn sure bet you’re gonna taste somethin’ that’s gonna make you slap your grandmamma it’s so good.

For the Christmas movie selection, it’s safe to say that most Kentuckians won’t see any movies about gay cowboys. Nosirree. We opt for the holiday blockbusters. This year, I predict my family will see no less than 4 films during my 6-day visit: “Rumor Has It”, “Kong”, “The Family Stone” (which I’ve seen but will pretend I haven’t) and (hopefully) “Memoirs of a Geisha.”

During my 6-day visit, I will also run into people I went to high school and/or college with. I will explain no less than 17 times that no, I am not married and no, I do not have kids, no, I do not live in Kentucky anymore and no, I do not want to move back. I live in San Francisco and after an uncomfortable silence, I will answer the question some ballsy person will invariably ask: no, I’m not a lesbian. I will tell people I’m a copywriter and they will ask me at what law firm I practice my copyrighting. I will try to avoid the college acquaintance who lectured me on straying from God’s Path when I told him I was going through a divorce 4 years ago. I will try to avoid him because if I see him and have to exchange more than 2 words I can almost guarantee that I will cause him some sort of bodily harm.

Yes, it’s a unique place, the KY. It has its challenges but it also has its charms. For every fond memory you Californians have of your first Iron Man, your first Alcatraz swim, your summers in Outward Bound and where you were during the ‘Quake of ’89 I’ve got one of my first 4th of July fun run, the first tornado I thought I might not live through, the day I learned that the cute pigs I saw at the after school animal farm would someday become a prized country ham, and when I learned that the really cute new guy at my high school was a Louisville fan. That was the end of THAT guy.

So Merry Christmas, y’all. And Happy Channukah (why the “C” only sometimes? D Shaw? Jaime?) Happy Ramadan, Joyeux Kwanza, Happy Boxing Day. Peace and joy to everyone, even if its just for 24 hours.

Chestnuts roasting on the Panasonic

2005-12-16T15:47:00.000-08:00

The air is crisp, the sidewalks are bustling with merry shoppers, everyone’s sipping their signature eggnog lattes….ahhhh, the holidays. Excuse me, won't you? I think I need to put another log on the TV.

Oh, but wait! I don’t even need to add a log! The festive and kind people at Channel 7 have done it for me. That’s right, for the umpteenth year in a row, Channel 7 “presents” (?) The Holiday Log, a festive fire that flickers non-stop for 3 days on your TV screen, playing nothing but holiday music.

Seriously.

I would (almost) pierce an unmentionable just to have been a fly on the wall of that marketing/sales meeting way back when, I’m guessing circa 1992, that someone threw out the Holiday Log as an alternative to programming, yet still an enticing hook for advertisers and potential sponsors. Naturally. Because nothing says “gather ‘round family and friends!” like a flickering log on your 27” screen.

Seriously, namer-guy, could you NOT come up with something better than “The Holiday Log” ? Does the word log make anybody else but me laugh? Am I the only 30-something person with 2nd grade humor left in me?

How does this happen, this Holiday Log? I imagine it was a specific item on someone in marketing’s “to-do” list, to name the log segment so they could create appropriate collateral and get the sales team all jacked up to sell it. I’d guess they had about 2 weeks to come up with a name and on the Thursday night before it was due, maybe they went on an 8-hour bender at a bar that allows you to self-serve meatballs from a crock pot, came to work late the next day, opened Microsoft Word and began typing options and settled for the first one they typed since the meeting where they’d present the name and concept to the sales team started 5 minutes prior to their typing.

“Fuck it. Holiday Log. Sounds good to me.”

But you know, cool, whatever. Give the people what they want. I, for one, can’t wait to get myself all Holiday-ed up by tuning in to that log, excuse me, THE log. The Holiday Log. Maybe they can get Dr. Extra Smiley Local Dentist Guy (his name escapes me…Dshaw? I know you know who I’m talking about) to sponsor it. After all, if you’re a friend of the log, you’re a friend of mine.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

It's time to water Bill

2005-12-15T13:28:00.000-08:00

Bill lives on my floor. Actually Bill used to live on my floor. He died about a week before I moved in and unfortunately, because he was (I think and have heard from neighbors in the building) slightly schizophrenic, he’d alienated himself from all family and friends. So no one discovered his body until about 2 weeks after he died. The building manager said that by the time they found him, his body was so decayed it was black and is too freaked out by the memory of it to comment any further. Apparently the forensics team left the door to his apartment open and the overpowering stench managed to seep under the door cracks and find its way into apartments causing everyone to self-evacuate for a few days.

A sad way to go, huh?

Personally, I think Bill still lives on my floor. Many nights I’ve been sitting by my “Vertigo “ staircase outside my door, furiously waving my laptop in the air to steal a wireless signal and have seen shadows on the wall and thought one of my neighbors’ kids was sneaking up on me, only to find no one there when I turned around. The elevator arrives on my floor, uncalled and the doors just sit open, waiting. For a while it freaked me out. Then two of my neighbors attended his memorial service last week and I got a little back-story on Bill.

Bill might very well have been schizophrenic. But apparently he was also one of those rare people who blur the lines between genius and insanity. His brother spoke about the 97 journals he found that Bill had filled with his thoughts. 97. According to him, every single journal was a lucid and beautifully written literary masterpiece about Bill’s observations on everything from family, neighbors and weather to foreign policy, current events, books and films.

Sure, his brother might’ve been biased on the “literary masterpiece” part. But a neighbor told me a story about once discussing with Bill how he was returning to New York to get his black belt – a huge accomplishment (I just learned how big it actually is). Bill was fascinated. He spent 2 hours asking questions to fully grasp what was involved in the training, how one qualified for it, etc. After my neighbor returned from New York, he found a long letter from Bill underneath his door congratulating him on his achievement. My neighbor is also a writer on the side, an incredibly smart man with a well-developed vocabulary. He said the letter was so beautifully written (same words as his brother) but so complex that he actually had to look up some of the words. He was touched because not one other person had taken the time to question him about his training and what it meant to him and thus no one really understood why it was such a big deal. No one but Bill. Bill got it.

Bill also wrote letters to everyone in his family every week. He addressed them and stamped them but never mailed them. His family read hundreds of them between the time he died and his memorial service and was overwhelmed at the emotion, beauty and positive thoughts in every single letter. Imagine being on the receiving end of all those years of unsent thoughts. After being alienated from someone you love because of a mental illness, probably doing everything you could to see and help that person only to be denied but then discovering they were thinking of you all along, every single day, every single week, year after year. I can’t think of a more amazing yet torturous gift.

The thing that overwhelmed them the most was that in the thousands and thousands of pages of journals and letters there was not one negative thought, not one bad word spoken about anyone, no anger at his situation, no frustration. Bill took a genuine interest in everything, especially anything that anyone took the time to talk to him about. Because while he alienated his family, he couldn’t hide from his neighbors. He accepted their visits, loved their children and took an interest in their lives.

Bill lived in the building for 30 years.

Only 2 people from the building went to his memorial service. That part made me the saddest.

After living in this building for 5 weeks, I have a brand new understanding about the importance of neighbors. It’s a weird niche, neighbors. People you’re friendly with but they’re not really friends. (with exceptions of course…I’ve become great friends with a wonderful family across the hall). People who know the comings and goings of your daily life more intimately than family but they’re not family either. People you’d probably share your water supply and flashlight with because of their immediate proximity in the case of an earthquake or some sort of crazy terrorist attack. People who might make a sheet ladder with you if the building was on fire or at the very least bang on your door to let you know something was happening and that you needed to get the hell out.

People who, after 30+ or – years (depending on when they moved in) shared all those important and strangely intimate day-to-day experiences with you but who can’t be bothered to come to your funeral.

That’s why Bill’s shadows don’t freak me out anymore. I like to think he’s just exploring, after so many years of being alone in his apartment for whatever reason. He knows there’s someone new on the floor and maybe he wants to see what I’m up to every night out there on the stairs. He’s probably reading over my shoulder right now, maybe making some notes in his journal about the new girl in 603 and her weird laundry habits.

I noticed there’s a tree from Bill’s apartment that’s sitting on our floor. I catch Joanne and First Family (my nice friends across the hall) watering it from time to time (coincidentally, they’re the 2 people that went to the memorial service) and that makes me happy. I’m going to start looking out for Bill’s water levels too. In fact, I’m going to try and be better about taking 2 minutes every day to do something nice for someone that doesn’t fall in the friend or family category. It’s so simple to make someone’s day, yet how often do we actually do it for someone we don’t know that well? Pay a genuine compliment to someone we don’t know? Mail someone that we’ve never even met some gorgeous painted hearts? (Thanks again, Miz Gina…you rule).

For today, I think I’ll just make sure Bill has enough water. His shadows are kind of nice to have around.

(Told you I was having a funny hiatus. Maybe all that ammonia and bleach got to me.)

Come and knock on my door (but bring your kitchen scrubber)

2005-12-12T00:42:00.000-08:00

I haven’t blogged for a while because truthfully, I haven’t been feeling all that funny lately and haven’t had one of those “I can’t wait to blog about this!” moments I’ve generally had about 5 times a day since I started writing this. But I live in this quirky building downtown and after getting to know some of the people in the building and hearing some of the interesting, odd and moving stories about people that have come and gone over the years, I realized that this building’s having kind of a funny effect on me. Not so much “funny ha-ha”, more like “Funny-makes-you-think”. And that’s how Stella got her blog back.

So until I’m motivated to blog otherwise, I’ll be acquainting you with a few of my fascinating, wonderful, quirky neighbors and city-livin’ as I know it in my new building. As always, names have been changed to protect the innocent parties completely oblivious to the fact that I’m soaking up every detail of their interesting personalities like a curious sponge.

Joanna
Joanna is an outspoken woman in her mid to late 60s. She owns some sort of high-end retail boutique in Hayes Valley and has traveled all over the world selecting clothing, furniture and home accessories fit for the celebrities and very wealthy that shop in her store. I love Joanna. She doesn’t mince words and sometimes being on the receiving end of her bluntness can be a little off-putting but because her intentions are good, you just can’t help but like her.

Joanna recently schooled me on doing laundry in our basement Laundromat. She noticed I was using a couple of dryers that apparently produce condensation due to “poor implementation by the lazy installing company”. She was appalled that I’d not only used this dryer but that I’d actually – gasp! – washed and dried my “delicates” (the old school term for panties and bras) in public machines. She was equally appalled that I was using hypoallergenic All on all my clothing but most especially on my delicates. According to Joanna, the people in advertising have been perpetuating a 75ish+ year hoax on consumers by making them think they need the harsh chemicals found in the Alls, Tides, Cheers, etc of the world. Apparently only trash collectors, mechanics, machinists (?) and other such boorish professions need the harshness found in these detergents. Not a sweet, young freelancing flower like me.

No, what I needed to do was hand wash my delicates –actually all my clothing - in good old-fashioned Ivory Snow. Didn’t I understand how much unidentified hair was in these machines? How she’d once found a used condomstuck to the side of a washer? (“And, honey, there was still stuff in it. You know..STUFF!”) How me putting my clean clothes in the condensation filled dryer was like putting them in a heated, germy Petri dish? I was agog. I envisioned the Summers-Eve like conversation between mothers and daughters that I’d clearly missed somewhere along the line where mom and I walked arm in arm, laughing and talking in hushed tones about the proper way for me to cleanse my panties. I felt robbed. Thank goodness for Joanna.

Tonight I took a field trip to Walgreen’s where I bought bleach, ammonia, latex gloves and a special kitchen scrubber brush that would have a decidedly different mission during its sad little life than its name implied it should. I filled my tub with scalding hot water and bleach and let round 1 begin: the soaking of the whites. After about 45 minutes of this, I drained the tub, took my shower nozzle and hosed everything down and filled the tub up again and added my non-white delicates, this time with ammonia. I donned my latex gloves and used the kitchen brush to create washing machine-like agitation for about 5 minutes, then let them soak for about 15 minutes.

Somewhere during the agitation cycle, I realized that I’d forgotten to buy the recommended prescription of Ivory Snow and that ammonia and bleach as a pre-cursor to hypo-allergenic All were probably not the gentle cleansing that Joanna had intended when she recommended hand-washing. It was then I also realized I might be a tad bit OCD and possibly even a little bit insane. I got an image of Laura Ingalls (you may remember her as half-pint from “Little House on the Prairie”) washing clothes next to a babbling brook on a washing board and I started to laugh hysterically. What the fuck was I doing? HAND WASHING MY PANTIES. Yep. But if I’m hand washing delicates, by God, you better believe that my OCD-ass is gonna make sure these things are spic and fricking span. And I stopped laughing and started scrubbing... with the kitchen brush, for God’s sake. A kitchen brush, scrubbing the crotch of all my underwear. Oh, how far I’ve fallen. I wanted to laugh but how could I? No time for laughing! Pa will be here soon to take me back to the house where Mary and Ma are waiting for me to help with dinner! Mary’s blind, for God’s sake! Somebody has to roast the chickens that Ma killed this morning.

I drained the tub again, added another round of scalding water and a cap-full of hypo-allergenic All and began the agitation cycle again. I then scrubbed each individual piece within an inch of its mass-produced life and agitated again for about 5 minutes, drained the tub again (and determined at this point that I’m definitely losing it) and turned the shower nozzle on everything to rinse. I hung everything from my shower rod and the doorknobs in my tiny little studio. And started to laugh at the sight of it. Until I realized I needed to take a shower before bed. That’s right. In the dirty underwear tub. Oh dear. Clearly, more cleaning needed to happen.

So I left the gloves on, I filled the tub. Again. I added bleach and let it soak for 30 minutes or so. Then I drained and scrubbed with Comet cleanser. Nope, not clean enough. (I have no clue where this newfound cleanliness obsession suddenly came from). I rinsed and added straight ammonia to my sponge and scrubbed for a few minutes while my delicates hanging from the shower rod dripped on my head. In no time at all (! Insert happy-looking advertising housewife here) I had myself a sparkling tub, a little bit of a headache from all the fumes and – oh my holy shit, what the fuck is THAT?? DEFCON FIVE, people: ammonia/bleach water had infiltrated my right rubber glove. We have penetration, I repeat; WE HAVE PENETRATION. CUTICLES ARE DAMAGED. Mother fucker, wouldn’t you know it, I NEVER get manicures but I got one today to cheer myself up and now look. Ruined. $8 down the drain. Literally.

I collapsed on my bed and looked around my studio. I started to laugh again, this time at the thought of me ever bringing a man up to this little passion palace that I sub-lease from dear, wonderful BLH who just gave birth 2 months ago. I realized it’s a really good thing I’m single because tonight in my sub-leased studio, I’ve got panties and bras hanging from every available doorknob and hook, I’ve got a crib and bassinet in one corner, I’ve got breast-milk storage guidelines and lovingly-produced children’s art hanging on the fridge and a baby mobile hanging in my kitchen doorway. TOTALLY HOT, right?

So much for being delicate on my delicates.

This is the staircase in my building which was supposedly used in "Vertigo" (you can see why).

What's wrong with me?

2005-12-09T01:09:00.000-08:00

Where have all the blog-worthy moments gone? WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?? Can you please tell me some jokes? Recommend funny books? Something? Is this the price and the curse of working? Cause it went away 2 weeks ago when I started this job. Did I throw up my sense of humor in the bathroom on that fateful first day?

Please, help Stella get her groove back. I'm in a downward blogging spiral. Recommend movies, books, yoga, drugs....something. I'm dull as a butter knife over here.

Feast your eyes on this

2005-12-07T10:59:00.000-08:00

Ladies and gents, meet crack. Blogging crack, that is. OK, she actually prefers to be called Deepi but once you wrap your undamaged grey matter around her words, you’ll be addicted. Funny, witty, spicy, crazy….you’re gonna love her as much as I do. I mean come on, an Indian goddess reared in…Texas? Show her some love, pretty please. You won’t be sorry. (No pressure, Miz Deeps!)

Happy Birthday to me: I'm an aunt!

2005-12-02T00:36:00.000-08:00

Ok, so I’m a fake aunt, but it feels real to me. Baby GIRL (I knew it) Duck arrived today at 3:51 am – 9 lbs 2 ounces! (Ouch, man – that’s gotta leave a mark.) I’ve never actually welcomed another human being into the world on the first day of their life and I have to say, it’s pretty incredible. I’m still all verklempt. She’s perfect and beautiful with big round cheeks. And she squeaks a lot. I love her and can’t wait to watch her become her own little person and spoil her as much as her parents will let me. OK, I’m all verklempt again.

Anyhoo, it’s my birthday. Who’da ever thunk I’d be where I am at the ripe old age of, ahem, 18? It’s kind of bizarre, nothing’s right or permanent, my world is upside down but strangely, I feel like I’m exactly where I need to be, which is in the city I love, surrounded by so many unbelievable friends and interesting people and on the way to..something. I’m not even sure what yet, other than a full-time job in this career I still stalk. I also had this dream last night that I met this faceless, amazing, funny, sensitive guy….but he was THE guy. I could feel the chemistry in my dream. WHERE ARE YOU?????? Can you at least send a few of your hot friends over to my birthday party tonight to make out with me? Help a sister out! I guess the dream will have to suffice for now.

So here’s my list of random learnings and musings for the year. Some are insightful, most aren’t. I’d like to say they’re things I’ve been thinking about and learning from over the year, but most are things I thought of in the last 15 minutes. Enjoy them and please feel free to share your own random learnings. That’s what birthdays and blogs are for, right?

One last thing, thanks to the handful of you who read this thing regularly. It’s fun to write it. And you’re just lovely for the comments you leave and the funny things you say and for enduring my sassy, sometimes pointless comments back on your blogs. Is it lame if I say it makes my day when I read it and see your shiny little fonty faces? Because it does. I wish all of you could be here tonight for the cocktails and karaoke bash. But don’t worry, I’ll drink and sing enough for all of us.

-Your gut is always right.
-Safeway Soups are worth the $4.99.
-You can love and miss a city (or two) as much as a person.
-When the homeless man tells you it’s a holiday and that you don’t have to put change in the parking meter, he’s lying.
-I’m gullible.
-If somebody is into you, they call you. They don’t email. They don’t text. They call. For fuck's SAKE, why is this hard?
-Using the “you look like a celebrity” angle to pick up a woman and then telling her the celebrity she looks like is Gregory Peck is not effective. (and no, I’m not the one who stole his Walk of Fame star.)
-When they bring you a hot plate at a restaurant and tell you not to touch it, don’t touch it.
-It takes more than love to sustain a relationship.
-I will never be able to stop quoting random movies. As my friend, or even as a random reader of my blog, you’ll just accept this, overlook it and learn a few key movies so you’ll at least know what I’m talking about when I start a sentence with “If I got to ride yo ass like Zorro…” or “I’ve got nipples, Focker, can you milk me?” or answer a question barking on one leg with “Whatever YOU like.” (name all 3…I know you can do it, Dshaw. Anyone else?)
-The African-American man collectively loves him some Rbrown. Is it my hot, hourglass bod (ahem)? I just don’t know.
-9 out of 10 dentists agree: trying to “be friends” with people you seriously dated is stupid and pointless and wrong.
-Speaking of dentists, change yours if he/she wants to cap any tooth in your visible smile region with gold.
-It’s shallow but I get angry when I go for long periods without: a good haircut, good color, decent moisturizer, a proper Mission-style burrito, a good spicy tuna roll, an excellent work-out or a nice glass of wine. Can’t I have them all in moderation? Even if I have to sell platelets or panhandle? Is that so wrong?
-I will (try to) never date an advertising man again.
-I can survive on much less money than I ever thought possible.
-And it’s not as bad as I thought it would be.
-“Blinded by the light/wrapped up like a douche/another runner in the night” – I still don’t know the words to that freaking song. Revved up like a deuce?
-I don’t understand why a brunch restaurant would run out of oatmeal and bagels every Sunday. EVERY SINGLE ONE. Is this not the biggest brunch day of the week? Are these expensive items to stock? Do they not learn from their inventory mistakes? Apparently not.
-I’m an idiot when it comes to college basketball. This will never change. For anyone.
-Living in another country- even for 6 months - is the experience of a lifetime.
-Can’t say it enough: your gut is always right. Never tune it out. Otherwise you’ll find yourself married, working in marketing and living in Atlanta.
-I have the most incredible family and friends a person could ever ask for.
-And if you’re reading this, you’re probably one of them, so thanks. You rule.

You know you need money when...

2005-11-28T22:35:00.000-08:00

After all your kind posts on my literary achievement yesterday (I’m not sure, but thanks to all of you for saying so anyway) today I have just one quick piece of very low-brow advice: avoid showing up to your first day of a new freelance assignment with food poisoning.

Not to over share anything too gross, but lying on the floor of a bathroom waiting for the next moment you’d puke your guts out is no way to really impress a creative director, know what I’m sayin’? The worst part is if anyone actually noticed that I spent about 6 hours just sleeping on the bathroom floor today (it’s a private one-seater) and thought – GOD FORBID – that there was something else going on in there but puking. Because there wasn’t. It was just that. But it would kill me to think people thought otherwise. I know, I was sick, I couldn’t help it and I shouldn’t worry with such silly details. But come ON. I’m a girl. I’m shallow. I’d rather people know I was in there puking than have them think I was in there doing other things. PLEASE. We all know girls don’t do that sort of thing.

The things I do to ensure I get my day rate.

I’ve gone Joey.

2005-11-28T00:02:00.000-08:00

Meet my dear friends Mill Valley Mama (MVM) and Her Baby Daddy (HBD). Their baby is due on Friday (I’m keeping my fingers crossed that Duck and I will share a December 2 birthday, along with Lucy Liu and Britney Spears) and today I got to spend the entire day with them which for me was a huge deal considering this could be one of the last days of their pre-parenthood to enjoy together.

MVM, HBD and Duck are collectively one of the reasons I decided I absolutely, positively have to be in SF. I love them dearly and I plan on being the greatest fake aunt the world has ever seen. But today on the way to their house I had a mild estrogen attack of crying, which, as much as I hate to admit it, came from selfishness. Allow me to explain.

I may very well be the Joey Tribiani of their lives. You know what I mean. Monica and Chandler, two of Joey’s best friends, are expecting. They buy a house more conducive to family outside the city. As excited as Joey is for them, he worries where he’ll fit in, when he’ll see them, will they still go to Knicks games together? Can Chandler still fit him in for “Baywatch” and sandwiches? Will Joey’s responsible, permanently employed friends still find time for him, unstable, unemployed actor Joey? Or is this is it, save a couple of days a year when they meet up to celebrate birthdays?

I started to think about my Joey parallel and I got really sad, a sadness not even little Dakota Fanning could console. I’ve never worried that we wouldn’t be friends anymore. But so many things can change the dynamics of a friendship, things that demand – and deserve - time and attention. Marriage. Jobs. New in-laws and families. And now, kids. I guess I just worried where I’d fit in. (See? I told you it was selfish.) I love these people. They’re like family. I miss them as it is.

But today we made brunch. We talked. We made Christmas cookies. We read the paper. We relaxed. We hung out. We did things that they probably won’t have time to do for a very long time. And I was thrilled just to be part of it.

As the day wore on, they told me stories about their fighting raccoons in the back yard and their unidentified caller on caller ID. I told them about my exciting life in the city, my job and my dating life, all of which took about 9.2 seconds total. The thing I realized is that I was secretly basking in the glow of what they thought was “boredom” and I think they were genuinely interested in my 9.2 seconds of city life.

I realized that while single people worry about how they’ll fit into married/couple/family life, married people probably worry that they’ll fall off the “call” list because their single friends think their raccoons-in—the-backyard stories aren’t enough of a draw. (Trust me, these 2 could make a 20-page legal document seem hilarious and insightful.) They worry that their kids/mortgages/college funds conversation won’t be a match for our small apartments/3:1 female to male ratio in the city/overpriced vodka tonic bitching. But in reality we’re each kind of secretly fascinated with the others’ completely different lives. And truthfully, we only talked about that stuff for about 5 minutes total. The other 9 hours we talked about the same stuff we always talked about when we were sitting around having drinks as single people. The nothingness that makes you laugh and love your friends: why Jessica and Nick didn’t work, why the 49ers can’t win to save their fricking lives, why some people think sitting in a hot tub naked with business associates is a good way to close a deal (We split on this: HBD is all for it. MVM and I, not so much).

In the end, both my selfishness and my inner Joey were soothed. But my inner Solomon came out with a vengeance. You may remember Solomon from “The Hand That Rocks the Cradle”. Slightly retarded, probably not a ton of previous kid knowledge but his love and devotion for the family was so strong that he would eventually overcome the evils of nanny Rebecca DeMornay by helping the mom knock Rebecca out the window and fall to her death on the point of a picket fence. So I’ve got that going for me. I’d gladly take down anybody that dared fuck with the happiness of my friends, their new little Duck or my God dog Josie. I’d rig a greenhouse. I’d steal an inhaler. I’d push someone on a picket fence. I’d follow behind their car on my bike-with-a-handy-basket to make sure they’d stay safe.

The next time I see them, they’ll have a baby. This still causes me to cry, but now it’s more from happiness and excitement than fear of losing my friends. Because I learned I’m on the very short call list when Baby Duck begins his/her exciting journey into the world. And they’re on my short call list for, you know, when I get free lattes, land permanent health insurance or go out on more than 3 dates with anyone.

And maybe that’s what life’s all about. Making sure you’re always on somebody’s short call list and that you have people on yours. Because without the call list, what have you really got? A bunch of Rebecca DeMornays, that’s what. And nobody wants that.

Pre-Thanksgiving randomness, the Sexiest Man Alive and too much estrogen

2005-11-22T17:15:00.000-08:00

Matthew McConaughey is People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. For serious? Who decides this? The same nameless, faceless board of people who certified pork as the “other white meat”? The people who made up Secretary’s’ Day? I’m sure I’ll take tons of crap for this but come ON, MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY??

Sure, he’s a good-looking guy. But if it’s based on who’s “hot” right now, in 2005, you can turn the pages of People Magazine and see at least 5 people who are as physically as great looking as MC but much bigger on the world radar right now: Kanye West, Matthew Fox, Jamie Foxx, Jake Gyllenhall, George Clooney, Orlando Bloom. Why Matthew McConaughey? But then, why Boss’s Day? Anyone? Who’s REALLY the Sexiest Man Alive?

Oprah for President – I try not to watch daytime TV when I’m not working because I always end up feeling like a sad housewife (minus the husband, house and kids). But today I watched highlights from Oprah’s 20th anniversary show. Good Lord. Oprah is honestly one of the most gracious, generous, wonderful human beings alive. I mean, how much good has that woman done? I want her job…and the means to help people feel so freaking happy, confident and fulfilled every single day, though I guess in our own way we all kind of have that power. But not like Oprah. Not cry-from-happiness-for-a-solid-hour kind of helpful. What boss takes their entire company (470 employees) and their entire families to Hawaii? Sign me up for that job.

My friend the Dshaw is convinced that successful, famous copywriters (famous copywriters?) will have the clout to get her to the Oprah’s Favorites show someday. If you meet such a person, Dshaw I want to go with you.

The only time prison and country music simultaneously gave me the chills and made me cry – “Walk the Line”. Saw it, loved it. But then, my mama raised me right. All good self-respecting southerners love them some JC (coincidence? I think not. Just kidding….really. I want to avoid having lightning strike me 2 days before T-Day.) I can’t believe they both actually sang the songs and sang them so damned well. I got actually got chills at the beginning while the prisoners were clapping, cheering and waiting for Johnny to come out and perform. And I got chills and more than a little misty when Johnny proposed to June onstage. Even sans leather. Joaquin is a vegan or some shit like that so he refused to wear leather, which the real Johnny would kick some ass over. It’s called acting, Joaquin.

Yeah, there’s a lot of estrogen flowing through my veins right now.
No day but Wednesday – Speaking of estrogen, the wait is almost over. “Rent” opens tomorrow. Dshaw can finally stop singing into her hairbrush, we can all stop crying at the previews and see if the movie is as good as the real deal. Has anybody seen a sneak preview?
Sak’s: uncovering a niche market in the commoner? I haven’t made too many trips to Sak’s since my downward income spiral into advertising began 2 1/2 years ago. Everyone knows that the commoners shop at Macy’s, at least here in SF. But today I wanted to track down some perfume I read about in Lucky (just for fun and sampling, not for buying) so I lifted my unemployed head as high as I could and strolled into Sak’s like I owned the place.

I was wearing jeans, my favorite Pumas and my Mrs. Darcy t-shirt, a freebie from the “Pride and Prejudice” premiere. (Sadly, 3 people on the street thought Mrs. Darcy was my actual name and that I’d gone to the trouble of printing up t-shirts with my new last name after getting married. I got 3 different “Congratulations!” For the love of GOD, people – read a book! See a movie!) Needless to say, I looked decidedly different from the rest of the very spiffily-dressed clientele but that didn’t seem to matter.

At the La Mer counter, 4 women offered to help me – in a genuine, non-annoying manner – in less than 2 minutes. They offered me 2 samples - a moisturizer and an eye crème - and considering how much La Mer costs, it felt like I’d just received $25 of free product. At Laura Mercier I received 3 samples of moisturizer, at Jo Malone, 5 different perfume samples and then the mother load: a free sample of Flower Bomb, pure deliciousness at a mere $125 per ounce.

What gives? Why is a commoner like me getting such excellent customer service and a bunch of freebies?

****************

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone…just in case the blogging urge doesn’t hit me again before Thursday.

Just Do It. (Even though someone else already did it better.)

2005-11-18T14:40:00.000-08:00

You know what bugs me? When creative directors – the same people who tell you they’re looking for fresh, new ideas and outlooks on products – steal someone else’s big, gigantic, Gold Lion-winning idea for their own client. For the same product/industry. Mmmhmmm. Yeah, that bugs me. The lovely and talented copywriting genius of Concha blogged about Alex and his buds at Crispin recently. Today, I take issue with Arnold. Not AH-nold. Arnold.

Today as I tried to burn my thighs off on some stationary bike at my gym, I thumbed through Lucky Magazine and saw something that I’d forgotten to blog about ‘til right now. VW’s Force of Good. This delightful little illustrated ad features some long copy and a bunch of tiny stickers featuring photos of icky situations that you can place on the next page where there’s a picture of a VW bug vs. (insert icky photo sticker here).

What a cool idea! I’m so warm and happy! A car company that promotes happy feelings! I love the last line of copy which reads “Who will step into the ring and become a Force of Good?”. Who?? WHO??? Are you even KIDDING ME with this? I’ll tell you who – HONDAAAAAAAA, that’s who! Wieden London did it first and they did it better, at least in my humble, unemployed copywriter opinion.

What ginormous balls. It would probably still irk me if someone had stolen this for a breakfast cereal, a hair product, a beer, whatever. But a car. For fuck’s sake, people. Have some pride.

I’m sure someone, somewhere sat in their office and justified it by saying “Our illustrations won’t be quite as psychedelic. Not as over the top. Theirs is about positive hate. Ours is more good vs. evil. And we’ll use tons of copy because the Brits hate copy. And stickers! We’ll use stickers! See? It’s different!”

What’s even more annoying is that as I sniffed around Google today to get some more info on this, all the comments I found were along the lines of “They SO want to be like Crispin.” Well, kids, I hate to break it to you but THIS ISN’T CRISPIN. (sorry, I feel all caps are warranted here). It makes me mad that Crispin even gets the glory for the copy-cat ads.

Honestly, if I had the money and was in the market for a car today and I could only choose between a boring, generic Honda and a funky little VW bug, I’d have to choose the boring generic Honda. It annoys me that much. GRRRRRRRRRR, you thieving bitches!

I’m sure I’m 3 months late on bitching about this, but I had to get it out.

Oh, and speaking of lack of originality, I saw a preview this week for a movie called “Annapolis”. Has anyone seen it? Isn’t this just a nice freshened-up version of “An Officer and a Gentleman” with a twist of “Top Gun? Tyrese Gibson instead of Lou Gossett Jr.? James Franco instead of Richard Gere/Tom Cruise? Jordana Brewster instead of Kelly McGillis? Minus the “Way to go, Paula…way to go” carrying-out-of-the-factory fanfare?

Alright, I’m done bitching. For now. To end on a nice, positive Honda-like note, can anyone recommend an original and non-AMC 1000 movie for the weekend? Something that’s not "Chicken Little"? And a new book? I just finished “Magical Thinking” by Augusten Burroughs…I highly recommend it. I loves me some Augusten. (Metrodad, are you cringing? I think I’m misusing quotes for movies and books.)

The 47 Hustle

2005-11-17T11:03:00.000-08:00

Today I was riding southbound to hell and Market on the 47 Van Ness where I planned to make a transfer to the N Judah (and no SteveO, I was NOT buying drugs). I was in my 4th favorite seat on a bus – the one in the very back in the middle where I can properly stretch my longer-than-average legs and ride like the lady of leisure I pretend to be in my head. (#1 seat– the single seats, #2, the forward facing seat of the four in the back, by the window, #3 – the window seat in the pair of seats adjacent to the back exit doors – more leg room. Way too much time on buses.)

In any case, I was reading my new Augusten Burroughs book (hi-fucking-larious) and minding my own business when I noticed a nice-looking youngish man sitting in the back. I took note of him as I don’t yet have a 47 Fantasy Lover and frankly, I kind of never expected to. I mean, let’s face it. The 47 has no flair, no edge. It could be driving down a major road in Atlanta or even worse, Indianapolis for God’s sake. Where’s the panache, I ask you? It’s certainly no N Judah or 10 Townsend as far as viable options for Fantasy public transportation crushes go.

Three men board and sit near me in the back. They immediately begin a little Price is Right shell game action using 3 different colored lids from soda bottles and a plain M&M. The ring leader tries to hustle anyone not listening to an iPod or reading a book to give him some money – “any money that folds will work” – to guess which lid the M&M is under. I kept reading, though a large man next to me who spoke no English and was missing a front tooth kept jabbing me in the ribs, encouraging me to play.

47 Fantasy Lover pulled out a $1 bill and gave it to 47 Bob Barker. I was engrossed in my book and didn’t pay attention for a few more minutes, until I looked up and saw Fantasy Lover pull out THREE TWENTIES and hand them over to Bob Barker. THREE TWENTIES! Suddenly it was as if someone had clapped their hands to snap me out of my hypnosis. Idiot Passenger (previously known as Fantasy Lover) wasn’t so cute….and he was an idiot (hence the name). Who in their right mind hands over $60 to the Bob Barker of MUNI? Idiot Passenger chose the wrong lid and lost. Naturally.

Idiot Passenger begins to heatedly DEMAND that Bob Barker return his twenties. Bob Barker ignores him and pretends he doesn’t hear. Idiot Passenger stands up, pretending he’s gonna fight Bob Barker. Bob stands and fights back. A pushing and shoving match ensues. The back of the bus erupts in chaos. People were yelling, moving and falling everywhere, hands were grabbing at bags, newspapers, books – you name it. I clutch my $8 H&M bag as if my life depended on it (because it did…it had my iPod in it) and rushed through the crowd to the back exit to de-board.

It was only after I de-boarded that I realized I’d almost fallen victim to the oldest trick in the book: the old distraction technique. And that at least 6 of the people on the back of the bus were involved (a nice man waiting for the 21 helped me piece this together –he was there also). So Idiot Passenger wasn’t really an Idiot after all. He was actually a conniving trickster, preying on honest MUNI passengers like me, waiting for the exact moment that my grasp on my pleather H&M bag would loosen so he could yank the very pulp of life from my hands.

While I should’ve been focusing my attention on my heroic MacGyver-like escape from the almost-hustle, I was instead focusing on how quickly I drop into Fantasy Land – and with people from public transportation. ??!!! Seriously, I should get out more, right?? But I take MUNI and I’m not so bad. Even so, I fast-forwarded to me bringing N Judah home to meet my family. “How did you guys meet?” “Oh, it was so romantic, our pelvises were pressed against one another and our pheromones just clicked, mom.” Beautiful.

I should have expected that type of behavior from a 47 man but as Carrie Bradshaw might lament, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is my N Judah Fantasy Lover a manipulative trickster too? Did Ex British Lover (EBL) fool me with slick distraction techniques learned on a parallel Oxford Circus F Market? Will I always develop a “thing” for men on the back of the proverbial bus? Are N Judah’s green eyes, delicious smile and 6’2” of lusciousness a cover for pure evil also? Am I doomed to a life of men who just want to grab my pleather purse when it’s convenient for them?

See? WAY TOO MUCH TIME ON BUSES.

Why's The Man gotta be all up in my meds? - Part 1

2005-11-15T12:41:00.001-08:00

This summer I freelanced at an online division of a MAJOR advertising agency, which happens to handle a MAJOR skin care product account, which for our purposes we’ll call “Pigeon”. (I know, how very Wheel of Fortune of me to not mention the actual name). Pigeon is available in drug and grocery stores worldwide. Basically, Pigeon is a big behemoth biatch of affordable skin care products.

This agency gave a handful of volunteers the opportunity to visit a dermatologist for an office visit. The volunteers were pre-screened and had to believe that they had some sort of skin care issue that required a dermatologist consultation. I volunteered, was selected and was given a list of dermatologists to call in my area to set up an appointment. I was pretty stoked. Until I found out the premise of what I had to do, but then it was too late. (plus I got a $50 Amex gift card….yes, I am for sale, ladies and gentleman)

I was basically to act as a secret shopper. The derms (as they call them) wouldn’t know what my purpose as a new patient was. But it was my job to go in for this appointment using my real problem/issue as my way in. I was supposed to make sure that they mentioned Pigeon as a solution for my problem. . I was supposed to listen to what the derm had to say, see if he recommended Pigeon and if he didn’t, PROD him by asking him his opinion on Pigeon, if he’d recommend Pigeon for my problem.

Now Pigeon isn’t a bad product but I’ve gotta think that anyone who feels they need a dermatologist to talk with about some skin problems has already tried (and failed) with Pigeon and a whole shitload of other Pigeon-like products. The longer I sat in the waiting room, the madder I got. I’ve got a real issue here, people! Nothing disgusting, mind you, but it sure as hell can’t be solved by Pigeon – believe me, I tried.

If the advertising agencies and the Pigeons of the world can truly buy off doctors, I guess I was naively hoping the doctors wouldn’t settle for the cheapest whore on the corner. Couldn’t they have been a little more coy and waited for the expensive call girl? A sexy little $200 per ounce bitch who goes by the handle of La Mer? No, if I’m “doing” the dermatologist route, I’m DOING it. I want the super-fly, extra deluxe magic-motherfucking–cure-all pill and/or lotion that will make my skin as smooth and luminous as a newborn’s ass. NOT Pigeon. I sat in the waiting room and started to fume. Fuck you, Pigeon! And you too, big agency, for getting’ your big corporate nose all up in my medical beeswax.

It was then that I felt a little queasy about my decision to wield words in the world of advertising. Had I made the right decision? Had I wasted the last 2 years of my life? Not to mention assloads of money? This is the mindset I had when I went into the office for this very enlightening “appointment” (is it still an appointment if it lasts less than 5 minutes?) with my doctor, who by my account seemed to be in his mid-70s and hailed from some Scandinavian country.

DR: Vat is your problem today?
ME: I’ve got some….
DR: (interrupting me) Yes, you have ______. Eeees incurable. You have stress in life, no? When did this start?
ME: About 2 years ago (mentally, the pieces of the puzzle have now clicked into place)
DR: Theeees stress, is job-related, no?
ME: I guess…well, probably.
DR: (matter of factly) You will change jobs.
ME: Um, well, that’s not really an option.
DR: You change job. Or you do more yoga. Eees incurable. Vat else?
ME: (lame attempt) Um, well, would you recommend anything like Pigeon?
DR: No. I write you preeescription for ____ and ______. But ees incurable. Vill not go away until you change jobs. Maybe try shorter, colder showers. No red wine. But ees incurable.

All of this in LESS than 2 minutes. Clearly, I HAD made the wrong career decision - Dr. Scandinavian Pigeon had just made $130 in approximately 118 seconds. I guess I felt a little better that he hadn’t been bought off by Pigeon. No, scratch that, I felt like shit.

Because aside from the useless free visit and the $50 Amex gift card, what had I really gotten out of this? In those 118 seconds, he’d planted the seed that I should change jobs and do more yoga, he’d instilled a permanent sense of guilt and fear of irreversible damage for every future glass of red wine I enjoyed, he’d given me useless prescriptions that would have totaled $526 if I were to fill them. A sadness in knowing that I’d somehow contributed to the fooling of people in waiting rooms around the country who go to their doctor hoping for educated advice and walk out with…Pigeon. And he’d taken an hour of a very busy day and was causing me to run like a fricking Olympic sprinter back to a meeting where I was about to talk to someone seriously about spaghetti coming out of a little girl’s nose for some online video awards I was working on. Oh and my skin’s still the same. Thanks, Dr. Scandinavia, Pigeon and large, corporate agency, all of you. I feel just SUPER!

And we wonder what’s wrong with our health care system.

Coming Soon - Part 2: Meet my dentist, Dr. Bling, a man with a shaky Novacane trigger finger who wants to solve every problem in my mouth with gold. Front teeth and all.

When in Rome, POST A FRICKING COMMENT

2005-11-13T23:56:00.001-08:00

Not so long ago, Crazy Virgo and I were sitting in the lunchroom at France in the West discussing the burgeoning future of our creativity. It was a titillating conversation involving Catherine Zeta Jones, newspaper, door hangers, satellite dishes and the delicious - and often overlooked - new line of Safeway signature soups. Virg had already entered the golden blogosphere and was discussing with me the many reasons why I too should follow suit. In blogland, I could write whatever I wanted. Segregated, picketing foods, demonic babies and not-so-fresh cats walking on a beach would have a special home. I could exercise my own special dark brand of weirdness. I could laugh at my own jokes ? mohoohaa! I?d always be on brief. I could say ?fuck? whenever I wanted. Sold! Bacon Grease was born!

OK, so maybe we would be the only one reading each other?s blogs - except for the 2 friends we each had who already had their own blogs and would return the favor for us - but that didn?t matter. At least that?s what I thought at the time, silly na?ve girl I was, back in September.

You see, I?d overlooked the most important part of blogging. The post. The comment. I just thought I?d be writing some random stuff everyday and figured a few people would read it and come back every now and then to read more. Maybe. I?d honestly never really ?blogged? enough to remember that posting comments made it this fun, interactive experience.

But I found all these interesting people in the blogging world. I began posting comments. They posted comments. I made friends, mom! On the World Wide Web! I?m now addicted to knowing how all of my favorite blogging friends are doing each day. I look forward to reading their witty, funny posts and I get all happy and warm when they actually post something on mine. I love to discover interesting new blogs and as much as I hate to admit it, I am secretly ELATED when someone new posts a comment on mine. I?ve snared a new person! I can alert my sales force of the increase in circulation! I can raise my advertising rates! You will be MINE, world!

Enter my (divisive whisper) offline friends. Wonderful, dear, supportive people. People who for years have said things like ?Rbrown, you should be writing this shit down for the masses! It?s funny!? (Apparently I have a knack for finding the humor in divorce, scary in-laws, bad dates, yahouda-ed diamond rings, bus rides, job loss, death, houses catching on fire, etc. Who knew?) I tried to write in a journal, but truthfully, I?m smarter than the journal. I don?t perform for the journal. I don?t work as hard with the journal and therefore I?m just not as funny in the journal (not like I?m tearing it up on here, but you know what I mean). So I turn to the blog. You encouraged me. And I did it.

So I have to be shallow and just ask the question that I know all of the faithful blogwriters want to know: Why is it such a letdown when some of your dearest friends and biggest supporters come to your blog and DO NOT POST A COMMENT?? Come on, I can?t be the ONLY one who thinks about this stuff, right? How can some people get it (a big shout out especially to The DShaw, Ryan and MacFisto) and others not? I don?t need people to read this shit every day, but even if you stop in once and think this is complete shite, throw me a bone, people! I don?t have permanent work or housing! One post EVER is all I?m asking. I?ve got (use your taunting voice) my NEW BLOG friends that?ll post when they see fit. But offline friends, you should know that it gives me such sick pleasure to see a new comment. For fuck?s sake! GIVE ME PLEASURE!

I know it?s sad to want this tiny bit of validation. But I do. I?m sorry, I just DO. Sitting with your best friends over drinks and hearing, ?Oh, I read your blog. Good shit, Rbrown. Can you pass me that ketchup?? is fine. Until I go to my blog and I see that you?ve written nothing. NOTHING. Why do you torment me in this manner, my people? Look, the fact that anyone reads this thing is still a miracle to me. But you - you made it all the way to this ridiculously complicated URL about pig meat drippings! Can?t you just say something? Antonio of Aluminum Siding Inc. commented. Why can?t you? Please?

I signed your wedding registries, for God?s sake! I buy your products! I love your children! Comment, bitches!

PS ? Thank you Stan ? whichever of the 2 Stans I know that actually came here ? for posting a comment. Your duty is done and you NEVER have to say another word on this bitch again. Ever.

See. Ryan. Act.

2005-11-09T23:49:00.000-08:00

What are you SF people up to this weekend? Go see my friend Ryan in his new play Parallax You don't ALWAYS have to go have drinks and dinner on the weekend, do you? Have drinks, see play, THEN eat dinner. DO EET. He's good. Just get there before the 20th.

Note: I think costuming has banned the red cords young Ryan mentioned wearing in the Confessions of a 35-year old sorority girl post. So we're all cool on the costuming front.

Oh, the irony....

2005-11-09T23:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I blogged about being an aged sorority girl. Today I’m tasked with thinking like an 18-24 male “tuner” who likes to “trick up” his Scion (did I even use “trick up” correctly?). And last week I was asked to come up with the most un-pc ideas I could possibly fathom for this little
gem of a show coming to America in December. I knew my purchase of the Profanisaurus would pay off!

Do you see now why I needed to unload my Greek guilt? I couldn’t step foot into a sorority house now without a bunch of mirrors cracking, Lenox china breaking and a silent alarm sounding in every police precinct across the land.

Too bad I’m not working on tampons. I have niche insight. EWWWW….bad joke.

By the way, I’m lost on “Lost”. …I’ve missed 3 episodes. Anyone?

Confessions of a 35-year old sorority "girl"

2005-11-08T23:48:00.000-08:00

That’s right, bitches. I WAS IN A SORORITY. This came up again the other day and when the person I was talking to found out, he started laughing. Hard. Damn, it feels good to get it out there, though. I feel somehow that if you, my faithful 4 readers, find out I was part of something so vile and wrong and you STILL come back to this blog, then the Greek monkey might be - finally! – off my back. So here’s my full confession. Forgive me, readers for I have socially sinned.

I try to avoid the topic when it comes up. It kind of renders you completely unhip and a total social misfit here in San Francisco when people find out. But honestly, I’m almost 36 years old and it still IRKS me a little that people laugh. Not because I was in one. No, no, I know NOW that it was utter ridiculousness. But are they laughing because sororities are so cliché? Or because I actually got in? And actually suffered through all 4 years of it? I don’t know. The 17-year old in me wants to scream “I was cool! People liked me! They were willing to accept me! And my monthly dues and….” Yeah, so when I get to that part, I remember again. And I’m humble.

But I grew up in the south. I went to school in Kentucky, for Christ’s sake. What else would I have done for fun? I’ll admit it. I was a sheep. I zigged with the ziggers and zagged with the zaggers. You want to hear the worst part? I was….involved. SO very into it. This (almost) 36-year old hater-of-the-man, asks-questions-about-EVERY-possible-rule could hold a sheet over my face I’m so embarrassed at the bending-over I let myself take from a bunch of girls (actually, most of the girls were nice, not a lot of edge to most of them, but nice. But some of those uptight southern 60ish year old alums…Jesus H!) Check out a few of my Greek “accomplishments”: (holding sheet over face now)

-Rush Chairman – I cried a lot during that week. I was sensitive even then and to have pictures of 400 or so girls on a wall that we did a heads-down secret voting session on bothered me even then. So why did I run for such an office, you ask? I can’t even remember. For some reason, I think I wanted power. I wanted to be on the EXECUTIVE COUNCIL. And I was giddy with the power! Giddy, I tell you! Until the week began, that is. Then I had to reject people that weren’t “pretty” enough or “smart” enough or “whatever” enough. Ouch, man. I hated it and developed a boil on my face the size of a walnut under my left eye. Talk about karma.

-PanhellenicRush Chairman - As in responsible for the entire fucking week of Rush at the university and everything that led up to it…oy. Again, one might say, why run for such an office? Actually, I was approached…by the PRESIDENT of Greek Affairs! He stroked my ego (“your organization was impeccable.”). Clearly he recognized a human yellow Labrador retriever when he saw one and made his move because who else would want that stupid job? What a fucking sucker I was. And look at me now: in the biggest ego-stroking biz of all…will I ever learn?

-Fraternity Sweetheart - NO, not the screw-the-members type of Sweetheart deal…the kind where they vote from their favorite of ALL the Little Sisters. Look at that. I’m still trying to spin it and make it sound good, after all these years.

And the crème de la crème….
Homecoming Queen, 1st Runner Up – Um, yeah. Can you believe it? Can’t you just see me down there on the 50-yard line on that crisp, sunny, October afternoon in 1991? All liquored up, after an afternoon of tailgating, waving to a crowd of 25,000ish? Holding my silver plate and wearing my sash? My mom still has the picture, God love her. Actually, I still have the silver plate. I keep it because it’s silver (-plated). Come to think of it, I need some cash….

There were moments when I fought back. I was told that it was MANDATORY (a word that was very big in sorority life that I’ve hated ever since) that I participate in either Spring Sing or Powder Puff football. I really didn’t want to do either. So I didn’t. My fellow Exec Council members told me I was setting a bad example and HAD to choose or I would (gasp) lose my voting privileges. Oh really? I quickly recited a list of all my stupid “accomplishments”, recollected my 3.5 GPA and told them I thought it smacked of hazing and would be discussing it “outside the chapter” if they pushed it further. Victory was mine! Rbrown 1, Evil Greek Empire – 0

And moments of shame:
I lost my shit during Rush when I found out –brace yourselves - that someone had stolen all of the Peppermint Lifesavers used to freshen our breath between rush parties. The fucking nerve! I think I actually YELLED at a roomful of astonished girls over this. Must’ve been the boil.

But for all the complaining, I have many, many great memories of honest to God fun. And a few dear friends that I still talk to all the time.

So now you get to decide: can you still read the blog of someone so….uncool? Adult Rbrown begs you to come back. Sorority Rbrown says, like, you are SO losing your commenting/posting privileges if you don’t.

Parenting through the eyes of a clueless single girl

2005-11-08T01:33:00.000-08:00

This may sound strange (and foreign to my southern readers) but for a few years now, I’ve been pondering whether or not I really want kids. I’ve never been the type of girl who oohs and goos over a stranger’s baby. I didn’t grow up babysitting and I’ve never been one to get all giddy at the thought of changing a diaper.

But over the past 8 months - WHAM - everybody and their freaking brother (or sister, if you will) has a bun in the oven. Two of my best friends, one (MillValleyMama) is due on (drum roll please) my birthday (24 shopping days left) , and yet another good friend due in January. Another friend with QUADS…good LORD. Not to mention the almost full-term pregnancy I spent locked in an office with the lovely and wonderful Better Lighter Half (yet another advertising partner, she’s the light, optimistic side to my dark, twisted one. She brought The Nugget into the world a mere 3 weeks ago.) I learned a lot. And I was mistaken for her lesbian partner more than once.

It seems every day I find out that somebody else is pregnant or dropped a baby while I was away, living the life of single, irresponsible debauchery. Today it was Halle Berry. Tomorrow, who knows? And to top it all off, in between freelancing, I’m working at this uber-hip baby-clothing store owned by a (non-pregnant) friend of mine. And it’s actually really fun. Duly noted, universe. I’ll give kids some more thought.

Maybe the Gods are conspiring to give me the opportunity to make a better, more informed decision once I actually find my baby daddy? I don’t have the answers, my friends. I do know that I L-O-V-E The Nugget like she’s my own, and this gives me hope for my maternal future. Today I drove she and BLH to Target and I was a nervous wreck, hands at 10:00 and 2:00 on the steering wheel, knuckles white, cars whizzing past me at a reckless 55 while I crept along at a safe 46 in the right lane of drizzling rain on 280 (precious cargo, I can’t be hydroplaning and shit).

I think I’ll know for sure how I feel once I finally meet my very own West Coast Metrodad. Until then, I’m more than happy to live vicariously through my friends who’ve been thrown in the deep end and their shit load of weird, funny, foreign stuff they share with me. How do you parents do it? So much to learn, so much to remember….very confusing. Must have vodka tonic. Anyway, here are a few of my favorites. Please, give me more.

Lactation consultant – BLH informed me this is a real job title assigned to an actual person. No shit. This sounds like something from a shitcanned Bud Light commercial. Who knew?

Roughing up the nipples – Apparently, it’s an old wives tale that women are supposed to “prepare their nipples” for nursing by giving them a good roughin’ up. Grab the nipple! Chap it! Show that teet who’s boss! Um, OUCH. If I’m ever in the family way, I’m leaving my girls alone, thank you very much. Luckily, MillVallyMama and BLH tell me this isn’t true. But they tell me when you switch from breast-feeding to bottle, the little one CAN get a bad case of….

Nipple confusion – Too…many…jokes….

Perennial massage – Oh. Holy. Jesus. BLH read me this (with a very shocked and white face, might I add) one day upon receiving her weekly Babycenter.com update (34th week I believe it was). I tried to find it just so you could read it in all its glory. But you have to subscribe and frankly, I think word of mouth learning is much more fun. So here it is, to the best of my recollection: “To prevent tearing (more vodka please), it’s a good idea to get in the habit of giving yourself a perennial massage.” They then proceed to tell you precisely how to hook your fingers and um, you know, put them in the general area and hold it there until a slight burning, stretching sensation occurs. Even better, they suggest having your partner do it for you. Maybe use a little vegetable oil. I’m not making this shit up, I swear.

Um, pretty sure that if my partner ever administers a perennial massage we would both be irreversibly damaged and thus never do anything that would cause pregnancy again. Yikes.

Can't....find....words....

2005-11-07T09:43:00.000-08:00

I’d like to think that nothing shocks me anymore. But today, something so vile and just plain wrong happened at my gym that I can scarcely type about it. But I must.

I went for a workout. I belong to a nice gym. Clean. Regular people. Sure, there are the normal goings-on in the ladies locker room. Women who feel they must walk, bend, blow-dry, plie, lotion-up, shirtcock, stretch etc. while completely naked, simply because they can. I know this sounds like a dream to you straight men, but at times it can be a bit….uncomfortable. But NOTHING could be more uncomfortable than what I witnessed today.

It was a slow day in the ladies locker room during the 3:00 hour. Just me. Or so I thought. Then I rounded the corner to put my things into the locker I normally use. And there she was. With her leg propped up on the bench in the middle of the lockers. A woman. Trying. To. Insert. A. Tampon. OUT IN THE OPEN. I’m still so embarrassed for her as I type this that I almost have to put a decorative sofa pillow over my face on her behalf.

Can someone PLEASE tell me what on earth possesses a woman to attempt this? Instead of walking the extra 200 yards to the very PRIVATE bathroom stall? What…the…FUCK? Who does that? I can only assume she was just trying to speed up her getting-dressed process and thought “what the hell…nobody’s here. I can do this fast.” But you’re wrong, tampon lady. SO VERY WRONG! And your little miscalculation in judgment has scarred me. Deeply and forever, I fear.

I’m not even sure what my reaction – or hers - was. There was no speaking. Merely the sounds of swift movement, mine and hers. I could feel my face turn hot and bright red. I grabbed my things out of my locker and scurried away, looking at the floor. For shame, tampon lady. For shame.

I’ll never speak of this again.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day, America

2005-11-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

Like me, I’m sure many of you have been just counting down the days in anticipation to Guy Fawkes Day, which is observed tomorrow in England. For those heathens among us who use this holiday merely as an excuse to drink too much and light things on fire, may I remind you that tomorrow is the 400th anniversary of the day that Guy Fawkes and his fellow plotters planned to blow up Parliament simply because they believed they were being persecuted by the Church of England. To commemorate this day, people all across England naturally celebrate with a big drunken hoopty-do of all things fire-related: fireworks, bonfires and a general lighting-on-fire of anything they can get their hot little British hands on. Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they? Fire = celebration.

Interesting. On Halloween last year in London, Better Dark Half and I (please note the introduction of new friend. I’ve been told using real names is so not blog-like…her short bio is at the end) and I asked what everyone would be dressing up as for Halloween. Silence, or shall I say… silent mockery. Use your best proper English accent for this: “What the fuck are you girls talking about? Dressing up is for CHILDREN, if that. You Americans and your silly holidays. You don’t know fuck all about celebrating” Ahhh yes, one of the main reasons I miss living and working in London: honest, verbal mockery. Seriously, you know exactly where you stand and I do so love them for that.

So fast forward a few days to people explaining to us what Guy Fawkes Day is. “It’s this day where people light fires ‘cause some nasty terroristic fucker tried to overthrow the Church o England.” So what happened to him? “Oh, he was hanged and then drawn and quartered. You girls wanna go to a good bonfire?”

You gotta hand it to them. To their point, Guy Fawkes Day is not some silly little day to be trifled with. But then, neither is Halloween if you think about it. Come on, people celebrating the blurring of the lines between the living and the dead. That’s some scary paganistic shit! But there’s just no halfway over there, nothing gets watered down. Let’s go set things on fire! Burn shit up! YEAHH!! Meanwhile, over here in America on our scary little holiday: Let’s go dress up as whores! Wear our push-up bras in public and carry milk jugs and call ourselves milkmaids! YEAAAHHHH!!!

So I was thinking. We still have time to hop on a flight and get there by tomorrow lunch time and share some of our fine Halloween traditions with them. I think they need lightening up just a smidge, don’t you? We can all go in costume! It’ll be FUN! Good times! They’ll LOVE US! Crazy V, you can go as Whore Condi Rice, Concha, you can go as Whore Maid or just come from your gig in your lingerie, Metrodad, if BossLady and the Peanut will allow you a couple of days away to serve your country, you can bring out the drunken priest threads which I’m sure would be a HUGE hit over there given the whole Roman Catholics being persecuted thing associated with the day. Dshaw, you can just show up in your yoga clothes drinking wine, Better Dark Half and I can go as fluffer and shark-with-laser-beams-attached-to-head and Jaime, you can just wear some trash bags and dance. Shopping Diva, you can come as Whore sweat pants-wearer. Janny, as pregnant Britney (bring Brazilian Kevin), Half Listening can dress up as a nursery worker and SteveO you can come as you are and just admire all the milkmaids. Macfisto, I know you want to relive your youth. You've got nothing better to do. Don't use those quadruplets as an excuse.

We’ll have a few pints, light some shit on fire, arm ourselves with the ways of Guy Fawkes Day and return triumphantly with some dark, new knowledge to share with our countrymen for NEXT October 31. Won’t all the kids trick-or-treating at our houses next year be surprised and delighted when the plastic pumpkins on our front porch blow up as they reach for candy??!

Who’s with me, people? The fish are with me! Who else is coming? Onward to London!

Meet Better Dark Half: My dear friend and non-lesbian advertising partner/wife for over a year. Cruelly torn apart by geography, she for her desire to live in NY and mine for SF, our reputation for death, religion and S&M in student ads follows us mercilessly through the advertising industry. Because we lived, worked, drank, traveled and pretty much did everything together 24/7 for 9 months, we still pop up in one another’s dreams like the Microsoft paper clip helper. Missing you, BDH. And yes, I’m doing the Jerry McGuire homage-to-the-screen kissing right now.

BBC - 1, Working Title - 0

2005-11-02T23:32:00.000-08:00

Last night I had the privilege of using free tickets to see an advance screening of “Pride and Prejudice”, courtesy of the San Francisco Spinsters (no, I’m not a member, thank you very much). My friend Rana and I lined up with a gaggle of 300 or so giggling 25-35 year old women (OK, we giggled a little too, I admit it) and the question on everyone’s lips was, duh! – will this movie be as good as the BBC version of the movie?

The Scene
Before giving you my (humble) opinion on the movie, let me set the stage for you. We filed into the good old AMC Van Ness theatre #10 a good 45 minutes early and sat ourselves next to Token, a kindly gentleman who looked to be in his mid-40s and was for a brief moment one of the only two men in the entire theatre. (Another boy-man of 24 or so appeared about 5 minutes later with his girlfriend. Good God, man, do you shop at Benefit with her too?). Anyway, after 3 seconds of chatting my gaydar confirmed that Token was completely straight and somehow he and his movie-reviewing female companion were supposed to be seeing “Chicken Little” at the same time at the Kabuki. Movie Reviewer got wind of the mistake and pulled him by the arm out of the theatre saying something like “there is NO WAY I’m staying in this theatre to see THAT movie with all these GIRLS!” I was briefly insulted then realized that she was glaring at me for chatting it up with Token. And then I was briefly delighted at being called a “girl”. Tee-hee, giggle, giggle.

Shortly after that, Rana and I and the rest of the audience experienced an Oprah moment when we each got giant gift bags full of full-sized Bliss products -!!- and a cute lil baby tee that anyone over 5’4” will most certainly have to stretch over a chair to wear that says “Mrs. Darcy” on it. (I feel sad that Token missed out on this.) If this is buttering up, Working Title, consider me fully buttered and ready.

The Hullabaloo
Before I tell you what I thought (as if the title didn’t give it away) I have to say, if you haven’t read “Pride and Prejudice”, then you should be flogged. I love reading and I love reading Jane Austen so it’s hard for me to understand why self-respecting, smart women who also like to read and especially LOVED “Bridget Jones Diary” (the book and the movie) cannot also sit themselves down and read the Real McCoy. It’s an excellent read. In fact, it’s a page-fucking-turner. Janie A. is brilliant, funny, clever and witty. Her words are beautiful and she’s a master of details and no detail can be ignored because it adds an important layer to the story somewhere down the line. But my blog is a safe, welcoming place, so if you haven’t read it, that’s cool. Just please promise me you will someday. Once your brain adjusts to the language, you’ll be in…. hook, line and sinker.

In 1995, the BBC produced a 6-hour sheer-fucking-genius mini-series version of “Pride”, much to the chagrin of men everywhere. It was so long because it was absolutely true to the book, a fact I’m sure many film snobs in the world thought was the wrong way to go due to the fact that movie people like to do their own creative version of stuff. Understood. (Although I say bollocks to that). To me, it was perfectly cast and the locations, houses and details within were incredible. The period experts also say that the dancing, costumes, hairstyles and make-up were also spot-on. All of a sudden, people who’d never read the book picked it up because the movie was just that fricking good. When does that happen? When is the movie as good as the book? Almost never. Well done, BBC peeps.

…and finally, the movie
So the poor bastards at Working Title had a tough row to hoe (as my dearly departed Grandmother might’ve said) going into this one. If you’ve never read the book or seen the movie, you’ll probably really like this version. You won’t know that you’ve missed out on 75% of the details and back-story that make this one of the greatest books ever written. You’ll miss out on watching the development of one of the steamiest, most sexually tense, love/hate relationships of all time. You won’t get to see the relationship between Elizabeth and her oldest sister Jane (which the real Jane would have hated…that’s an important part of all her books). In fact, you won’t get to see any of the characters really develop enough to care as much about them as you do in the book or in the BBC version. You won’t catch it when the writers slide in some random, non-Jane Austen period speak-ese in order to compensate for time and catch you up. And you won’t be annoyed by the super cheesy ending.

You WILL see Dame Judy Dench playing a fucking brilliant Lady De Bourg. And Tom as an excellent nervous, smarmy little Mr. Collins. Everyone else is fine. And not “fine” in the British compliment kind of way, just “fine” as in OK. Lots of Keira Knightly looking pensive, smiling big with her tongue between her front teeth to show how girlish and full of life she is. Lots of really beautiful people with huge, luminous eyes (what causes that? Is this a coincidence?) Jenna Malone, as annoying as she is to me, actually pulled off a good Lydia, maybe because Lydia, that dumb scandalous whore, is just so fucking annoying. And Bingley’s sister – SCARY – she could seamlessly have gone from 1850s England to 2005 San Francisco and pulled off a bitchy milkmaid look down in the Triangle, no problem.

Last but not least, Matthew MacFayden as Mr. Darcy. He really didn’t bother me. I can’t say he was Colin, but he wasn’t bad. Got me at the end a little. But he didn’t really get a chance to shine with the limited time so it’s hard to say.

All in all, I say see it. If you love the other movie and the book, you won’t feel good until you see this one. I’m still convinced that even the worst cast of actors (me, the guy at Starbucks on Union and the #7 bus driver) could get together, read this and pull off a masterpiece simply because of the brilliance of Jane’s words. I’d love to know what other people thought, both people who’ve never read or seen anything else and people who are tainted like me. Anyone?

Note to Typepad users: I just tried 7 times to post a photo of Colin Firth. See? The free service sucks too.

Play that funky music, Glenn

2005-10-31T10:31:00.000-08:00

I don't know Glenn but this picture made me so happy I had to post it. Apparently Glenn lost his home (and his trumpet) in Katrina. But tonight he gets to be the grand marshal of the New York Halloween parade by leading the whole damned thing... while he plays his brand new trumpet. Do eeeet, Glenn!

Whore Central

2005-10-30T01:11:00.000-08:00

Wow. I always knew Halloween was the carte blanche "dress like a whore" holiday. But if I had a dollar for every milkmaid/beer wench outfit I saw in the past 4 hours, I'd be a fricking millionaire. (OK, I'd probably just be about $200 richer. But I'd take it.)

Apparently, all you have to do to "be in costume" on Halloween is wear an uber short skirt, some hooker heels and a tight, boob-revealing top and then pass yourself off - with a straight face - as pretty much any profession in the free world. It can be as unsexy as you want, so long as your skirt does NOT clear the tops of your pull-up fishnet stockings. "So, what's YOUR costume??" Coyly, sucking on a strand of hair and with a straight face reply "Oh MEEEE??? Well, I'm a coroner/taxi driver/butcher/softball coach." You get the idea. WHORE CENTRAL. Me in my tight spider shirt = Julie Andrews.

In other whore-related news, can someone PLEASE tell me what's going on with the boutiquey makeup/clothing stores of the world? Today I made a trip to MAC on Union St where I needed to purchase some lipstick. ("needed" is questionnable for an unemployed, but who cares at this point). Let me just replay the convo that's been going on for the past 3 years or so at MAC, Benefit, Laura Mercier, etc and driving me up a fucking wall:

(me waiting for a brow waxing or innocently applying the newest Viva Glam to my lips)
Counter girl: HIIII!!! Can I help you?
ME: No thanks, just looking.
Counter girl: Oh, come ONNNN. Don't you wanna PWAY??? Why doesn't anyone wanna PWAY WITH ME today? Let me put some eye shadow on you. It'll be FUN!!! You'll LOVE IT! PWEAAASEEE!!

No shit. I mean. what the fuck? Is this Benefit? Or have I entered a soft-core porn storefront for Cinemax?

Perhaps this the brainchild of some GENIUS in the marketing departments who thinks that the "befriend the customer and appeal to her lesbian sensibility" tactic is really the best way to sell cosmetics? I'm not sure. But i just want to get waxed and get on with things. WWJD? (what would Julie do?)

Why do you torment me, craigslist?

2005-10-27T23:15:00.000-07:00

I just need a place to live. That's all. And some semi-normal people to live with. Why ya gotta make it so hard, people? After more than a few email exchanges, phone calls and in-person interviews, I've compiled a sampling of the offensive behaviors that apparently make me a vile, unfit roommate and human being. And I was feeling so good about myself. Silly girl. Here they are...I'm pouring myself a drink.

-I'm not a vegan. (animal disrespector!)

-I own and wear a suede coat. (animal killer!)

-I drink alcoholic beverages. I will keep wine//beer/vodka in the refrigerator/freezer occasionally. (alcoholic!)

-Yes, sometimes I will drink too much of it and you will discover me singing bad disco at the top of my lungs for this very reason. Alone. (Likes unhip music!)

-I buy clothes from the Gap, Banana Republic, H&M, Macy's and a whole host of other uncool places. (Unstylish! And supports child labor in taiwan!)

-I will entertain gentleman callers in my home given the opportunity. (Whore!)

-I would willingly - and gladly - use that grill on the patio to sear up a GINORMOUS, JUICY, MEDIUM RARE STEAK. (Bowel obstructor!)

-I stay awake past 9. (Heathen who will overconsume antioxidants!)

-I shop at Safeway and buy non-organic fruits and vegetables occasionally. (Destroyer of our planet!)

-I've lived in the Marina, Cow Hollow and Pacific Heights. (Bitch!)

-I'm over 30. (Buzz kill!)

-I will be at home during the day sometimes (Space stealer!)

-I take the bus (sketchy/transient type!)

-I watch TV. (shallow!)

-I will use the kitchen to cook. (eater!)

I'm not Jules!

2005-10-27T09:15:00.000-07:00

Last night after hanging out with one of my friends, she asked me what my plans were for today. Naturally, I replied with my best off-the-cuff, snarky answer: “You know, hang out on the couch. Stalk people about jobs. Look for apartments since I have to move into one by Tuesday. Sit at Starbucks for a while. Go to the gym. The usual.”

She rightly took my semi-smartass tone as worry on my part and because she’s a good friend, moved in for the consolation. “Don’t worry, you’ll find something. But it wouldn’t be very Rebecca for everything to be planned out and organized. That wouldn’t be exciting to you, right? I mean, you thrive on all this!”

Oh. Holy. Jesus. That’s when I realized that my 3 classes at ACT (thanks, Ryan) had done me way more good than I’d ever imagined. I’ve fooled all my dearest and closest friends into believing that I’m livin’ the dream. What dream, I’m not really sure. But somewhere along the way in the past 2 ½ years, I think I may have become Jules from “St. Elmo’s Fire” to my urban family. And this is disturbing.

You remember Jules. (for those who care to admit they saw this winner. I still watch it from beginning to end when it comes on Lifetime) She’s the happy-go-lucky, coke-snorting, boss-screwing gal who can’t hold down a job and hates her step monster.

Now I’m pretty sure that all my close friends know that a) I’m not a snorter b) I don’t have a job so I can’t screw my boss (nor would I if I had one) and that c) back in the day, I had jobs that I stayed in for years at a time – 5 ½ at one.

But I wanted to clear the happy-go-lucky record. I AM happy with the decision I made to leave my semi-high-paying job (compared to what I WILL make, anyway), clothes-buying, dining-out, trip-taking life I used to lead. All of you (and I’m talking to my urban family now) knew that wasn’t for me. I really like what I’m doing, or at least what I’m TRYING to find a job doing. But make no mistake: as much as I know that many of you derive MAYBE 2.75 ounces of pleasure from your job, I still ENVY you for getting to go to these pleasureless cubes very day. For having a 401K and health insurance and 4 weeks vacation (and 10 sick days!). You can plan vacations. Book your holiday travel. Go shopping. And that just sounds like a dream to me right now.

I know, I know, in due time, I TOO will have my very own pleasureless cube. Don’t worry, I’m not ready to call it quits on this thing I’ve spent the past 2 ½ years working my ass off for (I just ended a sentence with “for” but I’m on a roll). And I know that won't be curing cancer or saving puppies when it finally happens. But I like it. I'm happy. And I just wanted you to know at least that much. But considering it’s Thursday and I’m shooting to find a place to live by Tuesday and not one single whore on craigslist has called me back. Yeah, I’m worried.

But I’m working on it. I’ve learned that my greatest strength is resourcefulness. I can pull a mongoose from a hat when I need to. I could actually probably FIND a real mongoose if I really needed to and come on, how many friends do you have that can do that? Which friend do you call when you need a mongoose? That's right. ME. But most of the time my resourcefulness comes in the way of asking for help from one of my amazing (I think that word’s appropriate in this case) friends. And you KNOW I hate asking. For that, I can never thank any of you enough. I’m grateful beyond words. Verklempt.

I did want you to know where I stand though. Just because I’m smiling, laughing (and drinking) doesn’t mean that the wheels ever stop turning in my head to figure out the next move and that I actually ENJOY all this uncertainty. Because I don’t. Not one tiny little bit. No. Fucking. Way.

But I am happy that I’m such a fine actor. And I’m super happy that I’m not Jules.

The hot girl in this picture wants you to cheer for the Astros

2005-10-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me understands that in order to truly be my friend, it's probably not a good idea to mock my teams. For those of you who don't know me, allow me to briefly acquaint you with my allegiances:

1) Kentucky basketball.
2) Giants baseball.
3) Game by game allegiance for any team playing Duke in basketball.
4) Game by game allegiance for any team playing any team coached by Steve Spurrier.

There's one last category which brings me to the reason for my post today:

5) Game or Series allegiance for any team that a friend asks me to support UNLESS of course, said team is playing any of the teams listed above.

Such is the case for this World Series. My friend Dayna recently asked me to support her beloved Houston Astros in the World Series. This was a no-brainer since Dayna pretty much saved my sorry unemployed ass and allowed me to live with her for 3 months this summer. And truthfully, if I had to make the decision on my own I NEVER would have chosen the White Sox. I have some sort of allegiance (possibly pity?) for the Cubs (helloo...1907 or whenever the hell it was) since I was lucky enough to be at Wrigley Field the day the lights went on (8/8/88 for those who keep track of that sort of thing). Yes, guys this is the logic girls use to form their sporting opinions when they have no vested interest or real information on either team. Sad, but true.

Anyway, I'm from Kentucky so I know a tiny bit about picking my horses. And my gut tells me that the mojo is definitely flowing in my girl Dayna's teams' direction, at least for baseball and college football. Dayna's also a UT grad and they just passed USC in the BCS polls. So Dayna - and her teams - well, I guess you could say they're my horses. (Sorry, D... I mean that in the most complimentary way).

Welcome to the point of all this. I don't take my allegiances lightly - even the temporary ones. And I'm highly superstitious. (I was traveling in 1997 during the Final Four and didn't pack my lucky Kentucky t-shirt. To this day, I still blame myself for that loss.) Apparently, the Mayor of Houston has asked everyone not to wear socks. Although this seems a little contrived I'm gonna do it. And I'm asking all of you to do it too. Come on, how hard is it to restructure your footwear choices for the next week? Flip flops? Boots? Or at the very least, if you could give a rat's ass who wins the World Series but you just really would like to have an opinion to make watching it more fun, could you please give the Astros a little of your love? That's all I'm asking. Do it for Dayna. You wouldn't turn down a smiley southern girl holding a margarita would you??

30s are the new 20s

2005-10-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

I used to not think so much about being or feeling old. But since the whole word is pretty much obsessed with anti-aging I've started to tune in more to some of the remarks I've heard over the past couple of years. You know, with the coming and going of big birthdays and whatnot. (39 days and counting, for those who wish to shower me with gifts).

Following are a few of my recent favorites and a few pieces of good news....please post more. They make me laugh.

"She's a TOTAL cougar"- This one came from my friend Andy and was an absolute shocker for me. I pride myself on knowing what the kids are saying, yo and I'd never once heard this. Apparently a cougar (I'm still not 100% sure this is what it is...I keep calling it a leopard/panther, my friend Dayna keeps correcting me and I keep forgetting it again) is a middle-aged woman who prowls the bars looking for early to mid-20s gentlemen to satisfy her. You know, (whisper) sexually. I asked Andy to define "middle-aged" and he graciously told me it was mid to late 40s. Whew- a decade and then some to spare.

Side note: ladies, if any of you suspect you're a member of this strange feline group, might I suggest a face-saving field trip to a handy little spot in The Mission or on Polk St. before heading out to bars. Just to take the edge off and not look so....catty. Also, can we coin a phrase for the gazillions of disgusting geezers who've been trolling bars for women 1/3 their age since...well, pretty much since the invention of the bar? Anyone?

Can you see the reindeer? I heard this one last week while I was having my annual eye exam. Sean (the very nice PA) asked me to put on a gigantic pair of plastic Harry Carry looking glasses and then he said it: "Ok, tell me, can you see the reindeer?" I seriously almost wet myself I was laughing so hard. Confused, Sean informed me that this was a serious question and I should be able to see a 3-D reindeer popping out at me, otherwise it could be a sign of early-onset glaucoma. Ouch, man. The laughter stopped and thankfully I saw the reindeer. I then had to look through some goggles and confirm I could see a hot-air balloon floating over the center of some lonely desert road. More laughing, more near wetting. Sean even laughed. I just love that the optometry industry is trying to soften the scary business of aging eye diseases with reindeer and hot air balloons.

Have you ever thought about freezing your eggs? This one came from one of my dearest friends from college who is blissfully married with 2 adorable boys and wants nothing more than for all of her friends to share in a slice of this heaven as well. There was scarcely a pause between "Are you dating anyone?" and "Do you want to have kids someday" to "Well, have you ever thought about freezing your eggs?" Um, NOOOO. No offense to anyone who's done this but considering I'm unemployed and halfway-housing it around San Francisco right now, this hardly seems a smart or economically feasible option. And also, wouldn't that be a little creepy? Guys? We date, fall in love, maybe decide to get married and start a family and then oh, hang on...let me run to the freezer and pull out my ice tray of...eggs. What the fuck??? Hot or not? I'm gonna go with... not.

It's OK. I don't need to see your ID. For fuck's sake, people! Please, read more about honesty here.

Good News:
30s are the new 20s- My friend Janny says this is the word on the street. I'm not sure what her source are but Janny's smart, so I'm going with it. Crazy Virgo is actually counting the days to her 30th birthday. Go figure.

Peak physical attractiveness occurs at 38.This according to the iron-clad source known as People Magazine. But whatever. I'll take it.

The average life expectancy of a woman is 84. Praise the gods, I'm much further from this demon whore of a bitch known as middle age than I thought. Oh, I found that little piece on a site called Sex Temple of the Health Goddess. A girl's gotta take it where she can get it, right?

This one's for you, Ali

2005-10-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

Just got an email from my friend Ali who's been in London for the past several weeks. As happy as I am to be back in SF and as resolved as I am to stay here for a while, it kinda felt like someone punched me in the stomach when she told me about sitting on Charlotte St. eating our beloved 1/2 price pizza treat that we could only afford once a week (on Tuesdays).

And so, young Ali, sometime during your last 2 days I ask that you enjoy a slice of said 1/2 price pizza on my behalf, allow yourself to be overserved at a pub which has a sign out front of a man wearing a wig (which pretty much means on any corner) and dance at one of the 131 convenient London area Walkabouts where you should then make out with a 21-year old boy who speaks broken English. (The Walkabout's really more of a throw-in for Emily, but since I vehemently opposed going there on the grounds of feeling like a child molester, I thought I'd mention it.)

Most importantly, have a delicious meal. In a RESTAURANT (no, Pret a Manger does not count). Charge it. I'll buy you a burrito when you get to SF to help offset the cost. No more stalking diners through windows and staring at their meals with a forlorn, hungry face. You're better than that, Ali. We all were. Right??

Say hi to my favorite British gentlemen. Mouth. Still. Watering.

When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." — Samuel Johnson

Somebody's laughing somewhere

2005-10-22T15:44:00.000-07:00

I just bought this funny little game as an add-on gift for a friend's housewarming. It's called "Find the Monkey" which naturally made me want to pick it up and investigate right away. You've really gotta respect the person who got the "Write the Instructions for the Hide the Monkey" assignment and came up with these pearls of smartass genius using caps and exclamation marks. Inspirational, no?

How to play:
1. Show the monkey.
2. Hide the monkey under a fez.
3. Move fez hats around quickly.
4. Where IS the monkey?!

Practice deceptive tricks for MORE fun!!

7th Grade called....

2005-10-21T11:34:00.000-07:00

...and actually it was quite refreshing to hear from him.

MetroDad, one of my blogging heroes, recently asked his readers to do one of those silly personality tests that we all roll our eyes at when we receive them in email. But I have to say, I did it and I had a grand old time reading everyone’s. Now, I’m asking all of you to do the same. PLEASE don’t make me beg (though I think all caps constitutes begging on a blog). I’ll call you out by name on this public forum if I must. Come on….it’s Friday. Even I remember what happens after 1:00 at most places on Friday. Nada. Crazy V, post your shit, girl, or I’m cutting and pasting it for you so I don’t look like an idiot as the only one with my list of 7’s on here. Follow the categories, add new if you want (Crazy V added “favorite foods to eat on the couch”).

One semi-quick note after much hullabaloo to a few of the ladies on “Why Colin Firth”: Colin = Darcy (William or Mark, whomever’s your pleasure - mine is both). Darcy = Chivalrous. Perhaps Helen Fielding (or her screenplay writer) summed it up best in “Bridget Jones” with this quote:

Bridget: Wait a minute, nice boys don’t kiss like that.
Mark Darcy: Oh yes they fucking do.
Mouth. Still. Watering.

Now, get to answering, people!

7 things I want to do before I die:
1. Live in London again.
2. Travel to Ireland with my mom and brothers
3. Go to the Final Four and/or score a ticket to the last Kentucky home basketball game of any regular season
4. Write something funny that the whole world rushes to read. That’s not a blog. And not an ad.
5. Own a house with either a big front porch, a screened in porch or both.
6. Travel to (in no particular order) Spain, Australia, New Zealand, Scotland, Prague, Africa, Croatia, Greece. Alright, I’ll go anywhere.
7. Fall completely, madly, hopelessly, ridiculously, look-like-a big-fucking-idiot in love.

7 Things I Cannot Do:
1. Give up salsa or any spicy food.
2. Cartwheels. Round-offs. Back-handsprings. And God knows I tried.
3. Crossword puzzles (no patience)
4. Snow ski.
5. Draw.
6. Math. Of any kind.
7. The Electric Slide. (I know, but after the 634,311 weddings I’ve been to, I feel like a jackass asking someone to slow it down for a tutorial)

7 Things I say most often:
1. Hello my little: lamb, nugget, petal, love muffin, biscuit, flower, ray of sunshine
2. Whore. (it can be an insult AND a term of endearment in my world)
3. Fuck. (I know, so unladylike. But I can’t stop)
4. Let’s grab a coffee/a drink
5. Are they hiring?
6. Call me after 9 or this weekend, I’m almost out of minutes.
7. That's ridic. (or ri-fucking-diculous,)

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex (yes, I’ve cheated and doubled up to keep it at 7)
1. Quick witted funny types.
2. Intelligence.
3. Creative dudes. Somehow. Someway. Bracelets out of grass blades. I don’t care.
4. A sexy voice and/or eyes that can switch from sweet to “I’m about to tell you a dirty joke”
5. An easy smiler/genuine gut laugher
6. Tall. Chivalrous.
7. Wants to meet/appreciates my friends. Cause they’re hi-fucking-larious.

7 celebrity crushes (is that all I get??)
1. Colin Firth (Mouth. Is. Watering.)
2. George Clooney (that smile just screams “oh yeah, we’re SO gonna do it”)
3. Cillian Murphy (loved that f-ed up hair in 28 days Later)
4. Gwyneth/Kate Winslet/Tina Fey/ (my non-sexual girl crushes)
5. Matthew Fox. (With the 5 o’clock shadow.)
6. The Owen Brothers.
7. Chris Martin. (Make fun of me all you want, but those soulful words just slay me.)
7.5 - Zach Braff, though I fear he is a wee bit of a man and that I would break him in half if we were to ever roll around in bed together.

Where have all the Levi's gone?

2005-10-20T23:34:00.000-07:00

Do Maxim and Vogue have some sort of fashion editor cross training program that I don’t know about? How come so many guys are wearing 7 jeans now? And Paper Denim Cloth and …..hell, I don’t even know what the other good brands are because I can’t afford them. I’m still stuck back in 1998 trying to pull off Banana Republic jeans. (Though I’m more than a little incensed that even they have the gall to price jeans at $178 now. What happened to the good old $78 price point?)

I like a man who cares about how he looks, I really do. Cool t-shirts, nice shoes, good jackets, some product in the hair. Yes, please. But you guys don’t have to dress like this every single day. I’m completely baffled by the obviously very manly, very straight guys with really hot wives and girlfriends that walk around in, OK, I’m just gonna say it: WOMEN’S JEANS. HELLO, people. Sure, they make them for men. But they make Kenneth Cole loafers for women too and I’m not strolling around in those every day.

Don’t you guys know how delicious you look in a pair of perfectly faded, beat up Levi’s? Paired with a cool t-shirt? Somebody tell me what the deal is…please I’m an equal-opportunity-liker of men in 7 jeans. I just want more Levi’s, that's all.

Praise Jesus, Tina's back

2005-10-20T22:49:00.001-07:00

No offense, Horatio. But the full-fledged power of estrogen needed to return. All is (almost) right with the world again. (Maya needs to come back too).

Sometimes I want to be a gay man

2005-10-17T23:08:00.000-07:00

Is that weird? Don’t get me wrong, I love being a heterosexual woman in this fair city. But the gay man just has it so damned easy. It’s an honest, efficient system. Sometimes TOO honest (“Oh honey, did you see the plaque on the 3rd tooth from the back?”) but it seems to work.

Case in point, my current halfway house host was hanging out, just minding his own business last Monday or Tuesday night. His doorbell rings. The ringer asks for Sam* (names have been changed to protect the semi-innocent). Coincidentally, my host’s first name is actually Sam too though no one calls him that. But he thinks it’s something related to his home renovation project and so he lets the conversation continue.

I’m Sam.
Oh. (15-second uncomfortable silence).
Did you….need something?
Well, um, you called for me, right?
Called for you?
I’m the guy from Men seeking Men…on craigslist? You ARE Sam, right?
Yes, I’m Sam but I didn’t email anyone off craigslist.
Oh. (another 15-second silence). Well, are you up for it? Or can you help me find _____ St?

What the....??!! Interestingly enough, it really was NOT my Sam (he’s exclusively/monogamously dating someone), though he admitted that this is a routinely common practice for gay men. You just order yourself up a dirty man for the night off craigslist and he shows up. Who knew??

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not into placing ads to have straight guys come to my house and service me and certainly not vice versa. I just have a strange admiration for the efficiency of the whole thing. Imagine this scene translated into the straight person’s world of regular old hetero dating. Guy asks girl out, girl says yes or no, they have date and at the end of said date they’re both completely, 100% honest about what will happen next. There’s no “I’ll call you” that everyone knows will never happen or uncomfortable half-hugs. Instead, it’s a different spin on the old sales tactic of “ask for the referral” It saves everyone a heap of time and analysis and it might go something like this:

Look, I had a great time, but I’m not really feeling it for you.
Yeah, me neither.
(pause)
But you’re really attractive, funny, smart and I think my friend _____ might like you. Can I give him/her your phone number?
Sure. And here’s my friend_______’s email address. Email her. I think you guys will get along great. But I’d still love to hang out with you…as friends. You up for that?
Sure. My friend ____ is having a party on Saturday. Come – bring your friends.

Of course, all guys probably already wish for this and think that women screw this up with our over-analyzing. Of course, they’re right…we do. And I might be miffed for about 10 minutes if I was on the receiving end of this brutal honesty. But I’d get over it if the guy was cool enough to be friends with. Instead, no one says anything, you run into each other in a month somewhere and do the uncomfortable half hug thing AGAIN. This cycle repeats itself for the next 5 years or so until that person gets married, produces offspring and/or moves out of the city or you run into them with their new child and significant other which automatically, mercifully and FINALLY ends the whole ridiculous cycle.

New system. Please.

The new shirtcocking?

2005-10-14T23:09:00.000-07:00

Many of you may remember my friend Crazy Virgo’s little issue with shirtcocking. Well, here’s a new one, though, I think someone needs to give it a better word because frankly I’m still a little too shaken from my experience and am in no mood for naming.

I’ve just been bus-humped. I was on either the 47 or 49 heading up Van Ness, the bus is completely full, so I’m standing. I’m in front of one of those glorious one-seaters, minding my own damn business, looking out the window when a large man comes up and stands behind me, his front pressed into my back. I tried to move but there was nowhere to go. Suddenly, he’s moving – nay- GRINDING himself into me. And this is not a good grinding. I’m…uncomfortable to say the least. So I turn my head around, intending to look mean, then see that he’s a very large man, much taller than me (and I’m pretty tall) and I manage to muster up “um, EXCUSE me?” (yes, with a question mark at the end because I’m all of a sudden not so sure if I want to be all sassy with this man). He laughs. Then grinds slower. Apparently, the feedback from his other bus lovers has been “slower movement”. I de-boarded at the next stop. Ick.

So was I bus-humped? Or bus-grinded (ground?)? Is there an 800 # for this?

HOLY SHIT - BABY BELLA'S ON HER WAY!!!!

2005-10-14T10:52:00.000-07:00

Stay tuned for those who know who this is...I'm told she'll be here by 6 pm tonight!

The RBrown 2005 Guide to Halfway Houses

2005-10-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you just need to get away from it all. You know, the job, the apartment, the paycheck, the money in a checking, savings and/or 401K account, the stable place to call home. What’s on your speed dial for situations like this? You need a place to live, but can’t really qualify for a place to live because you have no income. And you can’t find income unless you stay long enough in one place. Truly vexing.

Lucky for you, dear reader(s) to have made the wise decision to read this blog today. Because I’ve got some special little nooks that only us seasoned locals know about. Some places that took me in during woeful times, housed me, allowed me to shower and store food in their refrigerators and then let me fly when the time was right. Some might call this arrangement a “halfway house” but the very words just sound so…. late 80 that for our purposes, I’ll refer to them as my seasonal homes. Where I summer and winter. Here’s a quick run-down in case you’re ever in the area (s).

SPRING

$$$$$$$$$ London, SW14 - While the accommodations were lovely and I was fortunate enough to have a week-long jaunt to Cyprus added into my stay, I haven’t spoken to the host much since. I think this is quite rude and would not recommend staying there UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES…unless you’re into the overpromise-under-deliver-Trans-atlantic emotional trickery sort of thing. Suck it up and pay for a hotel in the center of London. (deep inhale on cigarette…if only I smoked)

SUMMER

The (*) denotes single, hot and available. Stay tuned for more info on these people, but please post comments if you’re interested in me arranging a private (fully-clothed) meeting.

$ *Hotel Dshaw – Fillmore St., 94115 – I was lucky enough to call this little gem on Fillmore St. my summer home. And don’t let that one-dollar sign fool you – the hospitality was 5-star all the way. From chocolates on my pillow to free wireless, to lazy Saturdays spent watching “America’s Top Model” this is one stop I literally couldn’t have made it without. The hostess is charming, generous beyond measure and will make green tea spew from your nose she’s so funny. Truly a life-saver.

$ *The Whitmore – Broadway and Fillmore – 94115 –This hostess hand-makes the most gorgeous jewelry and insisted I wear it. So for one week I looked like someone who had some fashion sense. Minus the Banana Republic/Gap/H&M thing I had going on for clothes.

$ *Einie House – Washington and Buchanan – 94115 – A peaceful studio with an excellent library and exceptionally comfy couch. Catch her when she’s home. She also serves as an excellent therapist.

$ *Farrell Inn – Three words: private back patio. This generous little belle even allowed me to use her car, which exposed me to the foulest scene ever on 9th and Bryant giving new meaning to the word “bobblehead”. But you want adventure, right?

$ *Trevey Manor, 94109 – A comfy studio in the center of the action of Lower Nob Hill with fantastic city views. She shared her cheese and oatmeal with me and given that she’s in the same sorry unemployed state, this was like sharing her filet mignon with me.

$ Trevey’s Friends’ Manor, 94109 – A 2-story apartment. In San Francisco. Who knew? Gorgeous. And they had no idea who the hell I was.

$ Chenery Heights, 94131– A delightfully appointed one-bedroom with an even more delightful golden retriever named Beau. This was the furthest trek out of my summer comfort zone (and well worth it) so friends from 94115 grabbed their passports and made the journey to dine with me for a night. This host is NOT single, but he’s hot. Unfortunately for my man-friendly readers, he’s dating one of the proprietors of Maison de Laussat. Incestuous, these halfway houses.

FALL
$ Maison de Laussat, 94117 – Run by 2 exceptionally wonderful gay men (sexual preference only mentioned to punctuate their exquisite taste), this place has recently been renovated to a state of gorgeousness so great I’m not sure an income-less girl like me is even worthy of sleeping here. Also, I was met at the airport with flowers, wine, chocolate and a hug that reduced me to a sniveling mass of tears then treated to a welcome-back dinner. That always helps earn extra stars in the hospitality category.

$ Skormore, 94123 - I was lucky enough to have one night here in the summer and (I think) will be boarding here again while the hostess travels to Ireland. Her home is divine and her decorating skills and eye for color are rivaled only by the gay man. She makes delicious egg and throws great parties. I’ve also heard that Danielle Steele lives in the building.

I could not possibly continue to pursue this oh-so glorious and very glamorous dream of advertising without all of you. Thanks again for your hospitality. Now, if anyone knows of someone looking to sub-lease in November, I’m your girl.

I miss my boyfriend

2005-10-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

I’ve been kind of lonely lately. A little sad. You see, I broke up with my boyfriend about a year and a half ago and things just haven’t been the same since. We were happy, San Francisco and I. Exclusive. Steady dates. But I broke up with my boyfriend to go to London, whom I adored, completely fell in love with but things would never be steady so I had to cut it off. Actually, I broke up with London to hook up with New York. Big mistake – HUGE. TOTALLY unsatisfying. I mean, EVERYONE who’s been with New York said I would love him. But I didn’t. Emotionally unavailable, cold. So I got back together with San Francisco for 4 months – I couldn’t believe he would take me back. How happy was I for those 4 months? Then, like an idiot, I broke up with him. AGAIN. For….Seattle, of all places.

And weird things happened in Seattle. Those American Express commercials kept popping up at the exact moments I would be pining most painfully for my ex-boyfriend SF. The ones where Kate Winslet and Robert DeNiro are walking around London and New York, respectively talking about “My Town”? I’d see those commercials – especially the Kate Winslet one, because it’s London and she’s my non-sexual girl crush – and I get all… weepy. I’d think about MY American Express commercial. MY town. MY boyfriend, San Francisco. Me, On the #3 bus, in my black fleece, unshowered, coming from the gym to MY “home” in Pacific Heights. And being slightly crazy from my painful break-up and too much time sitting in a windowless room writing Lottery headlines, I took my seeing these as a sign of some sort.

So I paid attention to the signs. I started thinking about my friends. My city. My life there. And about all the stupid little things I was missing. I thought about this as I heated up my Lean Cuisine every night. And I started to get antsy. My extra lbs. should come from an authentic Mission-style burrito, not some $2 sale-item frozen entree. My over-carbing should come from the white rice of the freshest, most melt-in-your-mouth sushi a person could ever partake in. My extra calories from a bottle of wine that I buy in a corner store, that I can walk to in less than 10 seconds in my pajamas if I so choose and no one will be the wiser, a bottle of Seghesio Sangiovese that, for $18.99, is a steal in Northern California because it’s bottled 55 minutes from my doorstep. Or from a skinny double mocha where everybody really DOES know my name - since the LAST time I was unemployed. The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on Fillmore, Cuppa Joe on Sutter. Some random place on Van Ness. Free wireless. People who could give a shit if I sat there all day reading a book. What could be more beautiful and intimate than coffee and free wireless with my boyfriend?

Here’s the deal. I want to walk down a street where I can see an 80 –year old transvestite. I want to see a random pyramid of cheerleaders “cheering for life” in the Castro and not really understand why adults wear cheerleading outfits to do such a thing. I want to see some naked people running. I want to be the naïve southern girl who walks through a drug deal on Geary St. at 9 am. I want to ride on a bus that starts where the beautiful, married people live in the Marina and ends up where the gritty, alone people live in a neighborhood I don’t even know. I want to run the Lyon St. stairs until my legs collapse and sweat out every preservative from every frozen dinner I’ve ever consumed.

So, I made a decision. I’m breaking up with you, Seattle. It’s not you. It’s me. Really. I need to make a go of things with my boyfriend, San Francisco. At least for a little while. I’ll keep London as my mistress boyfriend. A dirty whore Daniel Cleaver type whose booty call I’ll gladly answer when he comes calling until I have the chance to date him exclusively.

Goodbye, Seattle. I think you need a less complicated woman to make you happy. I hope we can still be friends.

It's time to think outside the AA box

2005-10-09T17:04:00.000-07:00

In a world where we’ve been conditioned to be PC and embrace diversity – to not ask a lot of questions when someone does something outside the pesky box – I need to know: why are batteries an exception to this rule? Why ya gotta be so nosey about my batteries, people?

Today I set out on an expedition to find a battery. Not a AA battery or a AAA battery or even a 9V battery. A 1.5V battery. Depending on where you go in the greater Seattle area, these little gems are not readily available in the aisles where you can just browse the batteries on your own. Nope, they’re behind a counter, forcing you to seek out and converse with an employee in order to get said battery. Is the 1.5V the crack of batteries? Are people just so damned desperate for them that they need to be behind glass?

As usual, I digress. Let’s just say when a woman goes into a store - by herself - to buy a non-AA battery people are VERY interested in why she needs it. At my 3rd and final stop I was successful, but not before I underwent a Law & Order-style line of questioning that was missing only the swinging, bare light bulb above my head and a billowing cloud of smoke from some filter-less Camels.

“What do you need this battery for?” Asked the early 20-something smartass-looking Safeway employee with a glint in his eye. Well, let me enlighten you, Mr. Safeway employee. It’s for my garage door opener. My camera. My medical defibrillator. My watch. My gigantic hearing aid. Or my prison ankle bracelet which will most DEFINITELY beep if I decide to jump over the counter and give you the smack down for enjoying these questions so much. Give me the battery! Trust me on this – I NEED THE BATTERY! And stop casting that knowing glance at my Blockbuster bag too. (OK, so maybe they do need to be behind the glass.)

When at last he sought out the 1.5V he actually looked a little sheepish. There on the package, clear as day in a Times New Roman-esque font was the word “Medical” along with the familiar medical serpent symbol. “OOOOOOH, so it’s for MEDICAL reasons,” he says.

Medical reasons. Exactly. You have no idea.

More trendy pick-ups

2005-10-07T09:34:00.001-07:00

I know you’ve been awaiting another of my celebrated single stories, dear reader(s) (I added the “s” because I’m an optimistic, sunny, smiling person), so wait no more.

Workin’ at the Car Wash (Come on y’all and sing it with me)
Back in the days I like to refer to as “The Golden Era”, I had a car, a job and lived in San Francisco. I was on my out of the city one day – in my CAR (I like saying that now that I don’t have one) - so I hit the Shell station near Glen Park before I got on 280. I filled up (because gas was under $3 then) and was rewarded with the beloved free car wash. I drive to the car wash lane and am about to input my super secret free car wash code when a gentleman wearing a Shell cap and shirt with the name “Rod” (I’m not making that up, Christian) pops in front of the machine. The convo goes something like this:

Rod: Hi there! Can I help you?
Me: No thanks, I’m just, you know…putting my code in to wash my car.
Rod: Really? Where ya on your way to?
Me: Target.
Rod: What? You’re not going to see your boyfriend?
Intermission: Why is there a certain percentage of men who like to segway with an ill-timed boyfriend comment? Anyone?
Me: No, no. Just going to Target.
Rod: Where do you live?
Me: Pacific Heights.
Pesky Inner Voice: Why am I telling the car wash code man where I live?
Rod: Really? We should have dinner at Harry’s on Fillmore sometime. Yeah! Let’s do that! Why don’t you let me buy you dinner at Harry’s- that’ll be cool!
Pesky Inner Voice: Drive away! Say “no thanks” roll up your window and drive away!
Me: Ummm…
Pesky Inner voice: This is not the time to be nice!
Pesky Inner voice 2: But he controls the CODES! He could put the smack-down on Aggie! (my silver civic)
Rod: Ok, I understand that you maybe don’t feel comfortable saying yes right now so let’s do this. I’m off on Wednesdays so just meet me at Harry’s on Wednesday night!
Me: Actually, I have a boyfriend so..
Rod: You just said you were going to Target and NOT your boyfriend's house. Oh well, that’s OK – meet me there! I’ll buy! It’ll be fun! My name’s Rod by the way! (and yes, he was speaking in exclamation mark-ese).

Fast forward about a month. I go through the Shell Car Wash again, taking care to note that it’s WEDNESDAY. But guess who’s there? That’s right.
Rod: Hey, I never saw you at Harry’s.
Pesky Inner Voice: DRIVE!!!

And the moral of this story is: if you want a free dinner at Harry’s, go to the Shell Station near 280, fill up and go through the car wash. Dab on some extra lip gloss. Rod likes 'em shiny.

There’s a new trend in pick-up lines, ladies

2005-10-06T00:46:00.000-07:00

What I wouldn’t give for those golden days of flirting yesteryear, when girls were girls and men were men. When guys offered up urban legend gems like “Can I buy you ladies a round of drinks?” or the oft-underused yet more direct tactic of “Hi, my name is _____”. Those were the days.

Apparently there are a few new techniques on the rise. And I think it’s my duty as a single woman to bring some of the more disturbing ones to light. Please enjoy and feel free to share your own.

Coming soon: Why pedicures, Gregory Peck, African children and popping up at the Shell Car Wash code machine just don’t work.

Here’s to you, Mr. Passive Aggressive Verbal Humiliator
Sounds like a dream, huh? Insult a girl, get her really riled up, then tell her you would’ve asked her out if she hadn’t been so (insert original insult here). Brilliant. It goes something like this:

A man approaches a girl or group of girls:

Man: “Hey ladies, you need to turn those frowns upside down!!”
Me: (taking the bait like an idiot) “We’re not frowning, we’re talking. To THESE guys.”
Man: “Well you look kind of…mad.”
Me: “So, should we smile WHILE we talk? Cause that makes it kind of hard to actually, you know, form the words.

Intermission – Here’s where things start to unravel a bit. Because no one’s really mad yet. We’re just talking, probably engaging in a little harmless flirting, probably with young men in their early 20s (because this story takes place in San Francisco) and it must be going pretty well because, oh, look at that – THESE GUYS ARE STILL TALKING TO US. But I digress.

Man: “I’m just saying, you’d probably do a lot better if you’d just smile a little. You seem like an unhappy person. And you’d be prettier if you smiled too.”

Intermission 2: What the…???

Me: I never smile? ME? You have NO IDEA who I am! I SMILE ALL THE FUCKING TIME! I LOVE TO SMILE!! In fact I was VOTED BEST SMILE in high school so DON’T TELL ME THAT I’M NOT A FUCKING SMILER!!!!!

SFX: Bar goes silent, crickets chirp.

Guy: Wow, that’s too bad, because I would’ve asked you out if you weren’t so…angry.

And just like that, I’ve been had. I really AM mad, I’ve been made to look like a mean girl, when in fact, I’m a relatively sunny smiling type most of the time (ok, I have my days). And some guy that I probably never would’ve gone out with anyway has deemed me un-dateable. I'll be damned. Butter my butt and call me a bitter biscuit.

Waaah Waaah: That's the Debbie Downer noise you'll make when you realize what a slacker you are too

2005-09-30T00:35:00.003-07:00

So I’m sitting here, all a-titter about writing my blog. After trying to shamelessly promote this thing to all my friends I received nice emails back from many people telling me about their blogs and their amazing – shit, strike that I’ve banned that word -unbelievable lives. After reading their blogs (and published articles for God’s sake) and hearing about what’s going on in their lives, I decided that maybe me talking about how last night’s episode of “Lost” REALLY pissed me off (right?) seemed kind of…lame.

So allow me to introduce you to 3 superbly cool, fantastic, talented, funny, creative wonderfully wonderful dudes. I don’t know if they watched “Lost” on Wednesday but if they did, I don’t want to know because it would piss me off even more that they had TIME to watch it.

Jaime: Jaime’s a copywriter and he too is seeking full-time employment. He’s very funny and talented and he’s pretty busy as he’s read about 611, 232 books. And that’s just since I met him a little over 2 years ago. I imagine his life total is somewhere in the gajillions. He knows a lot of stuff.

Ryan: I met Ryan back in the salad days of dot com. Ryan works for American Conservatory Theater, by day as a web guy who knows a lot of complicated programs and by night as a director, actor, writer and overall theater expert (I’m sure there’s a better word, but that’s what I call him). He’s unbelievably talented. He’s also starting his own theater company in San Francisco. He’s a photographer. And he built a 6-story building all by himself in less than 4 days. (Ok, so I made that one up but I'm sure he'll email me one day telling me he built a 6-story building one weekend for the hell of it)

Steve:: I’ve known Steve for um, 23 years. (Can that even be right? I work with people younger than that) I adore him. He’s got a doctorate in psychology and theology, a mortgage, his own practice, a dog and he and his lovely wife Shelley just made FOUR BABIES AT ONCE. QUADRUPLETS. That's a lot of babies. Oh, he also has a book deal pending. And he is some sort of contributor to this online magazine thing. What a fucking slacker.

So….who wants to read about how I badly I want a dog right now instead of a baby? Anyone?

We interrupt this blog with a message from some woman on a moon who likes...beer?

2005-09-27T21:29:00.000-07:00

Sorry, ad people. I hate to take away from the time when you read senseless blogs at work with - of all things - an ad question, but I’m just wondering: what the hell is going on with Miller High Life and the new TV spot…the woman on the moon? So now Miller High Life is targeting WOMEN? Bravo and all, I mean, we ladies like our brewskies (hang on while I crush a can on my forehead). But I loved – L-O-V-E-D – that manly man that made fun of henpecked husbands, men who drive mini-vans and kids who play soccer. Where'd that guy go?

What irks me is that they reeled me in with the music. MUSIC. No glistening beautiful people. No frogs. Music that could have been used in a Baby Einstein ad. They’re totally fucking with us, right? Mixing baby music with beer? My brain is about to pop out of my head. I don’t know what to do here. How to FEEL. Should I get pregnant and drink a beer? Or put on a wife-beater and spackle up a window? Or spackle a window, play soccer, birth a baby, watch Oprah and crack open a cold one? This may be too much for me. I can’t even focus on the spot because I’m so….verklempt while I watch it. What’s the world coming to when ads try to sell women beer? I feel all jittery. This is very confusing. What’s next, selling men tampons? Douches? Selling kids cigarettes? Holy shit…that’s been done. It all makes sense now. It’s an advertising apocalypse! Save yourselves, people... grab your mud-wrestling models and run!

Amazing: Not so amazing anymore

2005-09-27T15:01:00.000-07:00

Everything’s amazing now and frankly I’m just tired of it. Even worse, thanks to reality TV, many things are “an amazing journey.” “Those shoes are amazing.” “This wine is amazing” “Our date was amazing” “it’s been a really amazing journey, this walk to Safeway for lunch.” ENOUGH!!

Could somebody PLEASE make another word in vogue? I mean, amazing is the fact that people are building houses in midtown Manhattan to ship down to Katrina victims in New Orleans. Amazing is when somebody delivers a kidney in a cooler so somebody else can live. Amazing is not when J.D Fortune wins INXS Rock Star (though I must say, I did think J.D. delivered the best performance in absolutely dreamy and sexual-chocolate-esque fashion). And an amazing journey might be a safari, where wild zebras charged your Land Rover and you sped away with a little zebra spit in your hair. Probably not so much when The Bachelor Bob Geddy offers you a rose to stay another week. (OK, maybe that hot guy Charlie who was Trista’s runner-up, but not Bob.)

New word. Please.

Why ya gotta be all bitchy like that?

2005-09-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

When it comes to interaction among women who don’t know one another that well, there are two types of ladies: “friendly, outgoing, hey-how-ya-doin’” ladies and “I’ve met you 16 times but I’ll still pretend I have no fucking clue who you are and treat you like an absolute piece of shit” ladies. Am I right? And per my headline, I just need to know: why ya gotta be like that? Help a sister out.

Let’s take me as an example. I’m harmless. My dear friend Christian once dubbed me the “golden retriever of humans”. I just like making friends. Is that so wrong? I don’t want your boyfriend, your husband or your job. I might envy all those things but anything I get, I can get on my own, thank you very much. If you’d stop to talk to me for 5 seconds you’d find out I really am genuinely interested in you and if I’m staring at you it’s probably because I really like your shoes or something. If you’d return my gaze I’d probably tell you that. See, I’m a people person, goddamnit!

I’d dare say most women (60%?) are the same as me when it comes to chatting it up with other women. The other 20% (the ones who look at the floor when you pass them) are probably just shy and after a few stupid jokes at the copier or a fat glass of wine at happy hour you can break through. But it’s the other 20% that I can’t quite crack. Hmmm.

Let me get a big HELL YEAH

2005-09-27T10:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all it takes is a well-timed performance on the Today Show to remind me what I’d forgotten was on my iPod. Two words for you: Gretchen Wilson. OK, wait, actually 2 more: Redneck Woman. Go download it now. I know, I know, all you city-folk non-country music lovin’ people are rolling your eyes right now. But just give it a listen. PLEASE. Even if you hate country or end up hating the song, you’ll laugh at the words. And I bet you a skinny, no foam soy double-something latte that you’ll actually be humming it later on and – this is really bold – may even find it works for your impromptu karaoke performances. A big “hell yeah!” to Becca for introducing me to this song so long ago, to Dayna for driving around looking for parking extra long so we could listen to it and to Missy for (unknowingly) allowing me to burn it while I house-sat for you. I ain’t no high-klass broad. Nope. (see: “why ya gotta be all bitchy like that” entry. Maybe my propensity for liking songs like this perpetuates the problem??)

Good clean karaoke fun

2005-09-26T22:57:00.000-07:00

The next time you’re having a bad day and you have your iPod with you, try this little exercise guaranteed to make you think you’ve had some really good drugs for about 3 minutes. Here’s your charge: you’re making a video for that song you’ve listened to 11 times in a row. Only not a slick, MTV production value kind of video. No, you’re making a low-budget, made-for-an authentic-Japanese-karaoke-bar video.

Let’s think about how Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound” might pan out a little differently. There’s no shadowy, sexy Chris Martin all silhouetted and crooning at you. Nope. Not in your video. In YOUR video, there’s a sand castle. That’s right. Then a balloon that somehow floats out of the sand castle and across… a moat. To a real castle. Where a wistful looking woman that was probably considered sexy circa 1983 is wearing a calico print dress and doing her laundry on a washboard. (She's wistful because she wants a washing machine) See? This video concept makes PERFECT sense with the lyrics. “How long do I have to climb? Up on the side of this mountain of mine?” (cut to more hard washboard scrubbing by Calico).

And just like that… a karaoke video is born.

Poopy Pavement

2005-09-26T22:56:00.000-07:00

Hey Seattle, how come you people don’t scoop your dog’s poop?? This isn’t France! Anyone?

Help! I’ve fallen in the wrong demographic box and I can’t get out!

2005-09-26T22:51:00.000-07:00

I’m so stupid! I can’t believe I let myself get reeled into yet another trashy reality TV show targeted to the 12-24 audience. But it’s just so bad that it’s good and I have to share.

This time it’s E’s “Filthy Rich Cattle Ranch”. If you haven’t seen it, the “concept” (note the quotes) is that a bunch of late teen/early 20-something sons and daughters of wealthy and/or famous people are responsible for, of all things, driving a herd of cattle somewhere. I don’t even know where. I mean, who really cares when you’ve got the son of George Foreman, Robert Blake and Anthony Quinn mixing it up with the daughter of Pat Benatar, Lou Ferrigno and Terri Semel….just to name a few. One of my favorite quotes comes from Noah Blake (who apparently thinks his herding skills are “totally superior” to the rest of the group): “It was strange going out on dates with new people and they’re like ‘What does your dad do’? and I’m like ‘Uh…you know. Murder trial.” Need I type more?

One of my faves is Fabian Basabe, son of an Ecuadorian business tycoon. He threatens the ranch hands with slander because they call him lazy. He leaves during a crucial herding moment to find his $2000 jacket he lost in a field somewhere. He laughs when his charity loses money because he went “into town” to see a movie. And I bet he and Kristin from “Laguna Beach” have, like, TOTALLY done it!

Someone please….take the remote from me.

Testing, testing....is this thing on?

2005-09-25T23:48:00.000-07:00

It’s official: I’m a blogging sell-out. Not long ago I wondered, as the “Alfie” back-up singers might say, what’s it all about, this blogging? I mean, how vain could a person be? How ballsy is it to post rants, raves and useless information every day and assume people would actually be …interested?

Funny thing, the blogging. I found out I WAS pretty interested. Not only in my friends’ blogs, but in people’s blogs I’d never even met. I mean, I’m a copywriter for God’s sake. And not even a gainfully employed one. I’ve spent the last month writing about Lottery Scratch cards. I’ve spent my precious off-hours sitting on the couch of a corporate apartment watching hurricane coverage and after-midnight Bowflex infomercials. I love –L-O-V-E- that John O’ Hurley won the “Dancing With the Stars” rematch. Since when did I get so snotty about what’s interesting to read and pay attention to?

I’m from the south so sometimes I’m a little slow, but it seems this blogging thing might be a good idea for me. Maybe keep me in the practice of actually writing. I figure if only three people (outside my family) read this, think it’s even slightly amusing and pass it on to three other people, maybe they’ll pass it on. To people who need copywriters. Or to the really, REALLY powerful people – people who want to, say, send me some chocolate chip muffin tops or something so I can give a little mention on this VERY well-read blog. (Come on, I’ve got a circulation of at LEAST six people. Get in on the ground floor!)

Sure, there will be elements of the ridiculous. Re-runs for some of you of some of the same ridiculous material I’ve trotted out for the past few years. Gregory Peck and my amazing likeness to him. Latka the African security guard at Walgreen’s who asked me to have his children while I shopped for a multi-vitamin one day. How I was duped with a Yehuda diamond. “Filthy Rich Cattle Ranch”. Burritos. Juicers. I don’t know. I’m making this shit up as I go. So, pretty please, post comments. Subscribe or whatever it is this website allows you to do. Forward me. And if you’re even slightly entertained, please come back.