Monday, 30 March 2009

An open letter to Ken Downing, Neiman Marcus, Fashion Office

(I wrote this Friday but forgot to post with all the hullabaloo RE: my broken wing. Since typing is still a challenge, I'm glad I'm able to send in the reserves. BTW, gifts, flowers or just general well wishes are still being accepted. I'll find out tomorrow from the specialist exactly how bad I fucked it up.)

Good Day Sir,

I am writing to congratulate you because you have, indeed, fooled me again.

The first time, I was waiting anxiously for a response to a job application. I had been waiting for weeks. I was stuck at that crap sack reporter jobs for two years too long and was ready to break free, but due to my close-to-minimum-wage salary and teensy credit card debt problem, I was chained to my desk until I got a new gig.

A glorious new message popped up in my inbox. This is it. My ticket to a new life! The skies opened. Angels sang.

It was you. But it was OK because you were writing to me in this very personal e-newsletter to tell me how I would be seeing metallics everywhere that fall and that if I wanted to stay as sassy and fashionable as always I could buy all the cutest things at your place of employment for a reasonable price. You did me a solid.

Today, as I sat at my desk and saw that I had a new message in my inbox, I thought it must certainly be from my Virtual Crush (more on him soon) because he owed me one response to a quite witty and sweet e-mail I had sent this morning.

So imagine my surprise when I saw it was you and that you had only written to tell me that leggings are the “new trend alert” for this spring. NO FUCKING DUH. I could have looked out my window anytime during the last year and told you that.

So no, sir, I do not want more advice. I want you to stop toying with my emotions. When I hit refresh for the 47th time because I’m still waiting on that response that is clearly not coming today, if it is you with your banal advice ever again I am going to scream and then I am going to boycott your store (OK, the last part is probably an exaggeration, but I am going to shop there begrudgingly and not refold the sweaters I pick up.).

That is all.

Again, I bid you good day.

Best regards,


P.S. The suit you’re wearing in your newsletter is quite smart and well fitted. Did you get that at NM?

Saturday, 28 March 2009

SingleGrrrl fall down go boom

I'm on heavy pain killers so apologies for the silly title and for anything I'm about to write.

This will be brief because I am typing like my pops, which is to say using only my left index finger. For the explanation of why, I will refer you to my dear friend Martini.

And the answer is, yes it is broken. A fractured radial head in my right arm to be precise (I said that to my little sis and she said, "a radiohead?")

And I chipped a bone in my knee. And I have multiple contusions (like the fancy word I learned in the ER?) And all of this when I was SUPPOSED to be staying home!!! Way to go, SG.

I've done a lot of stupid things while drinking but this may win me the Miss Hot Mess of the Universe award. I simply fell down and now I can't even pee without crying out in pain trying to pull down my pants. Stellar.

When I told the doctor I fell he said: From the third floor?

And the guy at the pharmacy told me my real story was weak and that I should make up a better one about how three really big girls jumped me and tried to steal my sweet pumas.

OK, left index finger fading. Must rest.

Friday, 27 March 2009

My Fetish: I'll have it my way, thank you very much.

I am staying home tonight for the first time in ages.

I could not be more excited. I turned down a couple of invites (gladly, see here for references to both of the poor schmucks) and specifically planned a night in.

I’m going to listen to music that I found at this amazing store, Revolver Records, which I bought months ago and haven’t listened to. I’m going to work on a painting that’s been staring at me saying “You know you want to” And … wait for it … I’m planning to pick up a delightful meal -- most likely from a little fast food place south of the border, and indulge my salty, fatty side!

Yeah, I said it: I love fast food. I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know why it happened. But I seriously love me a cheesy bean and rice burrito or a, gasp, Filet-o-Fish and fries whenever possible. Obviously, this isn’t an every day event, but I get my junk food on whenever I can without feeling like a Fatty McFatstack.

This is weird on so very many levels.

First of all, I’ve been a vegetarian most of my life. I say most because I had a teenage rebellion phase where I’d eat pepperoni pizza like it was going out of style. I’d sneak in past curfew after feasting on cured pork and my pops would be all fascist and say “I know where you’ve been. I can smell it all over you.” And I’d shout back, “I learned it from watching you, OK!”

I very recently started eating a little meat from time to time (that's what she said.) Especially bacon. Bacon = bliss. If you live in the Phoenix area, or are just passing through, I highly recommend the Bacon Wrapped Basil from Sens. Johnny Chu, I Heart You.

My new meat phase (That’s what she said. Oh, again!) began after a long night of dancing and drag queens. I ended up at Gay Denny’s with some friends. I was so beat and my friend ordered sliders and offered me one. I was drunk, I was hungry, I was boogied out and I didn’t even think twice about eating that burger.

I was always a veg for political reasons -- you know, mass animal farming is bad for us, bad for animals, bad for the environment, and stuff -- so fast food should be so wrong to me – but why does it taste SO RIGHT?

I’m getting back on the wagon, though, I swear.

My FFF (Fast Food Fetish) is also weird because I’m considered something of a foodie by people who know me. I love to cook and most people say I’m darn good at it. And I love to go out to a quality restaurant and really enjoy a great meal. And I won’t be caught dead in a Crapplebee’s or anything like that.

But fast food is like a whole other beast.

Now, I’m in no way advocating that we eat this stuff every day (we are a nation of gigantic people and I think we all know it’s not due to overconsuming apples and bananas.) I mean, it is, from a nutritional standpoint, junk food. But, when I tell people I like fast food every now and then – especially the hipster and quasi-hipster 20 and 30 somethings I know, they all shudder and say things like “Gross!” or “No way.” or "I exclusively buy local, dude." (A nice dream, but you're hitting the pipe too hard if you think I believe you, Guy With No Job.)

Someone is eating this stuff. Actually, millions are eating it, so I know some of those Gross-sayers are driving through Micky Ds at 10:25 on a Saturday morning hoping they will get there before they stop serving breakfast because we all know NOTHING cures a hangover better than a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit, hashbrown and large OJ. So seriously, fess up, what’s your guilty pleasure?

Thursday, 26 March 2009

If I were a boy ...

I would wear these amazing cuff links from Etsy. Why is that movie soooo amazing? And what could I wear these cuff links with ...

You could easily insert me into this scene (And I'd make a way better chick KK than Hillary Swank):

Miyagi: Karate come from China, sixteenth century, called te, "hand." Hundred year later, Miyagi ancestor bring to Okinawa, call *kara*-te, "empty hand."

Daniel (played by yours truly): I thought it came from Buddhist temples and stuff like that.

Miyagi: You watch too much TV.


Underwear? Under there.

I have the most glorious little secret that has been making me smirk ever since I realized it happened.

I forgot to put on underwear this morning. I think it's one of about a half dozen times I've gone without this undergarment in my life. It feels amazing.

First thought. How does ones forget to do that?

Second thought: So what?

I know this will seem like a silly pleasure to you regular Commandos out there, but this is new territory for me and I'm relishing every moment.

You see, my mother birthed me when she was still a teenager. Tsk, tsk babies having babies (That’s my judgmental side rearing its judgy little head. It won't happen again.) I lived a childhood tugged between her concert going, pot smoking, staying out late, hating responsibility ways (A lot like me at 19 minus the kids) and the ways of my much more conservative grandmother who helped her raise me and my sibs.

Somewhere in all that mess I picked up an obsession with being fully clothed at all times. I think it had something to do with how scantily clad my moms and her friends were (nuns compared to the Gossip Girl 19-year-olds today. Wow, when did I turn 87?) and how much my grandmother disapproved. (I have mommy issues, you’ll see.) Oh, and our uber religious society that teaches girls crazy ideas about being Jeezibels and going straight to hell -- used to believe that stuff when I was a kid. Now I just believe in real things like unicorns and leprechauns.

While other babies were running around in diapers and nothing else, I was decked out in great ensembles -- I had the freaking best taste from an early age (and, yes, I've always been this modest. Thank you.) I wore sun dresses, with big floppy hats, coordinating sandals and purses. I wore jeans and t-shirts. I wore onesies. I just wore clothes. Always.

The moment I started getting boobs, which to my prepubescent mortified self was like 11, I insisted on a bra. I wore it all the time. I even slept in it.

Now, after about three decades on the planet, I’m FINALLY starting to be comfortable (enough) with my body. Don't get me wrong. You'll still find me dressed, and well at that, most of the time. And with underpants on, because I think it's probably more sanitary and well, as Bex puts it in Confessions of a Shopaholic "underwear is a basic human right." I just won't be so uptight about it.

So yeah, sitting here in my fancy schmancy office chair sans britches feels pretty darn liberating. Does anyone else know? Nope. (well, technically all of you now know. Props to my three lurrrvely followers!) Does it matter? Only to me.

Wednesday, 25 March 2009

Random Thought

Who was the douche who coined the term “hump day?” I just know it was a dude. A dude with teeth that are a little too white, hair a little too coiffed, skin a little too tan. You know the guy I’m talking about. Hump day is misleading. We don’t get to hump all day (well I guess in some lines of work one does.) And for some reason it always makes me think of camels, which makes me think of the sun and sand, which in turn makes me think of a beach and how I’d rather be there than in my office. So it's not really a motivating phrase, it's a big, whorish tease of a phrase. Hump day. Hmph! Won’t you join me in creating a new idiom people?

Tuesday, 24 March 2009

Twitchy eyes and fruit flies

I had all these wonderful intentions for this evening.

I created a mental checklist while I stared at my computer in my office with my fingers on the keyboard looking like I was about to write something incredible.

I was going to stop at the grocery store and stock up on healthy food since my fridge is pretty much empty, aside from two beers, some tomato juice for bloodys, three bottles of white wine and some cheese. Sings: One of these things is not like the others.

I swear I was so bored at work I spent the last hour listening to Iron and Wine -- perk of being the only "creative type" in the office is that they let me get away with stuff like listening to music for "inspiration" -- and daydreaming about the lovely beets and cucumbers I planned to buy. For realz.

Then I planned to walk the dog and hit the gym for a solid hour. While there, I was determined to ask my absolutely adorable neighbor to join me and some girlfriends and a couple other neighbors at my place for dinner this weekend.

Side note: I had this genius idea about a week ago to invite people over for a getting to know you type shindig. I'm planning something super home-y -- my red wine marinara, which is amazing by all accounts but which is made in a vat and is not practical* for this single gal, with some easy sides and apps. I figured if I had people to share all that sauce with it would be totally worth the full day of simmering.

My ulterior motive (there usually is one with me) is to figure out if Gym Guy is gay or straight. We work out at the same time most days and I always run into him. I had written him off as gay because I live in the Gayborhood and all the cute ones here are gay, but then there was excessive eye contact, and then there was the helpful pointers on my workout routine (which was missed all three times because I had my damn iPod on so loud and was jamming out and had to stare at him and say 'Huh?' each time. Yeah, I'm smooth like that) I got all excited at the possibility. So, I thought I'd leave the invitation open to bring signifant others and see what happens.

But back to my intentions for tonight. I also intended to bake banana bread to use the bananas that I never ate, which turned brown and are one day away from attracting fruit flies to my kitchen. While the company might be nice, I thought I could surprise all my co-workers with homemade baked good in the morning for brownie points. Again, ulterior motive being that they start talking about lunch from the moment they sit down at 9 a.m. and by feeding them I can perhaps not have to hear about it until 10:30, or please sweet baby Jesus, 11.

But I failed all around. Instead, I went straight home in some kind of weird daze, had pretzel rods and Crystal Light for dinner, played Persona 4 for hours and then died before I could save my progress (bastards!), and surfed the blog world. At least I remembered to walk my dog.

Sometimes I think I have a serious problem with depression. Sometimes I think I'm just terribly lazy. I'm definitely experiencing anxiety over all my dumb weekend decisions. My eye has been all twitchy for two days. Now I just need to decide if I can motivate myself to resolve the problem the healthy way by getting back into my normal, non-drinking problem routine, or resort to the Ativan. I'll keep you posted.

* I stared at this word for ages thinking "That is not right." I tried "practicle" and "practecal." See what I mean about being in a daze today?

Death by Carrots

If you read my guest entry over at Blah Blah’s blog last week, you’d know that I woke up with a stranger in my bed last Thursday (don’t start shouting skank ho yet, I was on the couch with two dogs.)

Sunday, I woke up to an even stranger experience. As the sun came pouring through the amazing windows of my urbany loft apartment, I opened my eyes, disoriented, my laptop on my lap, my cell phone under my head, a mysterious black substance in my bed and … something in my mouth?

Now I know this is gross, but at 9 a.m. in the morning, groggy and still slightly drunk, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable. I retrieved whatever this was trapped between my gums and my cheeks with my tongue and I chewed it. These were my next thoughts:

“Aha, carrots!”

“Oh god, I could have died.”

I looked around. I sniffed. Apparently, I thought it would be a great idea to eat carrots dipped in some fancy Greek dressing I recently purchased when I had the drunk munchies the night before. The black stuff in my bed was oregano. After the dressing I spilled everywhere evaporated or soaked into my duvet, this was the evidence left over from my genius idea. Good job.

While the thought of choking to death on carrots in my sleep was terrifying (and slightly hilarious in a morbid way) what scared me more was the proximity of my computer and phone to this seriously hung over mess.

I spent a full five minutes just staring at my technology.

Ok, phone first. I looked at the inbox. I had messages from an unknown sender calling me “Ireland” (I tell lies when I’m drunk. I’m guessing I told him I was from Ireland. I hope I attempted a terrible accent.) He was telling me to “have fun with the short Ron Jeremy look-a-like.”

I had another message from who I am assuming was the Ron Jeremy look-a-like telling me to have fun at the next bar I was going to.

To the outbox. The first message was to a bartender at a dive I frequent telling him I have a crush on him. Delete all. DELETE ALL! I didn’t want to know the rest.

I touched the finger pad on my computer. Google. OK. That’s good. E-mail. Uh-oh. New message from Long Distance Love Interest.

It begins: “Yes of course I still like you, you crazy drunk …” I had more than oregano to clean up.

These are the things that happen after an open bar party and an evening of tequila.

Tequila=dying in your bed, alone, with carrots in your mouth.

Saturday, 21 March 2009

Random Thought

Random thought of the day: Are the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles really still teenagers? I mean, shouldn't they call that show Mid-20s Mutant Ninja Turtles or something like that? I'm just saying. The cast of 90210 caught a lot of flack for being like nearly 30 and playing high schoolers. Does this not apply to animation?

Friday, 20 March 2009

Please to meet you. Really, I am.

So, last year was kinda crappy. I found out my (now ex) boyfriend is a drug addict who built our relationship on A LOT of lies. I had to (temporarily!) move back in with my mom. My only half paid for car completely died and I had to get another one because Phoenix is a bitch and you have to drive everywhere here, thus two car loans just when I thought I had a job that would allow me to buy sweet shoes and get out of debt. Oh, and I got a cancer diagnosis -- for the second time. Amazing.

I just turned the big 3-0 and I’m trying to get my shiz together and act all grown up and stuff. Have a fab new pad in downtown, which I heart. Have awesome friends. Have a new job so I’m making those car payments on time. Kicked that cancer hard in the sack. I'm a single girl, just trying to make her way in the world ... Blech. I digress. Seriously, I’m doing alright. Mostly.

There is the drinking … more on that later.

Anyway. I’m a writer by profession, but I never write anything fun anymore, thus this blog. You probably won’t believe someone pays me to write when you see how many typos and misplaced commas show up in this here. Oh, and I love parantheticals, so if that annoys you, run now (seriously, RUN!)

I’m not a good self editor. This applies to my life in general. I’m kind of an oversharer. (Aren’t all bloggers? Isn’t that kind of the point of blogging?) I’m not sure where exactly I’ll go with this thing, but hopefully you’ll come along for the ride. I think it might entertain you, but I may regret it later.

Now good day, sir (I've just really wanted to incorporate that phrase into my daily life more. It really doesn't fit there, huh?)

Random Thoughts

Thought of the day: Why does McDonald’s coffee always have a weird film on the top of it? Almost like it’s oily. Do they put grease even in their coffee? What is that shiz???

Step away from the phone

Why do I suck at texting? Like when I try to write “compliment” and it comes out “compflizent.” That’s not even a word.

I think it’s a combination of my bad typing skills and my failure to read things before pressing “send” that gets me into trouble.

And then there’s the drinking …

I tried to send my Long Distance Love Interest a text on my birthday telling him that he should send me a present (because I have no shame and I love presents) and it came out like this: “Did me send me something for me birthday?” I’m not kidding. Who am I? The Lucky Charms leprechaun? You can’t make this stuff up.

My friend Blah Blah says when she’s been out on the town drinking she immediately erases all the text messages from her phone so she can’t be embarrassed by anything she may have done (there are exceptions. I’ll explain our 2 a.m. text drinking games later. Pure Brilliance). However, I like to live in Opposite World from the more rational and sane Blah Blah. I keep all random drunk texts. A friend suggested to me once that I put that app thing on my phone to spare others from receiving these awful texts, especially in the middle of the night. But My Long Distance Love Interest gets a kick out of them. He likes to forward them back to me and say “Remember this?” To which I quickly respond, “No. I mean, of course! Wasn't that a hilarious joke? Heh heh.”

I kind of look forward to piecing together the previous evening via my in and out boxes. (Yeah, I said peicing together ... it's sad. You'll see.) Is it painful? Sometimes. Does is clear things up? Again, sometimes. Is it entertaining? Almost always. See above where I mention that I have no shame.