Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Why Is Everyone Screaming Obscenities At Me Lately?

To think this once seemed innocent.

So I’m standing on the corner of Houston and 1st Avenue waiting to cross when one of those big tourist buses runs the red light. The little neon white guy is telling us that it’s okay to traverse the crosswalk, but we can’t because this bus driver thought, “Oh why not?” and decided to go for it. Traffic is backed up and the bus ass is hanging out into the street blocking the pedestrians' way. Everyone else is shaking their heads in disdain and making a big show of walking around it but I'm not in a big hurry so I stay on the curb listening to my iPod, waiting for it to move on. Just as it lurches forward I go to push my sunglasses back up the bridge of my nose but accidentally use my middle finger, so it looks like I'm surreptitiously flipping them off (and it really was an accident; when I flip bird, I do it with purpose). I quickly exchange it for my pointer finger but the damage is already done. As the bus glides past, the driver actually opens that little door and shouts, “Fuck you!” This may be the closest a tourist bus has ever come to the real New York.

Celebrity Quote of the Day

"It can't sink in that he is gone, and I will never forgive myself for not making him teach me how he did that perfect line on the eye."
-- Jennifer Garner on the sudden death of her close friend, make-up artist Paul Starr

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Anyone Else Disturbed By This?

Courtesy of (by which I mean stolen from)

Of course I'm talking about the woman in the background wearing all black in August, toting a white bag that pops way too much against her outfit. What was she thinking?? The woman on the right is clearly with me on this. She's vomiting in agreement.

I Did Enjoy The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pantsuit Joke, Though

The one thing that really stood out to me during Hillary Clinton's speech at the Democratic National Convention is that she's a Winter, not a Summer and has no business wearing orange. I know that I should be judging her based on her words and not her appearance but when you see people hurting themselves, you have to step in and say something. And believe me, I would say the same thing if I ever caught a man wearing an ill-suited orange pantsuit. I would also say, "How much if I take her for the entire night?"

Yet More From Chelsea Handler

From page 180 of Are You There, Vodka? It's Me Chelsea:

The second e-email I opened was from my friend Morgan who lives in San Diego. She emailed me a picture of her dog. Alone…I understand if people want to email pictures of their babies by themselves, but there is no way I’m going to join Kodak’s photo gallery to look at a picture of someone’s pet standing by itself in front of Niagara Falls. This is not the first time this has happened to me, and I was actually pleased because I had gathered the materials necessary to respond appropriately. I clicked reply and sent Morgan a picture of my cleaning lady. Standing next to the toilet, alone. I attached a message that read, “Not interested? Me neither.”

And Later On, Let's Order a Pizza to Barack's House and Not Pay For It!

Nick: Why do you think Hillary supporters are protesting by voting for McCain?

Me: Because after a disappointment women sometimes cease to be adults and then turn into spiteful bitches who can't move the hell on. It's the same as when they get dumped by a guy and then set out to sabotage his next relationship -- and expect all of their friends to hate them, too.

Of course, I've totally done that.

More From Chelsea Handler

On page 127 of Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea, she tells a story about sitting next to two random women at a restaurant in London:

One of them was very sweet, but the other didn’t seem very interested in mingling with Americans. I got this impression right after I said “Hello,” and she muttered, “Great, bloody Americans.” […]

Sarah told the girl that we absolutely loved it here and were having the best time in London. "What a great city you guys get to live in," she said, panting excitedly. This is when the mean girl decided she would add to the conversation.

"Yes, it's nice being exposed to civilization isn't it?" […]

“You know what, mean girl?” I said. “You are not a nice person. You should be a little more open-minded and not judge people based on what country they’re from. I’m not asking you why all the men in your country refuse to get circumcised, am I?

“Oh, that’s lovely,” she replied.

“No. Actually, it’s repulsive. They look like fucking aardvarks, and I really don’t appreciate it,” I said.

I'm a Chelsea Girl

I recently discovered the genius of Chelsea Handler. I admit that her show can sometimes be painful, but her new book Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea is hysterical and I'm praying that no one comes out and accuses her of exaggerating her stories because I desperately want to believe that she once had a boyfriend who liked having his penis licked by tiny dogs and got jumped by three 14-year-old girls the day before her 30th birthday. The following passage from page 92 illustrates why she's my kind of people:

Austin and I proceeded to knock back a couple of Ketel One and grapefruit juices, which happened to be my drink of the moment. Someone told me that grapefruit was a great detoxifier and I decided I wanted to start cleaning out my liver while I was having a cocktail.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Or Maybe That's Just Me

Says a commenter, "While I don't love taxi TV, I did love the Diana and Sade commercials."

I was always a little offended by the Diana Williams and Sade Baderinwa commercials. The arrogance of Diana and Sade just barging in on a family like that in the middle of the day! I always thought it would be funny if they walked in on some really messed up family, like where the husband is in the middle of beating the wife and children and then turns to the anchors and says, "Diana! Sade! 5 o'clock. You're right on time!"

Really? Are You Really FOR New York?

Something’s been bothering me for the last year. Actually it’s been bothering a lot of people. I speak, of course, of Taxi TV, the little flat screen Mayor Bloomberg installed in the back of New York City taxis because – well, I really don’t know why. I guess the map feature is handy enough though it only feeds men’s obsession with seeing where they are at all times from an aerial view. (Since my boyfriend discovered Google Maps GPS service on his Blackberry I’ve seen more of the top of his head than I have his face. He’s been bent over that thing for weeks.)

Taxi TV automatically comes on when the driver starts the meter launching into whatever mini-mercial it’s been preprogrammed with, so this is my routine when I get into taxis: I tell the cab driver where I’m going. Then I lean over and immediately jab at the Off button, a preemptive strike in which I try to shut off the TV before it can get out the first notes of the kicky theme music. I poke it with my knuckle, figuring that it’s a better receptacle for germs than the fingertip I’m going to later use to rub my eye or pop a lifesaver into my mouth. (I’ve been paranoid of touching communal objects ever since I went to dial a New York pay phone back in 2000 and my friend said, “What are you thinking?” he said. “Don’t you know that people pee on those for fun?”

“No, I don’t know that,” I answered. “And now I'm wondering how you do.”)

Of all the taxi-sodes the one that really gets me is the “I’m 4 New York” campaign advertising the local NBC Channel 4 affiliate. Isn’t it a little counterintuitive to be advertising for regular TV on Taxi TV? And why are they advertising for New York in a New York cab? Clearly you’re already there. It’s not like you’re going to be on your way to the airport, see the ad and say, “Well, I was going to leave but now I think I’ll stay a couple of days. You’ve convinced me!” Are they trying to urge tourists to move here permanently because the girls playing soccer indoors aren’t helping our cause. “Move to New York, where there’s so little recreational space your kids will be forced to practice organized sports in your apartment building hallway!”

From the mother and daughter bizarrely lolling around in a flowing sheet, to the startling (and frankly off-key) aria at the 36-second mark, to the faux Halle Berry at the end, the whole thing just grates on me for some reason. “And what’s with the mariachis?” I ask my friend Chris, who has blogged about Taxi TV for New York magazine’s Daily Intel. “I have never seen a mariachi in New York, except for the subway mariachis and those are against the law. It's like they're saying, 'Check it out: We have Mexicans!'”

He adds: “And we have altar boys! They are available for touching!”

I will say that I could become a Taxi TV supporter if they expanded anchor Sue Simmons' cameo in the commercial to a speaking role in which she says, "I'm for New York. What the fuck are you for?" Something to think about for next time, Bloomberg.

With Jpegs Expected Later In The Day

Today's weather forecast for New York City will be partly html.

The Captain Was Here, Bitches

The rapper Da Brat was sentenced to hard time for that Halloween party last year when she straight up snapped on ol' girl. Reports the Associated Press in what has become my new favorite celebrity-using-alcoholic-beverage-bottles-during-nightclub-combat story:

DECATUR, Ga. (AP) _ Da Brat was sentenced Friday to three years in prison for hitting a hostess in the head with a rum bottle during an altercation at a suburban Atlanta nightclub last fall.

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Life Imitating Censored Art

Me: Did I tell you about the trapeze classes I'm taking?

Joe: Are you in a Sex & the City re-run or something?

Me: Basically. But not whorey.

Joe: So a TBS re-run.

Me: Exactly.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

So I'm Pretty Sure My Parakeets Are Gay

To think this once seemed innocent.

I caught Jesus and Stuart kissing the other day. It's more than kissing, actually. They do this weird...THING where they join beaks and then sort of vomit into each other's mouths and when they pull away there's a trail of saliva dangling between them. At first I thought something was wrong so I rushed them to the doctor.

"Yeah, that's probably sexual," the vet said when I described the exchange.

"But they're...boys," I said. I specifically got two boys because the pet store owner scared me away from getting a girl. Just as in real life, girls in the parakeet world are trouble. They can be hyperaggressive and gang up on the boy parakeet, yanking out his feathers and pecking him until he's bleeding. The bird expert also said that incidents of parakeet rape (seriously) have been known to occur when you have males and females in the same cage. That was all I needed to hear to convince me that boy keets were the way to go.

I like to think of myself as an observant mother but this took me by surprise. My first thought after I found out was, "Then why is their cage always such a mess?" Since modern science has yet to conclude whether sexuality is nature versus nurture, I'm not sure if they were born avian homosexuals or if this has something to do with the disco ball I installed in their cage awhile back.

"Maybe it's like prison?" my friend Lindsey offered. "You know? Like when you have no other prospects."

I'm actually pretty relieved. I'd always worried that I was depriving them by not supplying them with a girl. Now I know they have someone there who is both a companion and fulfills their sexual needs, like when two best friends start banging.

I'm just happy they've found love.

Upon Request, I Also Do Show Tunes

So I’m peeing in the women's bathroom at my dentist’s office. The whole day I’ve had the Jackson Five song “I Want You Back” in my head and as I’m wriggling back into my panties I sing out, “When I had you to myself, I didn’t want you arooouuund –” Then suddenly I hear it. A rustle. The sound of bathroom tissue on human tissue. I flush and exit the stall and realize that I’m not alone. There is someone going Number Two in a stall off to the side that I didn’t notice when I came in. She is wearing bad, summer-inappopriate shoes.

I'm left with a choice to make: Do I act like I knew she was there the whole time and keep singing the song? Or do I just leave that one line awkwardly hanging in the air and run out? I choose to run. I'm not even going to lie and pretend that I washed my hands.

Unfortunate Conversations With My Trapeze Instructor Whilst 30 Feet In The Air

Trapeze Instructor: "How old are you anyway?"

Me: "How old are you?"

T.I.: "25."

Me: "God, really? That makes me feel old. I'm 29. One year left in my twenties."

T.I.: "Well at least you still have that over your friends who are already 30."

Me: "No, I'm older than most of my friends so I'm turning 30 first."

T.I. "So you're kind of like their mother, then?"

Me: "" (considers jumping to death)

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Safety (And Mildly Addictive Sleep Aids) First

Me: I stored my Ambien in my hotel safe over the weekend along with my wallet and passport. What does that say about me?

Mark: It says you have your priorities straight...I'm going to Hawaii for a few days. As my personal knockout-pill expert, what will most effectively nuke my ass for the duration of the flight?

Me: If you don't take Ambien that often (and therefore don't have a tolerance) it should knock you out.

Mark: I kind of want oblivion. I want to be Mr. T getting a shot in the ass and waking up in the middle of the A Team's next mission, wondering how he got to Guam.

You Should Try The "Nothing But Feelings Of Inadequacy" Conditioner

Dare I say more kids today could use this shampoo?

From The Onion:

After decades of coddling young children, Johnson & Johnson unveiled its new "Nothing But Tears" shampoo this week, an aggressive bath-time product the company says will help to prepare meek and fragile newborns for the real world.

A radical departure for the health goods manufacturer, the new shampoo features an all-alcohol-based formula, has never once been approved by leading dermatologists, and is as gentle on a baby's skin as "having to grow up and fend for your goddamn self."

Come Fly The Tastelessly Computer-Generated Skies!

Mark: You know what we really don’t fucking need, NBC Nightly News? Your CGI simulation recreating what it might have looked like when that Spanair jet crashed shortly after takeoff. I think we can all imagine how horrific it was without your help. Or, if we really want to know how bad it was, the AP’s description of how the crash site became “a hellish scene of charred bodies and smoldering wreckage” will certainly suffice.

Me: How great does Ann Curry look, though?

Mark: She's at her hottest when she's scaring the shit out of me.

Saturday, August 16, 2008

There Will Be No Posts

Will be in the Bahamas with my family until next Tuesday, diving head first into a frozen drink and trying to make piña colada angels with my face.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

There Once Was a Man From Nantucket

Plane's-eye-view of Nantucket.

More photos from terrifying altitudes.

The first of two terrifying planes I flew on this weekend.

The second of two terrifying planes I flew on this weekend.

Keep in mind that I was sitting in the BACK row.

Inside the airport. It's just like 'Wings'! Sorta.

This was our room at a local B&B. Bow before its quaintness.

Nick and I at the wedding

I was recently having a Relationship discussion with my boyfriend of two-and-a-half years when he burst out, “Why don’t you ever bring up marriage? You are, like, the only girl in the entire history of the world who doesn’t obsess over marriage. It’s, it’s…weird.”

“I dunno,” I shrugged. Truth be told, I have given some thought to my wedding, but mostly just the playlist and whether or not the wedding party should reenact the dance from "Thriller" at the reception (I’m thinking yes). I guess I don’t feel the need to bring marriage up all the time because the rest of the world does it for us. The subject comes up almost every time Nick is invited to a wedding because most of his friends have a “no ring, no bring” policy: guests are only allowed to bring spouses and fiancés. But when two of Nick's friends got married in Nantucket last weekend, Nick got a +1, which is how I found myself in Boston climbing aboard a (depraved) puddle-jumper plane about to fly into a rainstorm. Nick was coming from Albany so the plan was to travel separately and meet in Nantucket.

I call him right before I get on the plane. “If the plane goes down, you’re not allowed to move on and marry someone else,” I tell him. “You have to remain celibate and mourn me for the rest of your life. And if you don’t, I’ll haunt you and your wife like in that horrible Eva Longoria movie.” He laughs, a little too heartily for my taste.

I loathe flying, in case you couldn't tell. I find it to be a most unnatural practice. “Oh my god,” I say to the person sitting next to me as we take off. “This is like the end of La Bamba – only I haven’t done anything noteworthy yet!” With every new bout of turbulence, I inhale sharply and tense up. This is how I respond to unwelcome situations in life. I’m a clencher. When the going gets tough, I grind my teeth and squeeze my eyelids shut. My position of choice during turbulence is to grip the bottom of the chair and pull upward. A part of me truly believes that if the plane suddenly falls from the sky and I pull hard enough, I’ll be able to lift it up like Superman and save us all.

To take my mind off of my imminent death, I think about who will come to my funeral. I worry that my media friends won’t have anything to talk about with my investment banker friends, but then I remember that they’ll be talking about me so it won’t matter. “She always hated flying,” they will say tearfully to each other. “It’s just so…tragic.” I'm concerned that my death won’t have as much of an impact because Nick and I aren’t engaged. If we’d been betrothed my death might have made the cover of the New York Post (“Fiancé Recalls Last Phone Call With Plane Crash Victim: ‘Never Marry’”) but as a free agent I don’t have a chance. Nobody really cares if your girlfriend dies in a plane crash, but if your fiancée dies in a plane crash? Then you’re cooking with propane. As I’m contemplating this, the plane starts to descend and we wobble on down to the sweet, sweet earth.

Among the wedding guests are a highly likeable group of Irish people doing their best to fulfill every national stereotype simultaneously. One such Irishman is sitting next to us at dinner and drunkenly opens up the conversation by asking every unmarried couple at the table, “Why aren’t you married yet?”

“We don’t even live in the same city,” says Nick, who works in Albany during the week. “First we have to live in the same place. Then we have to move in together. Then we’ll think about marriage.”

Throughout the night, whenever the Irishman sees us, he calls out gaily to Nick, “Are you married yet, brotha?” Oh, and my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend of five years is there with her fiancé, whom she is marrying in two weeks. It is a very comfortable situation, is what I’m trying to tell you.

But the wedding is truly lovely and we end up having a blast, as one always does when partying with the Irish. We head home early (by Irish standards). Back at our B&B, I shriek at Nick for Blackberrying in bed, and Nick gets mad at me for using too much of his saline solution and for taking too long to get ready for bed. See? We’re practically married already.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Cat Nap Or Stay Up All Night? A Dilemma

I'm scheduled to do a live interview with GMTV (the Today show of the U.K., according to the producers*) Tuesday morning about Madonna's 50th birthday. The catch? It's London time, not New York time, meaning that I have to be in the studio live at 4 a.m. So I find myself battling the question I often faced -- but never really figured out the answer to -- in college: Is it better to stay up all night and just power through or take some cat naps?

*The producers also said I should try to bring a lot of energy to the interview. I think we should aim a little lower, like being physically conscious, for instance.

UPDATE: I decided to stay up and power through. I was at the studio and at 3:58 a.m. -- two minutes before I was supposed to go on -- just as I was thinking to myself, "Wow I dunno how these people do this all the time. I could never do this again" we got word that a segment ran too long and they had to bump me to the next day. So I had to stay up the next night and do it all over again! The second time I arrived at the studio in a catatonic state and made arrangements to have the camera man shock paddle me awake when it was my cue.

Ridiculous Video Of Me On A Trapeze. Basically.

Without catch.

With catch.

I want to preface this post by saying that this is very sloppy -- both the quality of the video and my attempted execution of the Hocks Off (second video) in trapeze class yesterday. My form was bad and I let go of the bar way too late with my knees. But I thought I'd share the absurdity anyway.

Cubicle Hurdles

What you didn't see was the co-worker from Kenya who cleared the entire course before they could even get the camera turned on.

I wish I'd thought of this back when I still worked in an office.

Life. Over. Can't. Breathe!

Then I remembered that I could just check my email on my Blackberry and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse dismounted and unsaddled their steeds, murmuring in soothing tones, "Someday, old girl. Someday."

Saturday, August 09, 2008

Why Is Matthew McConaughey Smiling?

I’m sure there’s some explanation as to why the dude in the photo behind McConaughey appears to be sporting an enormous boner. Maybe he's wearing a hoodie and put a lot of stuff in the front pocket and that's weighing it down. That happens sometimes. Or maybe Matt McC has a whole entourage of torsoless, heavily endowed people that he pays to follow him everywhere he goes. Either way, I'm just happy that he's happy.

P.S. Personally, I wouldn't have gone with the off-the shoulder wetsuit but that surfboard is fabulous.

Friday, August 08, 2008

Dear John, We Look Forward To Meeting You! Love, The Fiery Pits Of Hell

In an interview for broadcast tonight on Nightline, John Edwards told ABC News correspondent Bob Woodruff he did have an affair with 44-year old Rielle Hunter, but said that he did not love her.

Cheating on your stage four cancer wife? That is just all kinds of dick. I think “but I didn’t love her” is the new “but I didn’t inhale.” Thoughts?

[ABC News]

Thursday, August 07, 2008

I've Been Eyebrow Raped

Don't make the same mistake Pam and I made. Let's keep this a safe space.

In retrospect, I guess the thing I remember the most was how quickly it all happened. One second I was lying down on a bench and then it was over. Then when I looked in the mirror I had a little less eyebrow – a lot less eyebrow. When you think about it, it’s ridiculous that people allow their eyebrows to be waxed. It’s akin to getting your hair cut with your eyes closed.

And anyone who’s ever seen my forehead in person knows that I can’t afford to lose that kind of follicular real estate. To be plain, my forehead is huge. With my too small brows, my face now resembles an apartment with lofted ceilings and furniture that’s too small. The scale is completely off.

Naturally I had to go on television today. Twice. One of my appearances was filming a segment about Madonna for a program that’s the U.K. equivalent of the Today show. Appropriately, I showed up looking like a parishioner at the Church of Latter Day Couric with brows carved into little happy steeples of perpetual surprise.

As any person who’s ever overplucked can tell you, they never really grow back the same way again. So here I am, my face cold and naked, shivering in the night. I’ve been forever changed but I will not let this change the way I live my life. For I have bought the LORAC Creamy Brow Pencil in taupe in addition to the Givenchy Mister Eyebrow-Fixing Pencil. It is time to take back the brow.

I Swear, Any Day Now I'm Going To Come Home To Find A Repo Man Hauling My Diploma Off My Wall

Amanda: “You know, sometimes when I’m watching the Jaywalking segment on The Tonight Show --”

Me: “You don’t know the answers to the simplest questions and feel like a total freaking idiot? Omg, me too!”

They really expect me to remember who the fifth President was? I don’t even know how many floors there are in my walk-up apartment building.

Friday, August 01, 2008

Just Sayin'

If I were a rapper I'd write a song about men who procure prostitutes and enjoy snack cakes called "Pimps and Ho-Hos."