Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.
So, today, I pay tribute to each.
One battled fearlessly against an insufferable cancer and
the other died suddenly, much, much too young.
Both are loved by many, both will be remembered...always.
Feb 2, 1947- June 25, 2009
Aug. 29, 1958- June 25, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
This explains a lot.
As a kid, I was a tomboy. Of course, I played with barbies and stuffed animals and used Play Dough to make pretend hot dogs, which I served at my pretend restaurant... and I adored my Easy Bake oven (I ingested a LOT of raw ingredients. It is simply not reasonable to expect an 8 year old to wait for a light bulb to bake brownies.). But, I also played in the mud, built forts, climbed trees, jumped fences, rode bikes, played softball, skateboarded, ice skated and roller skated. Along with such activities came sprained wrists, crutches, stitches and...concussions.
Four, to be exact.
One occurred while ice skating (I naturally suck at all winter sports), one while roller skating with a cup of Kool Aid in my hand, one while skateboarding down an insanely steep hill in an attempt to impress the cute boy who lived at the top...and who didn't know I existed and probably wasn't even home at the time, and one while playing "run and slide on the ice patch" during 8th grade recess. We were 13, what do you want?
The ice patch fall was a doozie which caused temporary blindness (No, Mr. Thomas, God rest your mean old soul, I wasn't faking it to get out of math class that day. But, I'm not sorry I missed it.) and, I now believe, a whole host of other issues including, but not limited to, the following:
-Last week it took me 4 full minutes to figure out how to get a travel toothbrush back into its case. yep.
-My math center doesn't work. I'm not even sure it exists. I don't know exactly where it is located in the brain, but I'm pretty sure I fell on it during the skateboarding incident. Stupid cute boy.
-I utterly adore brand new jars of peanut butter. Specifically, Skippy. If i get to be the first one to break the unnaturally smooth surface, my life feels complete. Tell me that's not brain damage.
-I once forgot my dog's name. The vet tech said, "Who do we have here?" and I said, "um..." followed by a blank stare and head tilt. uh huh.
-I have watched all three seasons of Rock of Love. And, I'm hoping Brett breaks up with Taya so there can be a Rock of Love 4. God help me.
-All these years I thought Michale Jackson was saying, "keep on, do the bus stop, don't stop 'til you get enough." Figured the "bus stop" was a kind of dance. Astonished I had that wrong.
-I continue to throw myself into the horror that is the LA dating pool. I think the use of the word horror is explanation enough here.
The list goes on...and on. But, I'll stop now for fear of scaring off...everyone single one of my readers.
***This post is dedicated to my childhood partner-in-crime, Charlotte, who bore witness to many of my mishaps and who got side-swiped by a speeding car while biking to DQ with me via a highway we were NOT supposed to be on...something we manged to hide from her parents despite cuts, bruises and limping. Hopefully, her mother is not one of my followers... ;)***
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Don't be jealous.
Today, I have decided to post said random crap. Lucky you.
Going Commando and Mini Skirts- Now, young Hollywood Starlets, I am hardly a prude. but, it's just bad manners to show your lady-business to the paparazzi. Keep it under wraps, yeah?
My dog and Rain- Dog About Town resides in the perfect climate because she despises rain and it hardly ever rains in Southern California. Her distaste runs so deep, she actually refuses to even cross the threshold onto the porch if the sprinkler system is on. She can't hear me calling her name from 2 feet away but she can hear the lawn being lightly watered one-story below. I think I'm being bamboozled.
Spam and me- I do not now, nor will I ever, desire to enlarge my penis. I like my penis the way it is. So, firstname.lastname@example.org, know your audience..and know when to quit.
Children and Electronics- I find it interesting that my mom-friends find themselves missing calls, placing involuntary calls and even replacing entire cell phones because of their children. "My son gave my Blackberry a bath...in the toilet," "My 3 year old must have dialed your number," "My 4-year-old turned the ringer off," "Little Lauren covered it in play dough." K, I don't have a child...or a blackberry...but when I do, I'm thinkin' never the twain shall meet.
Ectomorphs and Running- for details, see prior post (yes, that was a shameless plug).
Blind Dates and Men Who Don't Speak English- for details, stay tuned for future post (hey, I just installed Ad Sense and a girl's gotta eat).
And my personal favorite...
Cottage Cheese and Human Consumption: It's curdled milk, people!! curdled. milk. I rest my case.
Last Minute Addition:
Blogging and Blogspot- There is a ghost in the machine. Hence, the crazy font sizes and styles it chooses against my will. Trebuchet, damn blogspot, Trebuchet!!!!!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
But...there exists for me, a kind of kryptonite that is able to out-maneuver most carrots and kick the asses of virtually all brussel sprouts(except those really really big ones). Thus, occasionally, I slip (swan dive) off the health wagon and land squarely in the middle of a puddle (Lake...one of the Great ones) of butter.
Short pause while I undergo a bypass.
Shoveled onto mashed potatoes, applied the-opposite-of-sparingly to a warm ear of corn, tempting lobster chunks to bathe in it, suffocating unsuspecting pierogies...one taste and all I can think is, "you, complete me." And, I have come to realize that I even prefer the taste of butter to that of chocolate.
Dear Friends and Family Members who have, throughout the years, talked me down from the ledge of many a Whitman's Sampler as I stood clinging to the last dark-chocolate caramel, I sincerely apologize for the concussion you each just incurred upon falling off your respective chairs'.
To combat the ill-effects of all things churned, I work-out at the local gym- lifting weights, doing sit-ups and walking uphill on the treadmill. But, upon hearing from several friends that running is the fastest and easiest way to stay in shape...I decided to try it out. I have never been a runner, except for that time in high school when I joined the cross-country team and then quit (was asked to leave) after the first day (1/2 hour) because I got yelled at for bending over to tie my shoe in the middle of a run (fell over from a side stitch before reaching the end of the school campus), but my brother was an accomplished cross-country runner back-in-the-day, so i figure it’s in the genes. I'm gonna be great at this.
My Jogging Diary:
Day 1: Left apartment at 3:40 pm and set about on jog through lovely Beverly Hills. Returned to apartment at 4:03 pm and set about lying on lovely floor trying not to cough up lovely blood.
Day 2 (technically day 4-took 3 days to convince self to run again): Left apartment with positive attitude. Made it four blocks and was about to stop when spotted Michael Madsen in car at stop sign. Ran enthusiastically 'til car out of sight. Crawled home with visions of oxygen tanks dancing in head.
Day 3: Ran to corner. Pre-run baked potato possible bad idea. Abort.
Day 4: Shins hurt. Who needs in shape shins. Abort.
Day 5: American Idol on. Abort.
Day 6: Abort.
Even though I was only a runner for 6...5...okay 2 days, I do not consider this endeavor a failure because I gained some very valuable information in the process. For one, ectomorphs don't run. Secondly, if we do run, we will be back home before the red "pause line" on the tivo moves 1/4 inch. And, finally, trying new things gives me something to blog about.
Update: since the commencement of my jogging experiment I have also discovered that ectomorphs don't do yoga, jump rope or use stair climbers.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
If you believe, "that which you mock you are destined to become," I am about to become a short, angry, Italian, guy. And a trashy blonde.
This is the story of my date from hell. Or at least from West Hollywood.
The night compares in awful-ness to being hog-tied and forced to eat live worms during a multiple-root canal procedure while listening to the Muzak version of the Brittney Spears catalog. Or any version of the Brittney Spears catalog.
It all started at Houston's, one of my favorite casual eateries in LA. Before I go any further, let me say that I recommend never ever going on a date with a waiter who works at a restaurant you like (and, do not,whatever you do, let your sister write your name and number and a smiley face on the check and hand it to the hot waiter from said restaurant's other location in Santa Monica two weeks later).
It's Thursday night and I'm having dinner with my friend, Amy. We start chatting with our waiter, who is pretty cute, very friendly and doesn't stab me in the heart with his pen when I ask him to repeat the specials three times. During dinner, he checks on us often, he tells us he's an actor (shocking spoiler), he gets in trouble for paying too much attention to us but we talk some more anyway and he's light and funny and recommends a delightful post-dinner herbal mango tea.
We finish our tea and "E" (name left out to protect...me.) puts my left-over salmon in a take-out box and says he's going to write the date on the box so I don't "eat a bad piece of fish next week." He puts the box in a paper Houston's bag, sets the bag on the table, and saunters off. Amy...is grinning. She's sure he wrote his phone number on box. I'm sure she's high on mango tea. We wager a Vanilla Bakery Red Velvet Cupcake and open the bag. It's a win/win- Amy gets the best cupcake ever. I get a date with a cute waiter.
Jump to the weekend- E and I text and agree to meet at El Guapo Cantina, a casual indoor/outoor, bar/restaurant on Melrose. On my way, I call him to tell him I'm almost there. He answers and I can hear him screaming...not through the microphone on my cell...through my open car window...from 3 blocks away.
"What the BLEEP is wrong with you, you BLEEPING asshole? I'll BLEEPING kick your BLEEPING ass! You better move your BLEEPITY BLEEPING car right now or I'll BLEEPING kill you, you BLEEEPING jack-ass!" He speaks into the phone- "Hey! This BLEEP-hole took the space I was holding for you. I should kick her ass!" Yes...I said her.
I park, get out, pray his outburst was just a one-time attack of Turrets Syndrome and walk toward him. This is the part in the story where I also recommend never ever accepting a date from a waiter you've only seen from a seated position...in a notoriously dimly lit restaurant.
He's short. I mean to say, he's very very not tall. And, he's sweating...a lot. And repeatedly pushing his sweaty bangs off his forehead in much the same way a serial killer might nervously paw at his grimy locks while burying the head of his latest victim.
Crap. I'm going to end up in this guy's trunk and I haven't won an Oscar yet. Or seen Cirque Du Soleil.
Over drinks I learn that he is Italian, from Long Island, has very strong opinions, has given up alcohol for Lent (this bodes well for a girl on a date with a psychopath), believes in hitting children, thinks he and I have an "amazing connection", has a mother who is a "renowned and widely-respected" child psychologist (so...many...sarcastic...remarks...work...here) and that he is taking me to Jones' for apple pie after I finish my beer and isn't taking no for an answer.
Dear God, please forgive me for everything I have ever done wrong ever in my whole life and please let a rogue bolt of lightning hit Jones' tonight so this date can end while all of my body parts are still in tact. Amen.
4 hundred-million hours of inane conversation and greasy hair-swiping later...I finally get home...in one piece. 4 seconds after that, I get a text message: "had a great time tonite. hope you got home safe pretty girl. can't wait to see you again." Shiver.
I text back the next night and let him down gently while holding garlic and a wooden stake and facing Mecca and googling myself to make sure my address is not listed. And, then I vow to never ever date anybody in LA ever again!!!
Unless my cute neighbor asks me out. Or...I run into Kris Allen from American Idol.
P.S. I have yet to return to either Houston's location which is a pity because their grilled chicken salad is to die for. Their waiters, however, are not ;)
Thursday, March 5, 2009
That or a super soaker.
About three seconds after he ventured too close to my personal space bubble, I went into a coughing fit, as if my lungs were crying out in revolt. The reeking gent was dressed in a dapper, well-fitting suit and carried the confidence of a man who thought he looked like a million bucks. And rightly so- because he did look like a million bucks. Unfortunately, he smelled like a million brothels.
Less fortunate is the fact that Mr. Too Much Cologne Wearer, is not alone. No, he stands proudly and obliviously in the company of many a mis-guided scent-soaked man whose parental figures failed to mentioned the "less is more" theory and whose assault on the nostrils borders on criminal. My roommate's boyfriend, dear sweet boy that he is, is a card- carrying member of the "More is Still Not Enough Coalition." My dog actually sneezes when he enters the room.
Mrs. Too Much Perfume Wearer is no less guilty. Too often, I find myself slamming into a malodorous fog of some gnarly eau de toilette that was meant to be used sparingly, if at all. It always leaves me annoyed and gagging and thinking things like, "Wasn't Obssession discontinued in the 90's?" or "Was she actually DIPPED in CK One?"
As a girl who adores her favorite fragrance (name of said par fume left out to protect said author from negative comments such as, "you stink too, Girl About Town!") I understand wanting to smell good. But, I also think a little dab'l do ya.
And to the whiffy lady in the elevator last week who exited at the 4th floor leaving me to cook in her Clinique for three more floors...there IS such a thing as too much Happy.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
I've been thinking lately about fate, luck, coincidence and the laws of attraction about which everyone is all a-buzz. I understand the premise behind "The Secret", (which, by the way, is clearly not a secret anymore) and while I do believe, to a certain extent, "what goes around, comes around," I'm not convinced there is a definitive method to all the madness that is life or that we always get what we ask for or deserve.
I'm a big believer in putting positive energy into the world and I also believe if you commit to an idea, the universe will meet you half-way. But, nobody knows exactly why things happen the way they do, or why, against all efforts to the contrary, we find things in our lives we had no intention of having over for tea. Scientists have one theory, theologians have another, Girl About Town...has yet another.
The universe has wicked-ass sense of humor.
Case. In. Point.
Last week, the universe thought it would be a good idea to send both a spider and a water bug crawling across my bed...while I was still in it. The water bug alone, nearly caused me to relocate (not to another part of the apartment, to a new apartment). The spider, well that was just cruel. I find it hard to believe I attracted said insects or that the universe was unclear about my distaste for bugs in general considering I fantasize daily about the complete extinction of the entire insect kingdom. And, the untimely death of all snakes. Hate snakes. Nasty, sneaky creatures that are always up to no good.
Yesterday, the universe found it in good taste to send a bird to drop a giant doody on my car 5 minutes after I spent $12 having it washed. Now, I ask you. What did I do to attract bird doody? Had I disturbed or offended said bird in some fashion, or committed some inequity against fowl in the past, I would understand it's retribution and justification for using my car as it's toilet. Having done no such thing, I take complete offense...and warn said bird to sleep with one tiny eye open.
I leave you with one final example in support of my theory- my new gym is filled with really good looking guys. 99% of them...are gay. If I listen really hard, I swear I can hear the universe snorting as he chuckles.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I was writing a new song the other day and it occurred to me that, throughout history, there have been penned, some truly brilliant songs. Like, Van Morrison's Into the Mystic- "I wanna rock your gypsy soul, just like way back in the days of old, and together we'll float into the mystic." Slay me. Or, Leonard Cohen's Halelujah- "remember when I moved in you, the holy dove was moving too and every breath we drew was halelujah." Pure magic.
I could go on and on about the songs that inspire me. But, since it's WAAAAAAY more fun to mock crappy songs, I bring you my Top Fifteen list of cheesiest lyrics ever.
I'm into lists lately.
1.Celine Dion- "I'm everything I am because you loved me" (I think I just heard a founding member of the Women's Movement roll over in her grave.)
1.Captain and Tenille- "Muskrat Susie, muskrat Sam, do the jitterbug out in muskrat land" (I don't even know what to say here.)
3. Shakira- "Lucky that my breasts are small and humble, so you don't confuse them with mountains" (again, speechless.)
4. Fergie- "And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket" (ok, first of all, it's HIS blanket. Mind your plurals dear F-E-R-G-I-E.)
5. P Diddy- "Young black and famous with money hangin' out the anus" (well, that's just gross.)
6. Timbaland- "I'm respected from Californ-i-a way down to Japan" (k, use the money from your next hit single to buy a globe. Japan is not south of here, Sparkey. oh, and don't say Californ-i-a. you're not a Beach Boy)
7. Wham- "I'm never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rhythm" (forget the not dancing and go with the not song-writing, Georgie boy.)
8. Aretha Franklin- "Who's zoomin' who, now the fish jumped off the hook, didn't I baby, who's zoomin' who?" (more like who's "shroomin" who. seriously, what?)
9. Neil Diamond- "I am, I said, to no one there, and no one heard, not even the chair" (can you sing this in a box, can you sing this with a fox?)
10. The Killers- "Are we human, or are we dancers" (I don't know, but I'm pretty sure we're buying ear plugs.)
11. Nelly, Diddy, Murphy Lee- "Is that yo ass, or yo momma half reindeer?" (a reindeer...on acid...could write a better song.)
13. Bread- "Baby, I'ma want you. Baby, I'ma need you." (baby, i'ma learn me somma dat English language ona deese daze).
14. Kelly Clarkson- "I know that I've got issues, but you're pretty messed up too. Anyway, I found out, I'm nothing without you" (Kel...Celine called. she wants her lyrics back.)
15. And last but definitely NOT least...Jimmy Webb- "Someone left the cake out in the rain, I don't think that I can take it, cuz it took so long to bake it and I'll never have that recipe again" (oh. my. God.)
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
1. White chocolate has no business calling itself chocolate.
2. Dogs take longer to pee when you're in a hurry.
3. I may never understand the appeal of un-toasted bagels, Justin Timberlake, or televised golf.
4. Standing near elevators makes me light-headed.
5. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.
6. The Exorcist is a scary-ass movie.
7. Blue Man Group freaks me out.
8. Stacey London's gray hair patch also freaks me out.
9. Nobody beats the Wiz (ok, there were only 9 little things I already knew).
10. Friends and family are all that matter.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
2. Hearing your 21 year old roommate say, "my dad like, listens to the Beatles, but I don't really like, know what they sing," makes you want to impale yourself on your i-home.
3. Dogs really are man's...and woman's...best friends. Even smelly dogs.
4. In SoCal, when the weather girl says, "we can expect freezing temperatures," she means 59.
5. And, when your friends say, "let's meet at 7," they mean 8:30.
6. "Mean Girls" often peak in high school. Thank you Facebook.
7. Earthquakes feel more like swaying than shaking.
8. California is not as liberal as I thought. Down with Prop 8.
9. Virtual Memory means RAM and if you buy more you don't need to replace your laptop.
10. Joe Paterno should not retire...ever.