Chick Lit

I've tried to start this post 3 times and haven't been able to get anywhere. You would think the double-header of The Hills from Monday night would've been enough to inspire a novel, but alas, no. More on that in a minute though. The title is a song by We Are Scientists who I love, but apparently no one else in America feels the same way. They have a new album out in the UK, but the good people at Virgin gave me mean looks when I asked if they had it. I guess it comes out here in May, but the title still works.

I'm currently reading a Shana-approved book that may or may not qualify as "chick lit." Ever since a bad experience with a piece of crap known as The Nanny Diaries (being in a sorority can motivate you to read and watch all kinds of stupid shit), I've stayed far, far away from that genre. It's also just really embarrassing to claim you have a degree in English while toting around a paperback called something like Sexy Lipstick Cosmo Party Social Club. That may or may not be a real book - I'll get back to you. Anyway, the one I'm reading is called The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets by Eva Rice, and I'm guiltily loving it. Say whatever you want, but it takes place in 1950s London and revolves around rich people - it's just plain wrong to turn down a book like that. It also happens to be well written, which you know, is always a plus. And Eva's dad is Tim Rice, who friggin' wrote all the lyrics to Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Clearly, genius runs in that family.

Besides indulging in guilty pleasure reading, everything else has been quiet. Except that it seems I'm going to a little place known as the Holy Land. Yes, Birthright approved of my claim to Jewness and is sending me and Shana to Israel in May. MAY! That's way too soon, and traveling sounds way too scary and hard right now, but it's a free trip to the Motherland, and I can't turn that down. I'm gonna try and just not think about it because if I think, I panic. So updates will come when I'm ready to do some deep breathing and meditation.

While we're on the topic of deep spiritual experiences, I had completely forgotten about The Hills until Tivo sweetly reminded me that there were TWO full episodes on Monday night. Amazing. Heidi's lips seem to be slightly less swollen, but Audrina still looks like she's constantly staring at the ceiling (I can't take credit for that brilliantly accurate description: http://www.dlisted.com/node/24894). It was an entire hour of my life thrown away to the MTV Gods, and it was fantastic.

And finally, happy first birthday to Baby Zach, who is not so much a baby anymore, but a big, year-old blonde butterball. Much auntie love to my favorite Ian Ziering look-alike. Tonight, we celebrate your birth with a family viewing of Top Model.

I Stand Corrected

And I do - I was totally wrong about Vampire Weekend, and after seeing them live, I admit my erroneous judgment. But I'll get to that in a minute. When it rains, it pours, and this couch-loving hermit had a really jam-packed weekend. So let's get to it.

Thanks to good ol' Jesus Christ, our office closed early on Friday! I'm still fuzzy on the details of Good Friday, but I know it involves crucifixion and death and rebirth and all those fun things. So to celebrate, I headed over to my sister's house (because some lucky bastards had the WHOLE day off) and watched a terrible episode of the new Top Model. Seriously, can anyone under 90 pounds be a model? Cuz I'm hard pressed to think of another time when I've seen so much fug in one place. But I digress. Julia and I then headed to our favorite comfort spot of all time (besides the relocated Academy of Sciences and Mechanical Museum) - The Balboa Theater. No, this is not the lame Balboa Cafe of drunken Marina grossness. This is the most valuable gem the Richmond has to offer - the best, comfiest, oldest, mustiest movie theater around. We saw "Miss Pettigrew Lives For a Day" and it brought the warm and fuzzies like a good viewing of "Anne of Green Gables." Don't think I can't hear you all snickering. Jerks. Anyway, the movie was fantastic, amazing, beautiful, and Amy Adams is the greatest thing to happen to Young Hollywood since...uh...okay, it's been a long time since anything good has happened there. Love her.

Friday night was a festive celebration of my friend Tiffiny's b-day. Lots of drinks, lots of dancing, and lots of good times. It is here that I would like to bestow the prestigious Cab Driver of the Week award to my unnamed Russian chauffeur. I picked up on his Soviet Dad vibe right away, and we proceeded to chat in my native (sorta) tongue for the whole drive. He even told me my accent wasn't that bad! He hails from Tashkent, Uzbekistan and has been here in the US for 10 years. He definitely said a whole bunch of shit in Russian that was far too advanced for my limited understanding, but I smiled and nodded, and hopefully didn't unknowingly consent to marry his son or something.

Saturday was a slightly hungover day of cleaning and chores. I spent some quality time with my guiltiest pleasure of all time, "Stori Telling" by Tori Spelling. Amazing - don't judge!! Around 7, my dear Shana and I headed to Japan Town to get sushi. Imagine my fascination, excitement and general stupified reaction to discover there is now an entire room dedicated only to Japanese sticker machines. There were at least 10 different photo booths that convert your picture into a Hello Kitty-fied, technicolor sticky pic to adorn...um, your Trapper Keeper or locker? I definitely plan on making a return trip with my sister so I can customize my personal checks and resume with my face. Just kidding. Kinda.

Anyway, after a fantastic sushi experience, Shana and I headed to the Independent to check out Vampire Weekend. My boss and I had both accidentally scored tickets for a client, so being the amazing boss he is, he told me to take advantage of the perks my job offers and just snag a pair of tickets for myself. And who am I to argue with authority? So my grateful date and I got some pretty cool VIP access to the balcony and checked out the unfortunate disaster that was Yacht - the opening act. Their entire show seemed to be generated out of a Mac Book positioned at the corner of the stage, and when it crashed, they sorta lost momentum. They had to stop and awkwardly pander for a good 10 minutes while the computer re-booted. Ouch. I don't handle public humiliation of others well. But after all that, Vampire Weekend took the stage at around 10:30 and totally proved me wrong. I had been really hesitant to jump on their bandwagon for some reason, even though they were on SNL and appeared on the cover of my magazine last month. But they were adorable, energetic, charming, and sounded amazing live. I'm currently obsessing over the album, and am bitter to discover the lead singer has a girlfriend (gossip courtesy of my boss). But I admit my mistake, and now agree that I should've probably been on the V.W. bandwagon long ago. Happy?

Since we called it an early-ish night on Saturday (definitely the second weekend in a row I made it home before my parents. Wow.), I was energized and motivated to get off my ass on Sunday. I reunited with Shanana and we headed to Ocean Beach for a long, awesome, tiring walk at Land's End. It was an uncharacteristically gorgeous day, and I have photographic evidence to prove it (see below). The rest of the day was spent getting a much needed pedicure from mom, reading my beloved Tori book, and watching a terrible episode of "Dirt." Good weekend!!

Below is the proof that I didn't hermit myself for three days.

This is the hazy madness of Friday:




Here is my mom looking like a friggin' supermodel on her way to a birthday dinner:



And here is my dad, also looking very model-esque:


And finally, proof that my side of the city does see sun:

Tired

I know that title looks like I put no effort into it, but it's actually a really good song by Adele, who is sorta like Amy Winehouse but with less crack residue. And because it's a new week and because I'm me, it's of course relevant. My energy level has dipped back below the 90-year old lady line after a brief, manic phase earlier this month. After a few hours of pre-St. Paddy's Day celebratory antics at Angela's on Saturday, all I wanted was a hot bath and US Weekly. I wound up asleep in the tub for a good 20 minutes (do NOT tell my mother - she is convinced I'll drown in there). After that, I lay on the couch with my brand new hot water bottle (the prized possession of the geriatriac crowd), reading my tabloids and watching my stories. I did somehow motivate to go back out that night, but I was a defeated partier at that point, and I was back on the couch early enough to catch part of SNL. Jeez, typing that paragraph wore me out...

I do now know, however, that my lack of energy is no match for my newfound obsession with Guitar Hero. Friday night, my exhausted body was sprawled out on my sister's couch, but my eyes were glued open and my hands were clutching desperately to a plastic guitar. I couldn't have stopped playing if the living room had caught fire. I was supposed to be "babysitting" my sleeping nephews while my brother-in-law made an airport run to fetch my sister. My babysitting skills were put into question when 4-year-old Josh stumbled in at midnight. Trying to find the bathroom and in a sleepy daze, he found his aunt in a cracked out, video game stupor and squeaked, "Guuuitaaar?" I quickly and guiltily hid the evidence behind the couch and said "No, Josh! Go to the bathroom!" I tucked him back into bed and felt like an addict trying to conceal my obsessive hunger for another go at "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." My sister finally got home around 12:30, and I made the mature decision to put the guitar down for the night. The entire drive home, I could see multicolored dots coming at me. I swear I heard the crowd booing me off the stage in my sleep that night too. Not since Tetris have I been so affected.

And that's the excitement that is my life right now. No cab drivers of the week because both were absolutely silent. I'm starting to think it's me.

I Miss You

I sincerely miss Blink 182. I don't care who makes fun of me for proudly proclaiming it. They were awesome, and most of their songs make me ridiculously happy (though "I Miss You" and "Adam's Song" make me want to sob like the pathetic girl I am).

On that random-ass note, HI! There's a good chance only two people will look at this blog considering my lame ass (second ass reference in as many paragraphs) hasn't posted since the end of last month. Work got super intense, and basically, sitting on the couch staring blankly at American Idol always sounds more tempting than using my brain to write stuff once I get home. In case the two of you were wondering, not much has happened in the past two weeks. Although I DID talk to Stryker on the phone and managed to turn a disturbing shade of magenta in front of my coworkers. Trust me, I was high for days off the experience, and am only now able to document it so matter-of-factly. I should've kicked myself out of the joyful stupor long enough to blog about it cuz now the giddiness is hard to recapture. If any more phone interactions take place, I'll be sure to write about them. Stryker, if you happen to be one of my two remaining readers, it was nice talking to you. And I didn't turn THAT magenta. Just sorta fuschia.

In television news, I'm disgusted with myself for my overzealous devotion to American Idol this season. It's horrifying. It even caused me to do something so out of character, so unlike me, that I'm beginning to doubt my sense of self. The time conflict has forced me to favor AI over...TOP MODEL. I know, I know - it's sick is what it is. My ancient Tivo can't record two things at once, and because Idol sucked me in, I've been choosing to record it on Wednesday nights instead of this season's Top Model. I feel like Tyra somehow knows and she's sitting somewhere with her crazy weave just plotting her revenge. If there is any good in the world, MTV or VH1 will run a marathon of the new episodes soon. Tyra, I know you can read my thoughts - please make it happen.

Okay, I'm starting to feel a little flu-like again, and I have to go figure out a way to hide my symptoms from my overreactive parents. Time to move out?

The Moneymaker

Uh. I'm really tired. For all intents and purposes of covering my ass, I will state that I have been a diligent, devoted work slave the entire duration of my employment. But between you and me (there could only be like 6 of you, tops), I've never been SO consumed by work as I have been in the past two weeks. In addition to assisting three sales reps and the president, I've been feverishly writing letters, composing contracts, booking flights, shuffling meetings, ordering flowers, NOT reading the blogs, mailing issues, preparing Powerpoint presentations, crying over my bank statement, falling into an Excel black hole, and feeling the rapid aging effects of sitting at a desk for prolonged periods of time. My hips and knees have been cracking so much, I may need to just start eating the whole box of Viactiv calcium chews in one sitting.

But enough about that. The parts of the past week that have not sucked include:

- A Saturday night trip to Polk Street, complete with a birthday crown (and scepter), Skinny Bitches with a massive amount of cherries (that's vodka Diet Coke to those who don't know me that well), a cute boy that was a total douchebag (just my type), and a bar set ablaze at midnight (apparently this happens every night at Bigfoot Lounge - who knew?)

- A photoshoot on the same night with Whitney that included poses inspired by Lindsay, Paris, LC, and various others. The only problem with doing this after 4 Skinny Bitches and Vodka Sodas is that I can't decipher who I was impersonating in any of the pictures now. Every expression looks the same - tipsy.

- An e-mail/MySpace exchange with none other than my favorite radio crush (Dr. Drew is exempt from this over-arching statement because my affection for him is on a level of its own), Stryker! Sure, it was mostly about work, but still. It's the little things that count.

- A Sunday shoe-shopping trip with my lovely Shana. Granted, they were workout shoes and not fun, sexy Christian Laboutins, but whatever. Shana Time is Shana Time.


On a sad note, I don't have a Cab Driver of the Week because both cab drivers I had on Saturday night were strangely silent. To be fair, I didn't initiate much conversation, but I was still a little disappointed. But in lieu of an individual driver, I salute National Cab for always picking me up at my house even though I live on the edge of the Earth. Thanks, National Cab.

Only 51 hours and 27 minutes left until the weekend!

Knowing Me, Knowing You

My sister and I have been on a ridiculous Abba kick. This happens every five years or so. The last time was when we took a road trip to Lake Tahoe with my parents circa 2003. We thought it would be funny and retro to play the Abba Gold album the entire four hours we were in the car, but the other members of our family quickly vetoed that. Haters! Anyway, this time around, my sister randomly heard the hidden gem, "Head Over Heels" on Pandora, and after promptly You Tubing the video (see below), we were back in Abba-OCD mode. Be on the lookout for Agnetha and Anni-Frid Halloween costumes later this year (with a cameo by my brother-in-law as Benny and my blonder nephew as Bjorn).

I will now take the time to acknowledge that yes, I did in fact turn 24 this week. There was no elaborate parade or gala held in my honor, but my family did show me a pretty good time at Fisherman's Wharf. The massive anxiety I woke up with couldn't be cured by thoroughly cleaning the house or forcing myself through a power yoga DVD, but it sure was helped by the massive amount of sake I drank at lunch. Let it be known that just because a restaurant doesn't possess a liquor license does not mean you can't get a good buzz going at 2 in the afternoon on a Sunday. After lunch, we all headed over to the relocated Mechanical Museum where my tipsy ass schooled my dad at arcade basketball, and my sister, mom and I messed up 2 of our 4 photobooth shots. All in all, a good birthday.

I should apologize to the two (TWO!! More than one! And neither is related to me!!) readers who were irate about my lack of posts. Go figure, but I've had so much, what do you call it...work to do. I've hardly even had the time to check up on Perez or Dlisted to make sure Britney hasn't blown anything up. Has she? Anyone know? I do know that Aaron Carter was arrested, so that either means it's a ridiculously slow week in celebrity news, or I somehow missed the story about Lindsey /Mary-Kate/Paris getting married/getting knocked up/going to rehab. Any information would be greatly appreciated.

Alright friends, back to work I go. Hopefully I will have a new cab driver of the week to crown after this weekend, and more interesting things to ramble on about than a '70s Swedish pop group. Okay, how dare I - I totally take that back. Please watch the video below and have a Friday as fabulous as Frida's gold lamé coat.

Oh L'amour

It's Valentine's Day, y'all! And for someone as bitter, cynical, sarcastic, and single as I am, I deal with this Hallmark Holiday quite well. I happen to enjoy the sickeningly sweet way everything looks like it was smothered by cotton candy and wrapped in a bow. I like that people receive elaborate floral arrangements after swearing to break up with their significant others for forgetting this holy occasion. I love seeing grown men carry jumbo-sized stuffed animals through the financial district, struggling to remain dignified. I may be singing a different tune when the only date I have tonight is with Dr. Drew and the brand-new episode Celebrity Rehab, but oh well. For now, I'm just delighted to see tacky pink decor everywhere I look.

I'd love to give you all the greatest gift of all this V-Day and announce that Britney has regained sanity and stardom, but alas - Cupid can only do so much. I spent the better part of today "tracking ads" in Rolling Stone and reading the 9-page scathing diatribe on Brit Brit. It's not enough that Perez and Co. have tracked her every gas station pit-stop and underwearless leg-spread - now Rolling Stone has to go and publish an over-the-top expose that goes "Inside an American Tragedy." Tragedy? Really? I wasn't aware the poor girl was dead in a gutter yet. I'm the last person to call out the blogs or the paps or the rags for putting good gossip out into the atmosphere - I'm the worst kind of sucker for it. But it's one thing to read about Paris Hilton's prescription for Valtrex (awesome); it's another to delve into the deepest details about a mentally unstable mother of two with some clear and severe psychological issues. And right about now I'm feeling slightly unstable myself for blogging about Britney yet again. But I'm single and it's Valentine's Day and I'm allowed to indulge in psychotic behavior. Happy V-Day!!!