Plans

That's a Bloc Party song, and so fitting for this New Year's Eve post because at the moment...I have none. Okay, that's not entirely true. This isn't like last year's December 31 which I spent almost exclusively stressing out and cursing Dick Clark for his role in promoting this stupid holiday (I wasn't the one to cause his health ailments, okay? The man is 200 years old, so save your angry e-mails). This year, I at least have a Semi, Half-Thought-Out, Almost-Qualifies-As-A-Plan Plan. And that's better than no plan at all. Stay tuned for a recap tomorrow...fingers crossed that I'll be too hungover and filled with joy from an amazing night to type a bitter, sarcastic rant, but you never know. 

Life without work has been so wonderful, I'm 99.99% sure I have to either win the lottery or immediately sign up for www.sugardaddyforme.com (As Seen on The Montel Williams Show!) so I can keep this lifestyle going. My sister (liberated from husband, children and employment this week) and I ran amok and took full advantage of ain't having shit to do. We visited the virtually deserted 1000 Van Ness Theater to take in the inspiring and touching Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story. John C. Reilly is my hero, and Jenna Fischer truly is a hot piece when stripped of Pam's perm and cardigan. The next day, we intended to see Juno (I had to show her the magic of Michael Cera in gold shorts), but we somehow got sucked into the shopping frenzy downtown, and didn't remember to sit or breathe until about 5:30 when we both collapsed in the car and let the sweet sounds of 94.9's Traffic Jam take us away to a better place. We did successfully buy our parents a sweet CD player from Brookstone, which we presented to them (along with a pen holder emblazoned with my dad's Employee of the Month portrait) on Saturday. We then had a raucous family get-together to celebrate the upcoming year, and to pay tribute to my grandfather on his birthday. I dedicated my shot of Stoli to him (he either would've been really proud or so effing mad), and proceeded to talk celebrity shit with my lovely cousin Julia. All in all, an amazing weekend. 

Things are relatively quiet on the celebrity front. Everyone and their mother is pregnant, and the stars are spread all over the country (and abroad...I heard John Krasinski is vacationing with Rashida Jones in St. Barths. DAMMIT!!) to ring in '08. Hopefully, I'll have good stories of Britney passing out (again), or of KFed and Paris getting their marriage on at The Little White Chapel in Vegas (there's a shot in hell this could happen...LOOK!: perezhilton/?p=11211) tomorrow. Have an amazing, fantastic, joyous, drunken, unbelievable New Year's Eve, everyone. And for the love of God, DON'T get a DUI...that only helps your career if you're a has-been OC skank like Mischa Barton (http://popsugar.com/904007).

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays

Best *NSYNC song ever. And to think, I had forgotten about that gem until I desperately searched Google in hopes of finding a title. If your cold, dead heart needs warming, check it out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JUsgZOJB9U. 

So yeah, happy birthday, Jesus! It's a momentous day for Christ worshippers and Hallmark devotees alike, and I hope everyone has a fantastic Christmas. I'm currently composing a list of all the activities I should indulge in in the next few hours while the majority of the country is opening presents or whatever it is people do the morning of the big day. 

My sister, brother-in-law, and big-kid-4-year-old-not-a-baby nephew did brave downtown on Christmas Eve yesterday, and the streets were only moderately packed with crazy, angry shoppers hungry for blood. We ventured into the mob for a good cause - to see Enchanted! While Sister and I proclaimed it "magical!", "fabulous!", "wonderful!", the two boys we were with were a little less impressed. But no matter - Amy Adams is eerily PERFECT as a Disney princess come to life, and I almost found Patrick Dempsey attractive and not smarmy. Not to mention James Marsden is so good as Prince Edward, it almost made me forget Disturbing Behavior...until my sister brought it up. 

In the spirit of Christmas, I don't think I can go into elaborate detail on the Britney paparazzi catastrophe that happened on Saturday, but all sick bastards who can't help themselves can search on Perez Hilton and find his SEVEN PART recap of Brit's disastrous night. Long story short, she visited like 3 gas stations, a Walgreens, hit up every public bathroom she could, cussed out the paparazzi, made up with the paparazzi, got in a car with one of them, and eventually took him back to a hotel with her. All of this was documented on video since, conveniently, her best friends in the world happen to carry cameras for a living. The paparazzo who had the misfortune of being entangled in Brit's web of skank, emerged from the hotel at 4 AM saying only that he needed cigarettes and that all they were doing was "having lunch." Don't be so quick to judge - in Britney's world, lunch may happen at 4 am. Okay, this is all very depressing, and not at all the kind of joy I want to spread on this joyous holiday I don't celebrate. So be well, my friends, and enjoy this Christmas. If anyone gets Guitar Hero, don't forget to invite your favorite Jew over to play...I heard that game kicks ass. 

LoveStoned

Well JT may be stoned off love, but I'm seriously buzzing from marker-smell overexposure. I've managed to successfully address 52 holiday cards to an array of rock legends that will never even catch a glimpse of my amateur calligraphy skills. But I got a cheap high out of it, so I guess that makes it worthwhile? For all interested parties, the DecoColor Extra Fine Liquid Gold Opaque Paint Marker is quite pungent.

I can't stand that Johnny Rotten's immaculately addressed Christmas card is mocking me from two feet away, so I'll have to focus elsewhere. The ever-lovely, ever-amazing Shana forwarded me some America's Next Top Model info concerning our little Cycle 9 winner, Saleisha (forwarded to her by a coworker's clearly secure and masculine husband). It seems the gorgeous girl with the grossly unfortunate bowl-cut has a history with Tyra "MEEEEEE!!!!!" Banks. As a loyal ANTM-er, I already knew that Saleisha had attended Ty-Ty's T-Zone Camp for underprivileged girls, but I don't think I was aware that she strutted her stuff on Tyra's talk show in a Gen Art fashion show. Shocking, I know, but you should all sit down for this one...Saleisha once had a non-speaking role in a Wendy's commercial!!!! This doesn't directly have anything to do with Tyra (and all you haters about to comment about her affection for all things slathered in cheese and thrown on a bun can shut it), it still means Saleisha ain't really an amateur. Whether or not I care that the winner has a professional history in the art of pushing burgers, or that she's buddy-buddy with the creator, producer, and friggin' JUDGE of the show...I'm not sure. But I loved the fact that she was in a Wendy's ad (and wasn't convincing enough to be allowed to speak) too much to not discuss. Major kudos to anyone that can find that shit on YouTube.

In case you all want to educate yourselves further: http://www.realitytvworld.com/news/top-model-saleisha-stowers-defends-prior-tyra-banks-relationship-6264.php.
Thank you Shana, and thank you Tyra.

...Baby One More Time

That title couldn't have been any more obvious, but Oh. My. God. It's a Christmas miracle! The littlest Spears has gone and gotten herself preggers! She's like the Virgin Mary, except she's a 16-year-old ho bag with a famous sister and a soon-to-be terminated Nickelodeon career. Every time a bell rings, a Spears girl gets knocked up.

The news of little Jamie Lynn's impending demon spawn hit late in the afternoon yesterday, so I didn't get a chance to recap. But the local news, Good Morning America, radio morning shows, late-night talk shows, Associated Press, White House, my cat, your mom have all been kind enough to report on the developing baby bump. Jamie and her douchebag 19-year-old boyfriend have been together for three years after meeting in church. Church! You can't make that shit up. Britney was the last person on Earth to hear the happy news, and even laughed off a paparazzo's question regarding her little sis's big news last night. The only thing that could make me more sad for that family at this point is if one of Brit's dogs sustained an injury and had to wear one of those pathetic cones around its head. But best wishes to Baby Mama Jamie Lynn and the gaggle of multiple-first-named, wonky-eyed kiddies she's sure to produce.

I would write more, but I have to go send Marilyn Manson his Christmas card from my boss. I honestly wish I were kidding. I addressed it to "Manson" - is that appropriate? I know "Marilyn" is wrong, and "Marilyn Manson" seemed too formal. Whitney suggested "Mr. Manson" but I thought simplicity was best. This was after I contemplated sending my bra along with Pete Wentz's card. But I don't think you can send sexy stuff to straight guys that gay.

Anyone Else But You

If that title doesn't make sense, please for the love of God, go see Juno already. This may have reached obsession level. The song is originally by The Moldy Peaches, but the version sung by Michael Cera (be still my pedophile heart...) and Ellen Paige makes me want to cry like the ridiculous little girl I am. But I dedicate this ditty not to sweet, track-shorts-clad Michael, but to John Krasinski who I stalked again in my sleep last night. Is it still creepy and wrong if all I do is admire him from afar in my dreams? Or is that just really sad that I can't even make him mine in an imaginary world? Either way, I should probably stop watching The Office before I go to bed (but "A Benihana Christmas" is friggin' CLASSIC). Before drifting off to dreamland, I also couldn't resist cuing up the Tivo for a special holiday viewing of "Dick in a Box." NBC reran the ingenious musical collaboration between Andy Samberg (also a boyfriend) and JT (Top Three boyfriend) on Saturday, and I had to pay tribute. Nothing makes me laugh out loud as hard as JT dressed as a rabbi, singing about dicks in boxes. Nothing.

http://www.nbc.com/Saturday_Night_Live/uncensored.shtml

You're welcome.

Time Out From The World

That's track 10 off Goldfrapp's Supernature album, and though I usually skip it to get to "Number One," the title sure is nice. Not only has the blog gone untouched for 6 consecutive days, but I think my personality took a vaycay too. The gross weather, mind-numbing 9-to-5ness, lack of new TV programming, and general unfortunate hormonal retardation of being a girl all added up to a really lame week. But self-imposed imprisonment and hermit-like behavior leads to some gooood movie watchin' time, I tell ya.

Saturday, I made my way over to the newly renovated SUNDANCE Kabuki Cinema (last time I checked it was simply known as the Janky-Ass Kabuki Theater, a.k.a. All The Good Theaters Are Sold Out Theater). Hot damn, they sure do fancy themselves a classy joint now. Not only do you select your cushy seat from a map when purchasing your ticket, but there's little tables separating you from unwelcome strangers! A movie theater that caters to my indiscriminate hatred of others? Perfect! Aside from the luxurious seating, the top floors house a bar and restaurant, meaning you can leave your luggage-size purse at home - no need to smuggle in your Olde English 40! Since I was alone and it was mid-afternoon, I felt creepy perusing the snazzy dining, but as the only theater in all of SF with a liquor license, I'm sure they pull out all the stops. Props to the Kabuki for avoiding the sad fates of the Alexandria and Coronet - may they rest in peace.

After getting cozy in my plush chair, so sweetly far removed from my neighbors, I spent the next hour and a half loving, Loving, LOVING Juno. It's kind of upsetting that almost every person I've mentioned this amazing movie to go, "Juna? Juney? What??" I'm going to assume it's because the film is still in limited release until January, because I really want this one to do well - and not just because three of my boyfriends, Michael Cera, Rainn Wilson, and Jason Bateman, are in it. The movie simply kicks ass, and Ellen Paige, who plays the title character, is friggin' phenomenal. She's my new hero, and I couldn't be happier to know she scored a Golden Globe nomination. Also nominated is Diablo Cody, who penned the script and is also a superhot former stripper, which is neat. The story revolves around 16-year-old Juno, who gets knocked up by her best friend after some boredom-induced shenanigans. She decides to have the baby and give it to a ridiculously beautiful, well-off, suburban couple played by Bateman and Jennifer Garner. Comedy and drama ensue, and I can literally say I laughed and I cried. And nothing beats Michael Cera constantly outfitted in gold running shorts. Nothing.

Also on the Hermit Movie Mania list were Waitress and Friends With Money. Waitress was cute, sweet, and made me miss Felicity and the WB's golden era. Friends with Money was perfectly bitter, hilarious, and well-cast. I don't care what anyone says - I'm team Aniston all the way (unless Jolie were to threaten me, cuz she could easily destroy me with her bare, zombie hands).

All in all, a great movie-viewing weekend and I only had to minimally interact with people to purchase tickets and rent DVDs. I feel refreshed and nearly capable to join the human race again. Success!

Blue Monday

Too obvious a title? Who exactly is responsible for the suckiness of Mondays? I mostly blame the fact that I spent the better part of Sunday either watching The Hills 2-hour (!!!) recap or passed out in my bed with the heater working overtime. There's no way Monday could compete with that - it was destined to be sucky. I also spent Sunday morning at my favorite birthday hangout - Party Playhouse in Daly City - to commemorate my nephew's big 0-4. The pirate-themed blowout was a complete success, but I could hear my bed calling all the way from SF.

The previous night was spent at Slide, though I opted to enter via staircase because I had been so traumatized by the sliding experience the first time. Shooting into the arms of a stranger just doesn't sit well with me as a good entrance option. The music started off promising enough with a rousing medley of "Gimme More"/"SexyBack"/and "The Way I Are," but we were soon catapulted into what seemed like an hour's worth of second-rate electronic crap. The 2 Skinny Bitches, 1 Vodka Soda, Vodka shot, and multiple maraschino cherries helped soothe the pain a little, as did the dance-version of "Don't Stop Believin'" (which thankfully came after the drinks). All in all, it was a successful girls' night out, and there was much inappropriate dancing to be had by me and Angie-girl.

Which brings me to the end of the night and...(drumroll, please!) the Driver of the Week! This week we salute Alberto, who is not technically a taxi man, but the driver of his own town car. Why we all decided jumping into the backseat of an unmarked black car was a good idea, I can't say...actually no, wait, I can - he said he'd only charge us $30 for two stops. Thriftiness trumps common sense on most days. So after dropping off the Nob Hill roomies, Alberto and I chatted all the way to my stop. He comes to us from Brazil, is married with three kids, is delightfully chatty and surprisingly open about his personal life. Alberto confessed that his 16-year-old daughter is pregnant (he also went into intimate details about her dating history, but I'll spare you), and while he and his wife were shocked, they're now excitedly preparing for the arrival of their first grandkid. His supportive enthusiasm won me over, and I'll now carry Alberto's business card in my wallet at all times. He even opened the door for me! Did I just find myself a driver? Even Britney Spears can't do that!

Tonight is the season finale of The Hills, and while I'm tempted to throw myself out the window, I've received word that season 4 is already in the works. My Tivo might have experienced douche-withdrawal from lack of Spencer, so this is good news. Enjoy!

Better Version of Me

If that's not a good song title, I don't know what is. Thank you, Fiona Apple - you are underlooked and over-mocked in my humble opinion. So this may be Friday optimism or Friday delusion, but I'm thinking of making some changes. Not that I don't LOVE sitting at my desk with four IM windows open, an eye on Perez Hilton, another eye on Dlisted, headphones on, and some inner, omniscient eye on the never-moving clock, but...it might be time to think about living up to my - what do they call it? - potential? Yeah, I think that's it.

I had a nice little visit with my doctor this morning, and since her and I are basically BFF (she's seen me so much over the years, she could probably write this blog with more genuine Michelle-ness than I do), we got to talking about my future. Most days I cosider myself a lost cause-old maid-spinster, but some days someone smacks me upside the head with the reminder that I'm 23. So after she did said smacking, my doctor suggested I might want to look into going back to school and getting my MPH (Master of Public Health). I've thought of this before, but for some reason the suggestion really kicked me in the ass this time, and I've been spending the minutes not occupied by salacious gossip blogs and clock-watching researching UC Berkeley's graduate program. I wouldn't be able to apply for a whole year, but I can't lie - this is the most excited and motivated I've been in a while. We'll see if my inner geek has enough of an attention span to get me through the application process. More details to come...

In more pressing news, Brody's hair length changed at least 4 times in this week's The Hills, Lauren made multiple witty comments which led me to believe someone crossed the writers' picket line, and Spencer's sister started looking alarmingly more like him as the episode progressed. All in all, a fantastic week.

And in the spirit of public health education, I'll end on a rant: SCREW YOU CARRIE UNDERWOOD. I'm really grossed out and appalled that Glamour, a magazine I usually enjoy and hold above some of the more degrading titles out there, would publish this shit. After dropping a noticeable amount of weight since her American Idol days (when she looked like an actual living, breathing human woman), Carrie tells the magazine: "I'm slightly obsessive-compulsive about what I eat, more than I should be. I write down everything I eat ... I started doing it last year. And in the last year is when I've gotten more healthy and lost weight." Bravo, Glamour and Ms. Underwood for patting every suffering reader with anorexic-tendencies on the back and letting her know that ritualistically documenting her already-restricted calorie intake is a great way to get that beach body! And kudos for equating starvation and obsessive dieting with being "healthy"! God forbid emaciation goes out of style next season! And so it is with great honor I bestow this week's Lame Ass Award to Carrie Underwood and Glamour Magazine. Lame asses.

Happy Friday!!!!

Sleep to Dream

After two re-runs of The Office with my sister last night, and a drawn-out conversation about our mutual pining for John Krasinski, I was disappointed to awake this morning without having dreamt of my future wedded bliss with Jim. Lame. Last night's episodes on TBS were definitely worth a boring, dreamless night though - "Michael's Birthday" and "Drug Testing" have to be two of the top episodes of all time, if only for the following quotes:

Michael: "Hey Pam, all this stuff with Kevin is pretty scary. I was thinking that next time you're in the shower you should check yourself out. Those things are ticking time bags."

Pam: "Jim is not allowed to talk until he buys me a Coke. Those are the rules of Jinx and they are unflinchingly rigid."

Obviously, there's about 10 blogs-worth of other quotes from last night's hour, but for the sake of efficiency, I'll just let you rent season 2. Genius.

While JK currently takes up most of my brain space, I still managed to remember that last night was the first night of Channukah! Hooray! We pulled out our aged old menorah and lit the two janky candles remaining from last year's festivities. It's Baby Z's first Hanukkah (changing it up with the spelling - both ways look wrong), though he was way busy banging his tiny, alarmingly powerful wrists on the high chair and shrieking for the sake of hearing his own voice. I intended to bake challah, and clearly that didn't happen, but I like to think my good intentions absolve me from feeling the massive guilt known only by sporadically-practicing Jews. Gut Yontiff! (www.jewfaq.com assures me that means "Good Holiday!" in Yiddish...here's hoping it's not actually a vulgar...eh, never mind - if it is, that's even better.)

In honor of my stomachache and deep buyer's remorse (stupid J. Crew credit card), I'll sign off now. But not before reminding you all to indulge in the Wednesday night trainwreck TV lineup. Can't wait to see how Tyra makes me wildly uncomfortable tonight!

Bubble Pop Electric

Happy Monday, everyone. Yeah, I know, I wanted to punch myself in the face for saying that too. But the transition from weekend to new week inspires me to chronicle two favorite activities that I've failed to properly address here on this little blog: talking to cab drivers, and chewing every available flavor of sugar-free gum on the market. Allow me to explain.

I don't know when or how this fascination began, but I love taxi drivers. Random acquaintances and polite coworkers who have had the misfortune of sharing a cab with me know that I like to spend the duration of the ride chatting up the driver and firing questions regarding his or her country of origin, family background, history as a driver, former employment, musical preferences, etc. I think this desire to bond stems from my complete discomfort with being carted around for money. Something ain't right about that. So instead of a ride filled with awkward silence, I like to find out a little something about the person who's workplace I've just invaded.

I wish I were kidding when I say the highlights of some of my failed nights out on the town have been the conversations between me and my cab drivers. Nothing remedies a shitty night out in the Marina like a good talk with someone who's parents aren't funding their totally sweet apartment and post-college beer pong tournaments. No offense to fans of beer pong - it's a pretty legitimate sport. But I have to say I've met an exponentially higher number of cool, upstanding people behind the wheel of a taxi than in front of a bar (not to be confused with behind the bar - bartenders tend to be cooler than the people they're serving too).

So from now on, I plan to chronicle my cab adventures and profile the good people of Yellow, Luxor, National, De Soto, and the rest that have made my lame nights out a little less lame. Saturday night, freezing my face, hands, and neck off (ever other inch of flesh was purposely and strategically covered), I stood on the corner of Union and Filmore preparing for bevies of drunken, classy ladies to swoop on every passing cab. The Taxi Gods were smiling down on me though, because a cozy, vacant, WARM cab pulled up almost immediately. My driver was an awesome guy, who may or may not have been named Ohnmar (I only came to this conclusion after Googling common Burmese names and this one came up - the three vodka shots I had somehow impaired my memory for names that night). Ohnmar is originally from Burma (now known as Myanmar), and is the only member of his family who's left home. He has ELEVEN siblings whose ages range from the 20s to the 40s, and he's one of the middle ones towards the younger side. Ohnmar is the shit cuz he not only did he get me home quickly, but he was super friendly, motivated, and kind, and those aren't generally appropriate words to describe someone who works a 4 PM - 4 AM shift. Kudos to Ohmnar! My San Francisco driver of the week!

Now that I've devoted a startling number of words to SF's finest, it seems sort of wrong to transition into my gum obsession. But to know me is to love me, and to really know me, you must know my feelings on sugar-free gum. In a word, I am a gum connoisseur. Some people know wine, some people know classical music. I know gum. In my vast research, I've found that Trident is hands-down the winner in terms of long-lasting flavor and consistency. Not to mention the added Xylotol that promises to whiten and protect enamel. Orbit, though far inferior in flavor endurance, offers some fancy flavors like Mint Mojito. Extra is a childhood favorite, and their Wildberry Frost, Cool Green Apple, and Cool Watermelon are crazy delicious. My new find this week is Orbit's Maui Melon Mint which is a little shocking at first, but happily mellows into a refreshing, fruity treat. Yeah, I just said refreshing, fruity treat. I think that means my passion level for this post just exceeded the normal level, and I better sign off. Enjoy The Hills!