Piece of Me

Another day, another trip to the psych ward for Britney! Last night Brit Brit was carted off via ambulance once again. She's now at the UCLA Med Center where, if there is a God, Dr. Drew will rescue her from herself (because he is absolutely the only one capable of curing this breed of crazy). She's supposedly on another 72-hour hold, but considering she was back on the streets drinking Frapps and using her "British" accent after about 2 days last time, I'm not counting on this to be a full stay either. I'd love to say I still have that tiny shred of hope that she'll turn it all around and make a comeback, but I think my hopeful spirit has effectively been crushed, spit on, set on fire, and doused with Red Bulls and Cheeto powder. Thank you Britney for viciously and brutally killing my inner child. Bitch.

In more Dr. Drew-related news, Celebrity Rehab is on tonight, and that makes Thursday worth living through. If only for another fleeting glimpse at Drew in a t-shirt. The last time he wore one, it seemed to snap Jeff Conaway out of his drug-induced stupor. Such is the power of Drew's alarming biceps.

Falling in Love in a Coffee Shop

That doesn't happen in real life, just FYI. It's a lovely song, recommended to me by my near, dear Angie Girl, but the title must be purely fictional. I should know - being sick and stuck at home with two crazy parents and two rambunctious nephews lead me to test the notion repeatedly throughout the weekend. Granted, I was still sniffling and hacking up mucus, so any potential suitors who may have fallen in love with me may have possibly been deterred. But that being said, I'm still waiting for the love of my life to stumble upon me in my neighborhood cafe. I'll let you know when it happens though, so check back.

So yeah, my demonic virus kept me more or less restricted to the ten-block radius surrounding my house this past weekend. My penny-slot loving sister and her hubby hit up Las Vegas for a birthday celebration, so my ridiculously good-looking nephews stayed at mi casa. I had a fantastic time reading to Josh and squishing Zach's fluffy, fat cheeks, but after my parents' fiftieth argument over which temperature to keep the thermostat, I had to get out. I bundled up my sick ass and went to see Atonement which was pretty quality and Keira Knightly's protruding clavicle was only minimally distracting. Afterwards, I headed to a coffee shop with a big book and the optimistic hope that some local, undiscovered hottie would see me and wonder who on Earth that mysterious, hacking beauty might be. No such luck, but I scored a squishy chair and the barista was surprisingly adorable. I might have mistaken his sweetness for genuine affection if I hadn't see him treat the drunk, homeless guy at the counter exactly the same way. Either way, I emptied all my change into his tip jar...you know, just to applaud good service.

After a 40+ block walk in the rain on Sunday (all the while coughing up a lung...I'm telling you, anything was better than sitting in that house), I returned to the cafe again, book in hand. While I was happy to see my coffee boy behind the counter, I was more than a little disheartened to find a live band playing at the maximum decibel level and all squishy chairs occupied. I sat on a hard bench and pretended to read while my ears bled from the noise and I repeatedly sent sneaky looks at the espresso bar. After an hour, I couldn't stand it anymore, so I walked out, deaf and loveless. But I'll keep this hobby up for sure, so any and all developments will be posted in the future.

In other news, thanks to my bartender-trained companion Whitney, I now know that I'm a lush:

82%LUSH

Find out what you are here: http://www.justsayhi.com/bb/booze.
Have fun and drink responsibly.

Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song)

I just needed a title that made good use of the word "sick" because I still am. Day 9!!! I'm experiencing complete deja vu of elementary school illnesses that kept me at home for weeks. I remember returning to a classroom full of blank stares and awkward hellos because kids tend to forget who you are if you disappear for that long. I'm able to walk more than a block without getting winded now, which is good, but the phlegm party in my throat is slightly unsexy and I suspect its frightening the neighbors. Don't worry, updates on my phlegm will be frequent and often, so stay tuned. 

With a complete lack of an appropriate, tasteful transition, I have to say a few words on Heath Ledger. I've already heard plenty of people mock the public's dramatic reaction to his death ("This generation's James Dean!" "This generation's River Phoenix!"), and the media frenzy surrounding his passing is sickening, but I have to admit, losing him really hurt. It was so shocking, so random, and so wrong. Whether you thought he was an Oscar-worthy actor or just a teen-heartthrob who lucked out, he was a father, a son, a brother, and a human. It's tragic any way you look at it, and the fact that some of us grew up watching him onscreen (I'll never be able to watch 10 Things I Hate About You again, and I'm not gonna lie - that SUCKS) just makes it all very surreal and upsetting. So, there's my two cents. 

It feels wrong to end on that kind of note, so instead, I give you: 

Temperature

While I wish I were shakin' it to the above-mentioned Sean Paul classic on some tropical island where everyone looks like Rihanna and pina coladas flow from the faucets, I'm unfortunately referring to my fever. Kaiser assured me that the flu only afflicts old people and babies, so I skipped the vaccination and ended up couch-bound this weekend. That means in addition to that non-Reggaetone-related temperature, I've had chills and a rash, and have been subjected to a THREE DAY America's Next Top Model marathon on MTV. I will most likely submit myself to science if I survive this illness so that my brain can be studied and analyzed after such prolonged exposure to Tyra. I couldn't handle staring at models anymore, so I changed the channel and somehow ended up on this very special episode of the Tyra Banks Show devoted to...body image! At this point, the remote is too far for me to remedy the situation, so look for the American Psychological Association's detailed manifesto on me next month. 

Down Under

I can't believe I forgot to post this yesterday, but behold my future husband:



Since Whitney forwarded me the link yesterday morning and the video went on to make the internet rounds, it seems Corey went and got himself arrested. Do they allow for conjugal visits in Australian prisons? That's gross. But his complete lack of genuine remorse, emotion, and intonation is so hot. And don't even get me started on the glasses. From now on, everything about me I consider unique is going to be "famous," so get used to it. "Hey Michelle, that's an unfortunate scar." "I KNOW. IT'S FAMOUS." Thanks, Corey.

Important trivia: Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day today is (drumroll)....

shank's mare \SHANKS-MAIR\ noun
: one's own legs

Example sentence:

We were determined to see the ruins, and when we found out the shuttle bus wasn’t running that day, we traveled by shank’s mare.

If "shank's mare" comes up in my next conversation with a hot guy at a bar, I sure will be glad I signed up for that free e-mail service. Now everyone, go use it in a sentence. GO!

Outta My Head (Ay Ya Ya)

I usually try to relate the title song to the post somehow, but I have no good reason today. I just unabashedly love Ashlee Simpson and felt like saying a big "F YOU" to anyone that makes fun of me for it. So there.

I sincerely apologize to the 3.5 readers I have who were appalled my lack of posts for a full week (the .5 accounts for my nephew who is involuntarily subjected to my writing when my sister reads while nursing. He's technically a second-hand reader). I have no excuse other than lack of motivation. January hibernation has virtually eliminated my Cab Driver of the Week award, and Britney's insanity has more or less plateaued since the infamous paramedics debacle. What's a girl to write about?

For starters, I may pack up my life and head to LA to knock down Dr. Drew's door. I think demanding his intensive residential treatment could seriously change my life. I'd have to pick up an addiction first so he could rid me of it, but that should be no problem. I love this man. To those of you who don't know, Dr. Drew Pinsky is the genius behind Loveline. He's hosted the show since 1983 (!!!) and could school you on everything from Gonorrhea to Crystal Meth (I totally had to Google Gonorrhea to find the correct spelling - maybe I should clear my search history?). Last week, Drew premiered his new kick-ass show on Vh1, Celebrity Rehab. As my coworker Can-Can pointed out, I haven't been quick enough to jump on the CelebReality bandwagon that Vh1 has to offer (I only pretend to know what's going on with New York and the men that love her), but I'm willing to change this for the Dr. The premiere was awesome, and I'm not sure how much of this had to do with Drew's charm, and how much had to do with porn star/California gubernatorial candidate Mary Cary exclaiming, "Fuck yeah I'm hungry, BITCHES!" on drunken home video. In any case, you should all be tuning in on Thursdays. If not for Dr. Drew's sage wisdom, then for Jeff Conaway's Ozzie-style rambling.

Off to the doctor. I won't be M.I.A. for a week again, I promise. Aw, dammit - I should've used an M.I.A. song as my title.

Hang Me Up To Dry

I've never heard the rest of the Cold War Kids album, but I rediscovered that song on my iPod and I like it. And it's a pretty accurate way to describe the state I was in after playing substitute dad to my nephews this weekend while my bro-in-law was cavorting around Vegas (Consumer Electronics Show or Adult Entertainment Expo? You be the judge).

Let me begin my saying, my sister is inhuman. No, really. And it's not just her. It's the whole peculiar faction of the population we refer to as "mothers." No human could possibly possess the insane amount of brute strength, endless patience, and boundless energy. My weak-ass arms couldn't carry J for more than 4 seconds from the parking lot to Target, and he still fits in a car seat. I can handle baby Z for a little longer, but he's built like a cream puff filled with fatty goodness, so that's not that impressive. My sister can navigate a super-store's cruelly constructed narrow aisles with a baby strapped to her, one arm pushing a stroller filled with 42-pounds of toddler, texting her BFFs and sipping a tapioca bubble tea. Superheroes can't do that shit.

Needless to say, I love my nephews to death and have had some of the most insightful conversations of my life with them (Z doesn't interrupt much, and J's funnier and more polite than most people), but a mother-to-be I am not. At least not any time even remotely soon. True, Britney is one (twice over), Jamie-Lynn will be one in a few months, and Nicole "I only smoked some weed and popped some Vicodin before driving on the wrong side of the freeway" Richie is bringing life into the world. Seeing these wildly incompetent women take on motherhood offers a little reassurance to self-doubting future moms like me, but you can all take your time planning my elaborate baby shower - it could be a while. I have to build up my arm strength first.

SOS (Rescue Me)

No, seriously - if this isn't the cue to call in the National Guard, raise the terror alert level, or declare a state of emergency, I don't know what is. Britney's done lost it, y'all! For real this time! Forget head-shaving and umbrella-on-car combat. The poor girl has really gone off the deep end, and every blog and news outlet on the planet has the video to prove it. 

The other title for this post I was tossing around was "Ayo for Yayo" but by all accounts, Brit Brit's breakdown has nothing to do with drugs. It looks like my fallen idol's mental state is severely whacked, and it's not the cause of medicinal fun - or at least that's what we're being told. This whole mess started on Thursday night (to be fair, the whole mess started when her and JT wore matching denim outfits to an awards show, but I digress). Brit allegedly held her youngest son hostage, refusing to give both kids over to KFed. Long story short, every fire truck/police car/ambulance was called to the Spears house, and Britney had to be strapped down to a gurney and taken to Cedars Sinai! The latest report is that she was released this morning, and that none other than Dr. Phil came to see her. Phil may feel he can use his nonsensical Texas metaphors to crack the Spears psychosis, but I think her insanity surpasses his abilities at this point. I don't know whether to mourn or pray (if I had any solid religious affiliation, I might know which would be more appropriate), but I can't tear myself away from the blogs. I must be aware of what imminent danger we're all in in case Britney really loses it ("really loses it" has sort of lost all meaning at this point). I'll keep y'all updated. I feel it's my duty. 

The New Year

There couldn't be a more obvious title, but it's a Deathcab for Cutie song, I swear. So, yeah - Happy New Year! It's unfortunate that every year has to kick off with my least favorite holiday, but that's pretty unavoidable, isn't it? My lack of posting yesterday wasn't due to a massive hangover, but just sheer laziness. Hangovers are usually brought on by drinking more than a sippy cup's worth of booze, and I can't say I had much more than that. I'll spare the details of the evening, including what time I got home, because it's wildly embarrassing, but I will offer these fun facts:

1) Bacardi and Diet 7-Up is delicious.
2) Champagne and Diet 7-Up is delicious.
3) Not eating for 10 hours and trying to party is the opposite of delicious. Don't do it.
4) Letting mom cut your hair before a night on the town sounds counterintuitive, but is actually genius.
5) Sexy clothes and freezing temperatures are the combination of my nightmares.
6) The mini-bars at the Sir Francis Drake are far too expensive to open.
7) Groups of white girls are generally frowned upon in Chinatown bars.
8) The pungent aroma of all the liquor in an Adios Motherfucker can promote instant nausea on an empty stomach.
9) Riding in unmarked towncars is never a bad idea if it's absolutely arctic outside, the price is negotiable, and you're provided with complimentary bottled water.
10) Hanging out with one of the greatest people in the world can change a mediocre night into one of the most uplifting experiences of the year.

Hanging out with Kris was hands-down the best way I could have rung in my 2008, and finally introducing my international travel buddy to mom and dad was worth the dirty looks our group endured in the bar later that night. All I can say is, thank God for my amazing BFF (cuz she LOVES when I call her that), and thank God for the modern convenience of high-powered heaters, which saved my ass when I finally got home.

Somehow I've survived the first (pointless) day back at the job, and it's time to run for the bus. At least I finally finished knitting my Stitch 'N' Bitch armwarmers last night, and my hands are a step above frostbitten now. Success!