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!!!

Just Can't Get Enough

That title is a direct tribute to the phenomenal recipient of the very prestigious Driver of the Week award. Are you all ready? This week's ridiculously fabulous cabbie is...Elmo. No, I couldn't even make that shit up - his name is Elmo. He hails from Brazil and he is the biggest Depeche Mode fan this side of the Equator. Upon realizing Elmo was playing a pretty sick mix on his portable CD player, Angela yelled from the backseat, "Elmo! Who's your favorite band?!" to which Elmo promptly replied, "Depeche Mode," to which our festive asses screamed, "Whoooo! We loooove Depeche Mode!!!!" Elmo then pulled out his homemade greatest hits album and proceeded to blast classic DM into the unseasonably warm February night. Poetic, no? And that's why Elmo is our Driver of the Week.

After Friday's viewing of "27 Dresses" with Whitney and Caitlin (perfectly chick-flick-erific), Saturday's hectic haziness at Harlot, and Sunday's Shana quality time and family dinner antics for mama's birthday, I thought this week would start out sadly blah. I couldn't have been more wrong. Upon arriving at my desk, I discovered the greatest gift my boss has ever bestowed upon me - a handwritten note from my radio crush, Stryker!! A brief explanation: Stryker is the hilarious, sweet, charming, adorable co-host to the other love of my life, Dr. Drew, on Loveline. He replaced Adam Carolla a few years ago, and has since earned a very special place in my heart. My (awesome) boss texted me Saturday night to tell me he was sitting next to Mr. Stryker (first name, Ted) at Clive Davis's pre-Grammy party. While he didn't pass on my digits like I requested, he DID score me a personal note, which read: "Hi Michelle. I hear you may be getting a raise. You have the best boss ever, and if you leave this job...the gig is mine!!! See you soon. Stryker." My heart is still palpitating.

Time to go to bed - I have a 5 AM wake-up call looming. Here's hoping Stryker gives me a shout-out on tonight's show.

Under the Blacklight

Unfortunately, there was no such blacklight at the birthday bowling party I attended on Saturday. We were all really hoping it would be one of those rave-y bowl nights, but alas, we were forced to throw gutterballs in the harsh florescent light of Yerba Buena's alley. The overhead brightness did illuminate our outfits really well though, so I can't complain. Below is photographic evidence that Target is indeed a superstore.


I should probably mention that there was a theme to Lindsey's birthday celebration, but that doesn't really help explain why we wore '80s workout gear to represent our team's holiday - Halloween. It's better not to question these things. All I can say is I am beyond thankful to now be the proud owner of a genuine pair of legwarmers. Not to mention, I discovered I'm not the horrible bowler I thought I was. Yes, one of my strikes was accidentally thrown for Trish, but I still count those 10 pins as rightfully mine.

And of course, I can't forget this week's cab driver of the week - Richard. Richard and I were destined to meet because as I departed Bar None (how I consistently end up at this place, I have no idea. It's like a horrible black hole that sucks my group in every time), he was just sitting in his Hybrid Luxor waiting for a passenger! After battling many a drunk alpha male in the Marina for a taxi, I wasn't prepared for such easy access to transportation. Richard immigrated from Hong Kong back in '72, and has been driving a cab forever. He was sweet, funny, and didn't hesitate one bit when I told him I needed a ride to the ends of the Earth (a.k.a. my neighborhood). I salute you, Richard. Drive on.

In more pressing national news...Britney is still under lock and key at the UCLA psych ward. While this breaks my heart, it's actually a positive turn of events, right? Maybe now she can be properly medicated and thrown into therapy? Please just agree with me so I can believe the Britney of pop music past still has hope. Thanks.

Oh, and in actual national news...go vote tomorrow.

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!

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.