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.