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!