Tuesday, May 31, 2005
all dressed up...
Amanda looked fierce, wearing a stunning brown jersey dress that magically although barely contained her boobs. As she emerged from her room, Alex’s mouth dropped to the floor. Torn between the fact that his girlfriend is appallingly beautiful and the fact that we all now pretty much know what Mandy looks like naked, he casually said, “You look amazing, baby… Do you have a jacket?”
happy birthday, itty!
Today is Amanda’s Birthday, and we spent much of this weekend celebrating. On Saturday night, we had a little soiree, at which Kelly brought her new friend. As he entered, I thought, “Oh Kelly, you fag hag. That’s just about the cutest little queen I’ve ever laid eyes on.” I mean, seriously. He was decked out in Abercrombie, hair gel and some sort of cologne, I can only guess was Gautier.
Kelly and her gay, gay friend came over to say hello.
“Beth, meet by new boyfriend.”
I think I spit my drink across the room. Throughout the evening, they proceed to fight over Kelly flirting with homosexual designer shoe salesmen and her taking slutty photos with Amanda, much to the immense amusement of Jason and myself. It was doubly funny to have Big Chris watching these shenanigans, as the last time he saw Kelly, they were making out like banshees against a door that then broke, sending them both flying and sustaining minor to major injuries, depending on who’s retelling the story.
Kelly is a very sweet girl, but was perhaps dropped as a child.
While enjoying the gorgeous deck of Sam’s in Tiburon all day yesterday, we were discussing how old we were all getting, lamenting the fact that 30 was suddenly approaching. Kelly was freaking out, claiming herself to be a mere 4 years away from the big 30.
“Oh, shut up, Kelly. I’ve only got 3 years till I’m 30.”
“What! How old are you???”
Apparently, the look which uncontrollably appeared on my face made the rest of the table hysterical with laughter, although Kelly just looked at me perplexed…
Kelly and her gay, gay friend came over to say hello.
“Beth, meet by new boyfriend.”
I think I spit my drink across the room. Throughout the evening, they proceed to fight over Kelly flirting with homosexual designer shoe salesmen and her taking slutty photos with Amanda, much to the immense amusement of Jason and myself. It was doubly funny to have Big Chris watching these shenanigans, as the last time he saw Kelly, they were making out like banshees against a door that then broke, sending them both flying and sustaining minor to major injuries, depending on who’s retelling the story.
Kelly is a very sweet girl, but was perhaps dropped as a child.
While enjoying the gorgeous deck of Sam’s in Tiburon all day yesterday, we were discussing how old we were all getting, lamenting the fact that 30 was suddenly approaching. Kelly was freaking out, claiming herself to be a mere 4 years away from the big 30.
“Oh, shut up, Kelly. I’ve only got 3 years till I’m 30.”
“What! How old are you???”
Apparently, the look which uncontrollably appeared on my face made the rest of the table hysterical with laughter, although Kelly just looked at me perplexed…
Monday, May 30, 2005
i love my parents...
I love my parents. I really, really do. They are obscenely loving and generous people, freakishly smart, surprisingly successful, charming and funny and affectionate and everything we want parents to be. In fact, I'm so spoiled in parental wealth, that it's the teeny tiny little things they do that drive me insane.
I've spent the weekend here, coming and going as I please, showing up at 1am, eating their food, drinking their wine, getting into huge discussions regarding Catholicism and gay rights over dinner and generally intruding on their space. I awoke this morning and within a half an hour, I was eyeing the door.
It takes me awhile to wake up. I need to shuffle around a bit just to get my synapses flowing. So my mom screaming, "Good morning, Sweetie!" when I walked into the living room kinda stressed me out. How can she possibly be so awake, so happy, and so annoyingly thin at 10am? I sat down, hoping to be ignored or perhaps silently be brought coffee, when my father approached, clad in a bright plaid bathrobe and somehow covered in newspapers. "Who loves Bethy!?!?"
I am supposed to respond, "Daddy does!"
But I am 27 years old and in no mood. It suddenly occurs to me that I'm annoyed because my parents are being too nice to me. That makes me a horrible person, but it's the god's honest truth. I need to be left alone, so I hide in my father's office and dive into CNN.com. My father's office overlooks the deck, the very deck where my mother has now set up shop with her crossword puzzles. She spies me through the window. "Bethy! What's a 6 letter word for Lionel Ritchie's 1983 hit song?"
Crappy.
I silently sip my coffee, hoping she'll move on to challenging questions that are more her speed. My mother will know every answer to the very difficult New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. Any answer, that is, save for those pertaining to pop culture. In the past, my need to prove that I was just as smart as my intellectual parents meant that I would gladly spout off a seven letter word for a Britney Spears album or a three letter word for the anchor of Weekend Update. But this morning, I want no part of a eleven letter word for something about Shrek.
I wander past the kitchen and notice that there is someone in the bathroom. The door is closed, movement and peeing sounds emanate from within, but there are no lights on. Why, I ask you, does my father insist on peeing in the dark? And more importantly, why does it drive me nuts?
From room to room they rapidly run, full of energy and talking, big plans for the day and things to say to each other. My father finally leaves for his parade, but only after saying goodbye seventeen times. My mother eventually departs as well, and I must move my car to let her out. I don't even apologize for blocking her driveway, sulking down to the car willing to move it only because it will allow me to bask in solitude. As I open the door to Rhonda the Honda, I discover that my father has placed a bottle of wine and an updated Yellow Pages phonebook on my seat.
I genuinely like my parents. Odd are, I like them more than I like your parents and would gladly select them had I been given the option. I mean, my father actually wanders around the house looking for things I might need.
I just don't understand what possessed him to grab a phonebook...
I've spent the weekend here, coming and going as I please, showing up at 1am, eating their food, drinking their wine, getting into huge discussions regarding Catholicism and gay rights over dinner and generally intruding on their space. I awoke this morning and within a half an hour, I was eyeing the door.
It takes me awhile to wake up. I need to shuffle around a bit just to get my synapses flowing. So my mom screaming, "Good morning, Sweetie!" when I walked into the living room kinda stressed me out. How can she possibly be so awake, so happy, and so annoyingly thin at 10am? I sat down, hoping to be ignored or perhaps silently be brought coffee, when my father approached, clad in a bright plaid bathrobe and somehow covered in newspapers. "Who loves Bethy!?!?"
I am supposed to respond, "Daddy does!"
But I am 27 years old and in no mood. It suddenly occurs to me that I'm annoyed because my parents are being too nice to me. That makes me a horrible person, but it's the god's honest truth. I need to be left alone, so I hide in my father's office and dive into CNN.com. My father's office overlooks the deck, the very deck where my mother has now set up shop with her crossword puzzles. She spies me through the window. "Bethy! What's a 6 letter word for Lionel Ritchie's 1983 hit song?"
Crappy.
I silently sip my coffee, hoping she'll move on to challenging questions that are more her speed. My mother will know every answer to the very difficult New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. Any answer, that is, save for those pertaining to pop culture. In the past, my need to prove that I was just as smart as my intellectual parents meant that I would gladly spout off a seven letter word for a Britney Spears album or a three letter word for the anchor of Weekend Update. But this morning, I want no part of a eleven letter word for something about Shrek.
I wander past the kitchen and notice that there is someone in the bathroom. The door is closed, movement and peeing sounds emanate from within, but there are no lights on. Why, I ask you, does my father insist on peeing in the dark? And more importantly, why does it drive me nuts?
From room to room they rapidly run, full of energy and talking, big plans for the day and things to say to each other. My father finally leaves for his parade, but only after saying goodbye seventeen times. My mother eventually departs as well, and I must move my car to let her out. I don't even apologize for blocking her driveway, sulking down to the car willing to move it only because it will allow me to bask in solitude. As I open the door to Rhonda the Honda, I discover that my father has placed a bottle of wine and an updated Yellow Pages phonebook on my seat.
I genuinely like my parents. Odd are, I like them more than I like your parents and would gladly select them had I been given the option. I mean, my father actually wanders around the house looking for things I might need.
I just don't understand what possessed him to grab a phonebook...
Thursday, May 26, 2005
so, guess what happened to me this weekend...
Working with a three women and one straight guy can be tremendously interesting, especially when we know each and every detail of each other’s personal lives and offer constant insights and commentary.
My boss is married with two kids, blunt and practical with the most bizarre collection of experiences and dating stories you’ve ever heard. She was once attacked in a parking lot and strangled until she passed out, left for dead by a homeless schizophrenic. She says things like, “After all of the guys I’ve dated, I found that the really attractive guys tend to be assholes.”
Margot is married and pregnant with her first kid, always the optimist whose husband is the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. Margot says things like, “Oh, Bethy. This is a sign. He’s perfect.” And she’ll be talking about the psycho with 8 kids and a humpback.
Ben lives in Berkeley with his girlfriend, and is both mocking and protective when it comes to the boys I’ve dated. He doesn’t judge initially, getting me to reveal embarrassing details he then uses against me. Ben says things like, “Have fun, Bethy. Make sure you go somewhere he won’t get carded.”
And Kristin is young, gorgeous and single, dating rockstars and bikers like there’s no tomorrow. Kristin’s got lots of crazy stories and says things like, “That’s nothing, Beth. I dated this dude who, like, tried to blow up his mother during Thanksgiving, but it turned out he was secretly shooting a scene for a music video and no one told me.”
My boss is married with two kids, blunt and practical with the most bizarre collection of experiences and dating stories you’ve ever heard. She was once attacked in a parking lot and strangled until she passed out, left for dead by a homeless schizophrenic. She says things like, “After all of the guys I’ve dated, I found that the really attractive guys tend to be assholes.”
Margot is married and pregnant with her first kid, always the optimist whose husband is the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. Margot says things like, “Oh, Bethy. This is a sign. He’s perfect.” And she’ll be talking about the psycho with 8 kids and a humpback.
Ben lives in Berkeley with his girlfriend, and is both mocking and protective when it comes to the boys I’ve dated. He doesn’t judge initially, getting me to reveal embarrassing details he then uses against me. Ben says things like, “Have fun, Bethy. Make sure you go somewhere he won’t get carded.”
And Kristin is young, gorgeous and single, dating rockstars and bikers like there’s no tomorrow. Kristin’s got lots of crazy stories and says things like, “That’s nothing, Beth. I dated this dude who, like, tried to blow up his mother during Thanksgiving, but it turned out he was secretly shooting a scene for a music video and no one told me.”
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
do you have any zantac...
I swung by Walgreen’s on the way home, and as I was in the middle of a conversation with Andy, I became one of those dreadful people entering a store while on a cell. I was probably 10 feet away from the front door of Walgreen’s, walking towards it and chatting away about drag queens, when all of a sudden some hoodlum comes running out the door, his backpack being grabbed by a Walgreen’s employee.
“Oh my god, Andy. Someone’s running out of Walgreen’s. It’s a thief! He’s being chased!”
“Oh my god, girl. They’re chasing him right now?”
“Yes!” I screamed into the phone, as I watched the criminal run in the middle of traffic, sans backpack.
Andy, being highly experienced in urban crime, then asked, “How many are in pursuit?”
“Three!”
“Oh, I love that shit. Damn, right in front of you and everything.”
“I know. Jesus. Okay, I’m going in Walgreen’s. I’ll call you right back.”
I entered Walgreen’s and found an array of people standing around, most of whom were offering the “I’m interested, yet at the same time have shit to do so let’s get back to cashiering, please” vibe.
Leaving Walgreen’s with merely the one item you initially went in to purchase is impossible, and I was forced to procure a basket, my arms were so full with needless crap. By the time I got to the cash register, I had been in Walgreen’s a full ten minutes and the staff was just getting around to examining the contents of the backpack.
I should point out that the staff comprised of three twenty-something Asian guys who had gangsta-ed out their Walgreen’s uniforms. As I unpacked my basket, one said to the other, “Dude, did you find some personal effects up in that shit?”
This was my cue to dive in.
“Is that the bag of the thief?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he get away?”
“Yeah. But we got that bitch’s bag. Dude, I gotta start running again. I’m winded, yo.”
We then got to examine the contents of the backpack. Turned out, our suspect had a penchant for Zantac. He must have had 10 boxes stuffed “up in that shit”, along with his personal effects. I was perplexed by the obscene amount of antacid and thus decided to ask the most suburban question ever to be uttered.
“What’s up with the Zantac? Can you get high off that?”
The Walgreen’s fellas looked at me like I was nuts. “No. Judging by the quantity he had in possession, he was probably going to sell it to some bitch ass convenience store in the ghetto.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. That shit happens all the time. I shoulda been able to catch that fuck, though. Man, I’m fuckin’ winded. You want me to double bag this?”
“Oh my god, Andy. Someone’s running out of Walgreen’s. It’s a thief! He’s being chased!”
“Oh my god, girl. They’re chasing him right now?”
“Yes!” I screamed into the phone, as I watched the criminal run in the middle of traffic, sans backpack.
Andy, being highly experienced in urban crime, then asked, “How many are in pursuit?”
“Three!”
“Oh, I love that shit. Damn, right in front of you and everything.”
“I know. Jesus. Okay, I’m going in Walgreen’s. I’ll call you right back.”
I entered Walgreen’s and found an array of people standing around, most of whom were offering the “I’m interested, yet at the same time have shit to do so let’s get back to cashiering, please” vibe.
Leaving Walgreen’s with merely the one item you initially went in to purchase is impossible, and I was forced to procure a basket, my arms were so full with needless crap. By the time I got to the cash register, I had been in Walgreen’s a full ten minutes and the staff was just getting around to examining the contents of the backpack.
I should point out that the staff comprised of three twenty-something Asian guys who had gangsta-ed out their Walgreen’s uniforms. As I unpacked my basket, one said to the other, “Dude, did you find some personal effects up in that shit?”
This was my cue to dive in.
“Is that the bag of the thief?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he get away?”
“Yeah. But we got that bitch’s bag. Dude, I gotta start running again. I’m winded, yo.”
We then got to examine the contents of the backpack. Turned out, our suspect had a penchant for Zantac. He must have had 10 boxes stuffed “up in that shit”, along with his personal effects. I was perplexed by the obscene amount of antacid and thus decided to ask the most suburban question ever to be uttered.
“What’s up with the Zantac? Can you get high off that?”
The Walgreen’s fellas looked at me like I was nuts. “No. Judging by the quantity he had in possession, he was probably going to sell it to some bitch ass convenience store in the ghetto.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. That shit happens all the time. I shoulda been able to catch that fuck, though. Man, I’m fuckin’ winded. You want me to double bag this?”
which level is yours?
In a sad twist, Ben knows all of the hot guys we hire to park cars. They periodically come into the office and Ben chats it up with them, using lots of “dude” and “bro” but never introducing his female co-workers. It’s highly obnoxious, and I rarely will admit to him that I think any of them are cuties. However, a seriously hot one just walked in. While eavesdropping on his idiotic conversation with Ben, I heard him mention that he’d be out of town with his girlfriend next weekend. I waited until he left and then instant messaged Ben.
Beth: Uh, that guy is hot.
Ben: Really?
Beth: YES.
Ben: He’s a parker and acts a lot in local plays. You’ve probably seen him on the mountain.
Beth: Of course he does. He’s a total fox, Ben.
Ben: Well, I can invite him when we go out for drinks.
Beth: Oh, are you going to invite his girlfriend, too?
Ben: Girlfriends come in different levels.
Nice…
Beth: Uh, that guy is hot.
Ben: Really?
Beth: YES.
Ben: He’s a parker and acts a lot in local plays. You’ve probably seen him on the mountain.
Beth: Of course he does. He’s a total fox, Ben.
Ben: Well, I can invite him when we go out for drinks.
Beth: Oh, are you going to invite his girlfriend, too?
Ben: Girlfriends come in different levels.
Nice…
"we" fumbled...
As I was driving to work this morning, I found myself stuck in traffic behind a truck with a very stupid sticker on the back. The sticker depicted a shaggy looking guy wearing a 49ers hat pissing on a Raider’s logo. Really, folks?
While we’re on the subject, why do guys use “we” when recapping sporting events? “We” beat the Dodgers. “We” traded him to the Redskins. “We” are out of town this weekend. Oh, are we? Alex does this all the time and it drives me nuts. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that you played professional sports.
And now, Big Chris is rapidly e-mailing me his response…
While we’re on the subject, why do guys use “we” when recapping sporting events? “We” beat the Dodgers. “We” traded him to the Redskins. “We” are out of town this weekend. Oh, are we? Alex does this all the time and it drives me nuts. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that you played professional sports.
And now, Big Chris is rapidly e-mailing me his response…
Saturday, May 21, 2005
here's your goddamn blog...
I am exhausted. I am drained. I am spent.
And when I am exhausted, drained and spent, it shows. How do I know this? Because people kept telling me all day. Yesterday was so dreadful, I called my brother to vent. Alex, being the most glorious man to ever live, stopped my work on his way home, to check in and give me a hug. He walked in the office with arms open and as he embraced me in brotherly love, he said, “Fuck. You look like shit.”
When Ben finally left last night, he came over to give me a hug goodbye. “Don’t worry, Bethy. You’re going to kick ass.”
“Do I look that worried? Is it that obvious.”
“Uh, yeah. Yes. But it’s supposed to be like this.”
“But still. I look that bad?”
“Yeah, you do……See you Sunday!”
Alex maintains that this blog isn’t a true representation of what I’m really like. It’s the good version of me. It’s the charming and funny version of me. I agree that there’s tons I never talk about on here, lots of good drama and scandal and stories that would be fantastic blog fodder. And lots of times I act like an idiot, slut or villainess which I then choose not to discuss either.
“Still, Beth. It’s not even that. Sometimes you’re quiet. Sometimes you’re not that funny. Sometimes, you’re a fucking bitch to deal with. That rarely shows up on the blog.”
Hmmmm. Fair enough. True, true and true. Alex would know.
So here: This week, I’ve yelled at cripples and pregnant women, blamed the innocent for my DSL not working, screamed at hobos blocking the road, spilled food and makeup all over myself and didn’t care enough to clean it, stole 2 parking places, didn’t wash my hair for 3 days, ate like a cow until I made myself ill, drank most of a bottle of Chardonnay entirely by myself while watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, and got screamed at dozens of times by dozens of people at work, all leading up to this Sunday when we finally open.
Apparently, I’m also hideous…
And when I am exhausted, drained and spent, it shows. How do I know this? Because people kept telling me all day. Yesterday was so dreadful, I called my brother to vent. Alex, being the most glorious man to ever live, stopped my work on his way home, to check in and give me a hug. He walked in the office with arms open and as he embraced me in brotherly love, he said, “Fuck. You look like shit.”
When Ben finally left last night, he came over to give me a hug goodbye. “Don’t worry, Bethy. You’re going to kick ass.”
“Do I look that worried? Is it that obvious.”
“Uh, yeah. Yes. But it’s supposed to be like this.”
“But still. I look that bad?”
“Yeah, you do……See you Sunday!”
Alex maintains that this blog isn’t a true representation of what I’m really like. It’s the good version of me. It’s the charming and funny version of me. I agree that there’s tons I never talk about on here, lots of good drama and scandal and stories that would be fantastic blog fodder. And lots of times I act like an idiot, slut or villainess which I then choose not to discuss either.
“Still, Beth. It’s not even that. Sometimes you’re quiet. Sometimes you’re not that funny. Sometimes, you’re a fucking bitch to deal with. That rarely shows up on the blog.”
Hmmmm. Fair enough. True, true and true. Alex would know.
So here: This week, I’ve yelled at cripples and pregnant women, blamed the innocent for my DSL not working, screamed at hobos blocking the road, spilled food and makeup all over myself and didn’t care enough to clean it, stole 2 parking places, didn’t wash my hair for 3 days, ate like a cow until I made myself ill, drank most of a bottle of Chardonnay entirely by myself while watching America’s Funniest Home Videos, and got screamed at dozens of times by dozens of people at work, all leading up to this Sunday when we finally open.
Apparently, I’m also hideous…
Thursday, May 19, 2005
genius...
Thanks to my brilliant co-worker Ben, for the following:
http://www.putfile.com/media.php?n=hurratorpedo
Enjoy...
http://www.putfile.com/media.php?n=hurratorpedo
Enjoy...
life and shit...
My family is planning a big day where all of our friends and family will come to the play I’m working on, sit out in the sun all day eating and drinking and then head back to my parents for a big old dinner party. Big Chris is unable to join the festivities due to a family event. He can’t get out of it because if he told his parents he’d be attending a play, they’d “call bullshit.”
Thus, he’s meeting up with us at my folks after the play. He had this to say:
“excellent. by the time I get to your parents, everyone there
will be shitfaced, sunburned, de-hydrated, and starving and
I'll sit back and enjoy the scene and discuss life and shit
with your dad.”
Which brings me to the fact that there is nothing greater than discussing “life and shit” with my dad when either he, you or both are drunk.
Thus, he’s meeting up with us at my folks after the play. He had this to say:
“excellent. by the time I get to your parents, everyone there
will be shitfaced, sunburned, de-hydrated, and starving and
I'll sit back and enjoy the scene and discuss life and shit
with your dad.”
Which brings me to the fact that there is nothing greater than discussing “life and shit” with my dad when either he, you or both are drunk.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
you drive me crazy...
One of life’s great dilemmas is whether or not to stare at a crazy person screaming in the middle of the street. At least it is for me. There are pros and cons to doing this and I find that I waste time time trying to decide when really, I’m missing a great show.
If you stare at said crazy, you risk being dragged into the melee. This can be not only embarrassing, but dangerous. However, if you find a vantage point at which to watch safely and anonymously, the sky is the limit in terms of unique entertainment.
Have you noticed the gentleman in front of Anthropoligie in downtown San Francisco, announcing the many benefits of chastity- in women? Men can fuck whomever they like, but us gals go straight to hell the second we give it up. He’s got some very detailed signage, which I’m always tempted to read. Alas, I don’t want to get to close. I would have to walk into his little area, opening myself up (as it were) to a discussion with this nut. None the less, I bet it’s some pretty amusing prose. I’ve always been tempted to stand right next to him and pass out condoms.
There’s also Millie, a woman of questionable residence who hangs out at Capp’s and will take your Polaroid for $5. Millie is a character, to say the least, and interaction with her is usually harmless. I have seen her get a tad racist, however, and that always leads to trouble. I find it’s best to divert her attention somewhere else, perhaps by throwing an object or stomping on the floor. Movement and sound tend to set her off even more than minorities.
Finally, my current favorite is the gentleman who runs along Van Ness Avenue giving everyone the middle finger. He has long, wild hair to which he’s affixed 2 red streamers which flow freely as he visually and verbally expresses himself to those driving along. Sometimes, he pretends that his index fingers are machine guns and makes the requisite sound effects as he imagines himself on a shooting spree. His enthusiasm is contagious and I can only dream about the infinite joy an actual conversation with him would bring me.
I’d like to get all three of them together and have a dinner party…
If you stare at said crazy, you risk being dragged into the melee. This can be not only embarrassing, but dangerous. However, if you find a vantage point at which to watch safely and anonymously, the sky is the limit in terms of unique entertainment.
Have you noticed the gentleman in front of Anthropoligie in downtown San Francisco, announcing the many benefits of chastity- in women? Men can fuck whomever they like, but us gals go straight to hell the second we give it up. He’s got some very detailed signage, which I’m always tempted to read. Alas, I don’t want to get to close. I would have to walk into his little area, opening myself up (as it were) to a discussion with this nut. None the less, I bet it’s some pretty amusing prose. I’ve always been tempted to stand right next to him and pass out condoms.
There’s also Millie, a woman of questionable residence who hangs out at Capp’s and will take your Polaroid for $5. Millie is a character, to say the least, and interaction with her is usually harmless. I have seen her get a tad racist, however, and that always leads to trouble. I find it’s best to divert her attention somewhere else, perhaps by throwing an object or stomping on the floor. Movement and sound tend to set her off even more than minorities.
Finally, my current favorite is the gentleman who runs along Van Ness Avenue giving everyone the middle finger. He has long, wild hair to which he’s affixed 2 red streamers which flow freely as he visually and verbally expresses himself to those driving along. Sometimes, he pretends that his index fingers are machine guns and makes the requisite sound effects as he imagines himself on a shooting spree. His enthusiasm is contagious and I can only dream about the infinite joy an actual conversation with him would bring me.
I’d like to get all three of them together and have a dinner party…
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
cope with it...
You know it’s bad when I listen to the same song over and over again. Some people work out. Some people paint. Some people drink.
I listen to one song on repeat.
This time it’s Sideways by Citizen Cope. Look into it.
Good stuff.
www.citizencope.com
I listen to one song on repeat.
This time it’s Sideways by Citizen Cope. Look into it.
Good stuff.
www.citizencope.com
Monday, May 16, 2005
trampy...
Friday night, my former roommate Phillip was performing in the bar of a place called The Seafood Peddler. Not only do I not eat seafood, I don’t readily patronize places with “Peddler” in the name. None the less, Pip was singing in Marin and I had to go.
The Seafood Peddler is the kind of place that old people go to be fancy. I believe they have a classier lobster bib than say, The Crab Shack or similar. It’s pretty big inside, with a dock you can cruise up to and a huge bar, staffed by several very rude women and one hot bartender.
Past all the bluehairs and gentlemen in Member’s Only jackets, I found my rag tag group of friends sitting in the back downing Manhattans and looking very, very gay. I sat next to Juan, busy working the obviously straight and uninterested bartender, and ordered a glass of wine. We delighted in shocking the old folks next to us as Juan regaled us with his tale of Gold’s Gym sauna sex, culminating in the theft of his laptop.
“Girl, you know that shit was worth it, though. He was fine.”
“He stole your laptop, Juan. Your trick stole your fucking laptop.”
I guess Juan has a very different idea of what’s “worth it.”
Pip sang beautifully, and really, there’s nothing like sitting in the middle of The Seafood Peddler, have a big gay black man pull you up to the piano and sing “That’s Why the Lady is a Tramp.”
Perhaps, he should’ve been singing that to Juan…
The Seafood Peddler is the kind of place that old people go to be fancy. I believe they have a classier lobster bib than say, The Crab Shack or similar. It’s pretty big inside, with a dock you can cruise up to and a huge bar, staffed by several very rude women and one hot bartender.
Past all the bluehairs and gentlemen in Member’s Only jackets, I found my rag tag group of friends sitting in the back downing Manhattans and looking very, very gay. I sat next to Juan, busy working the obviously straight and uninterested bartender, and ordered a glass of wine. We delighted in shocking the old folks next to us as Juan regaled us with his tale of Gold’s Gym sauna sex, culminating in the theft of his laptop.
“Girl, you know that shit was worth it, though. He was fine.”
“He stole your laptop, Juan. Your trick stole your fucking laptop.”
I guess Juan has a very different idea of what’s “worth it.”
Pip sang beautifully, and really, there’s nothing like sitting in the middle of The Seafood Peddler, have a big gay black man pull you up to the piano and sing “That’s Why the Lady is a Tramp.”
Perhaps, he should’ve been singing that to Juan…
Sunday, May 15, 2005
ahoy...
We spent this afternoon on the Bay, riding around on the yacht owned by one of work’s biggest donors. I don’t get to spend a lot of time of yachts, so I thought this was pretty fabulous. This donor is a very cool guy who offered a trip on his amazingly huge yacht for my work’s annual auction. My father and his friends bid, and thus we had an amazing day cruising around the San Francisco Bay. Alex brought Amanda, and it was her first introduction into a family event as the official girlfriend. I think she did quite well.
Not only did Amanda have to show up on some stranger’s yacht with strange people, but my mother wasn’t even there to buffer, abandoning her for business in New York. Amanda survived admirably and was quite the hit, answering lots of nosey questions and pretending to seem interested in things like recent trips to the Galapagos Islands and the color choices that Escalades come in.
Also, there was lots of booze, so that helped.
Lately, I’ve been getting asked how I feel about my dear friend shacking up with my baby brother. I feel really good about it, quite frankly. Can you imagine two more lovely people? No, you can’t. And really. If Mandy can survive 6 hours on the open water knocking back Champagne with my father and his cronies, she’s good enough for my biscuit. The bigger question…Is he good enough for her?
Not only did Amanda have to show up on some stranger’s yacht with strange people, but my mother wasn’t even there to buffer, abandoning her for business in New York. Amanda survived admirably and was quite the hit, answering lots of nosey questions and pretending to seem interested in things like recent trips to the Galapagos Islands and the color choices that Escalades come in.
Also, there was lots of booze, so that helped.
Lately, I’ve been getting asked how I feel about my dear friend shacking up with my baby brother. I feel really good about it, quite frankly. Can you imagine two more lovely people? No, you can’t. And really. If Mandy can survive 6 hours on the open water knocking back Champagne with my father and his cronies, she’s good enough for my biscuit. The bigger question…Is he good enough for her?
ewww...
I would tell you all about my wacky Saturday night adventures, but it can be summed up in three words...
The Marina Sucks.
As we walked past Matrix, I announced that I wanted to get a ladder, climb it in the middle of the street and tell the crowd an old line I came up with ages ago.
1997 called.
They want their neighborhood back.
The Marina Sucks.
As we walked past Matrix, I announced that I wanted to get a ladder, climb it in the middle of the street and tell the crowd an old line I came up with ages ago.
1997 called.
They want their neighborhood back.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
the punch you don't throw...
Last summer, my fabulous brother dated some skank. Said skank then fucked up gloriously and that was the end of her. A few weeks back, she drunkenly called Alex in the middle of the night to apologize. He didn’t even realize who he was talking to until about 5 minutes into the conversation. After all, he’s in mad love with a stone cold fox who loves him right back. Of course, Alex was very polite and hurried off the phone with the poor girl.
He called me the next day to regale me with the conversation.
“Did you tell her about Amanda?”
“Why? Who fucking cares, Beth. She’s lame… Plus, that’s the punch that you don’t throw.”
My boy’s all class, folks.
Last night, the rocket scientist calls again. She has no recollection of her first call. She apparently giggled through her apology yet again, unaware that she had done the same thing ages ago and unaware that Alex's girlfriend is listening to every word. How embarrassing! Now, Alex is getting annoyed. The next time she calls, Amanda’s going to get on the phone with her. And, let me just say people, we should sell tickets. This is going to rock…
He called me the next day to regale me with the conversation.
“Did you tell her about Amanda?”
“Why? Who fucking cares, Beth. She’s lame… Plus, that’s the punch that you don’t throw.”
My boy’s all class, folks.
Last night, the rocket scientist calls again. She has no recollection of her first call. She apparently giggled through her apology yet again, unaware that she had done the same thing ages ago and unaware that Alex's girlfriend is listening to every word. How embarrassing! Now, Alex is getting annoyed. The next time she calls, Amanda’s going to get on the phone with her. And, let me just say people, we should sell tickets. This is going to rock…
Friday, May 13, 2005
all hail the fire king...
Ben is not in the office today, and its estrogen central around here. We had to get several fire extinguishers refilled today, so my boss, Kathy, phoned this guy called “The Fire King.” Margot, Kristin and I don’t particularly care and while we were alerted he would be arriving, we’ve got more important things to worry about, like my new haircut I got this morning.
The Fire King just showed up. And he’s hot. Really, really hot. He’s covered in crap and paint and all sorts of man-things, but The Fire King is pretty gorgeous. Plus, his official title is The Fire King. Beat that.
He grabbed our fire extinguishers and headed out to his huge van, clearly marked, “The Fire King!” It’s even got flames on it. Margot, Kristin and I went nuts, running around, throwing on lip gloss and debating if he used his truck to pick up dates.
“Margot, what’s he doing out there?”
“Pumping our fire extinguishers full of fire fighting shit. What do you think? Jeez. Go ask him a question.”
Kristin, who’s young and fearless, walked out to his truck. “Do you need help carrying those back in?”
We nervously watched her from the window, laughing hysterically as she twirled her hair and batted her eyelashes. He apparently did not need help. We’re now coming up with all sorts of cheesy pick ups, along the lines of “Put out my fire, Fire King!” or “How may I service you, your majesty?”
The Fire King just walked back inside.
Margot piped up immediately. “Oh, Beth can help you. She’s in charge now.”
He looked over at me. “You must be Beth, then.”
Oh my god. I hate my life. “Yes. I am Beth.”
We then shared some very intense eye contact while he updated his palm pilot, which it when I noticed it.
He smelled.
Really, really badly. Let’s not even get into the fact that he was wearing a (cheap looking) wedding ring. He reeked.
“Maybe it’s because he lifts things all day?” wondered Margot, dumbfounded by the intense odor that still lingers.
“Or maybe it’s that weird shit he put in our fire extinguishers” offered Kristin, holding her nose.
Maybe it’s because really gorgeous eyes and a really cool job title don’t make up for the wondrous benefits of a nice hot shower and a bar of soap…
The Fire King just showed up. And he’s hot. Really, really hot. He’s covered in crap and paint and all sorts of man-things, but The Fire King is pretty gorgeous. Plus, his official title is The Fire King. Beat that.
He grabbed our fire extinguishers and headed out to his huge van, clearly marked, “The Fire King!” It’s even got flames on it. Margot, Kristin and I went nuts, running around, throwing on lip gloss and debating if he used his truck to pick up dates.
“Margot, what’s he doing out there?”
“Pumping our fire extinguishers full of fire fighting shit. What do you think? Jeez. Go ask him a question.”
Kristin, who’s young and fearless, walked out to his truck. “Do you need help carrying those back in?”
We nervously watched her from the window, laughing hysterically as she twirled her hair and batted her eyelashes. He apparently did not need help. We’re now coming up with all sorts of cheesy pick ups, along the lines of “Put out my fire, Fire King!” or “How may I service you, your majesty?”
The Fire King just walked back inside.
Margot piped up immediately. “Oh, Beth can help you. She’s in charge now.”
He looked over at me. “You must be Beth, then.”
Oh my god. I hate my life. “Yes. I am Beth.”
We then shared some very intense eye contact while he updated his palm pilot, which it when I noticed it.
He smelled.
Really, really badly. Let’s not even get into the fact that he was wearing a (cheap looking) wedding ring. He reeked.
“Maybe it’s because he lifts things all day?” wondered Margot, dumbfounded by the intense odor that still lingers.
“Or maybe it’s that weird shit he put in our fire extinguishers” offered Kristin, holding her nose.
Maybe it’s because really gorgeous eyes and a really cool job title don’t make up for the wondrous benefits of a nice hot shower and a bar of soap…
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
booze and bluehairs...
Last night, the four Spotswoods dined at Jardinière to celebrate Alex’s birthday. They have a very extensive booze menu there, with all sorts of crazy tastings available. We decided that Alex, now 22, should have a gentleman’s knowledge of fine liquor and thus ordered him a flight of Armagnac. Armagnac is French brandy and we sampled 4 various ages and regions. I liked number 2 and number 4.
Alex could have sampled Tequila or Cognac, but dad thought Armagnac might be impressive if Alex ever found a way to bring it up on a date. We had a wonderful meal and a marvelous time, but apparently, a lot to drink. As we walked to the car, I watched my family argue over who was sober enough to drive home. Classy.
In other news, Margot is still very pregnant. And doing fine today. However, she is a tad hormonal. She has requested not to speak with the elderly today. We get a lot of calls from old folks, and they can be easily confused by such things as being put on hold, driving directions or anything involving computers. Margot is easily the most patient in the office and sadly, it now falls on me to speak with the geriatric contingent. Sometimes, I can be quite lovely to my elders. Mostly, they just annoy me. However, as Margot is carrying around the future of the world in her belly, I shall bear the burden of tolerating the near dead. It’s the least I can do for her…
Alex could have sampled Tequila or Cognac, but dad thought Armagnac might be impressive if Alex ever found a way to bring it up on a date. We had a wonderful meal and a marvelous time, but apparently, a lot to drink. As we walked to the car, I watched my family argue over who was sober enough to drive home. Classy.
In other news, Margot is still very pregnant. And doing fine today. However, she is a tad hormonal. She has requested not to speak with the elderly today. We get a lot of calls from old folks, and they can be easily confused by such things as being put on hold, driving directions or anything involving computers. Margot is easily the most patient in the office and sadly, it now falls on me to speak with the geriatric contingent. Sometimes, I can be quite lovely to my elders. Mostly, they just annoy me. However, as Margot is carrying around the future of the world in her belly, I shall bear the burden of tolerating the near dead. It’s the least I can do for her…
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
my favorite day all year...
I whole heartedly maintain that the world is a much better place because 22 years ago today, a little fella named Alexander entered this world. Normally, on the birthdays of close relatives, I regale my blog reader with a hilarious tale of humiliation and embarrassment. However, with Alex, there are too many.
There was the time he called into work saying he was in a car accident. To bad it was a lie because his boss called my parents in a panic.
There was the time he lost a heated and hotly contested game of Family Feud. When asked to name a household appliance, Alex screamed out, “Spoons!”
Or the time we were exhausted, driving back from a ski trip and stopped at McDonalds, chauffeured for 5 hours by a mechanic because our car had broken down. Alex was holding a huge tray of sodas and as everyone, bad moods included, watched him walk back to our booth, he dumped it all over the floor.
Alex played football for years and once broke his arm doing so. Did he break it in some intense game-winning maneuver? Nope. Hew tripped over a tackling dummy.
I could talk about the first time we got to fly first class, and a very young Alex was seated next to a very uptight woman in a stunning suit. He proceeded to play with a small container of coffee creamer until it exploded all over his seatmate.
When Alex was about 12, we celebrated Thanksgiving at the Olympic Club. Alex had outgrown his little navy blazer and mom hadn’t gotten around to buying him a new one. She figured, “Screw it, he’s 12. What are they going to do?” Alex arrived at the Club, of which, I should point out, he is currently a member, and the maitre’d came over with a bright red sport coat. “Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you’d feel more comfortable in this.”
When traveling Australia, we stayed on some island resort, reachable only by yacht. After carrying around a laptop for weeks, we left the resort and boarded our boat. Seconds before the boat is due to depart, Alex screams, “The laptop!”, and runs back onto land, halting the departure of dozens of pissed-off tourists.
Another stroke of genius? Alex and Peter were enjoying a sleepover at John’s house. In the middle of the night, John decided to climb out onto his roof and pee off the edge, while singing the national anthem and saluting. Alex then brilliantly locks the window, forcing John to break it. In breaking the window, John slices open his arm and Alex and Pete simultaneously call 911 from two different phones, prohibiting the emergency call from going through.
Alex and I were driving somewhere once, and the tag was hanging out of his black t-shirt. I went to tuck it back in and noticed that it read Banana Republic Intimates. “Uh, Alex. You’re wearing mom’s shirt.”
There are hundreds more to tell and hundreds more to come. Alex is a god, a genius, a gentleman and a goofball.
Happy Birthday, Biscuit!
I love you!!!!!
There was the time he called into work saying he was in a car accident. To bad it was a lie because his boss called my parents in a panic.
There was the time he lost a heated and hotly contested game of Family Feud. When asked to name a household appliance, Alex screamed out, “Spoons!”
Or the time we were exhausted, driving back from a ski trip and stopped at McDonalds, chauffeured for 5 hours by a mechanic because our car had broken down. Alex was holding a huge tray of sodas and as everyone, bad moods included, watched him walk back to our booth, he dumped it all over the floor.
Alex played football for years and once broke his arm doing so. Did he break it in some intense game-winning maneuver? Nope. Hew tripped over a tackling dummy.
I could talk about the first time we got to fly first class, and a very young Alex was seated next to a very uptight woman in a stunning suit. He proceeded to play with a small container of coffee creamer until it exploded all over his seatmate.
When Alex was about 12, we celebrated Thanksgiving at the Olympic Club. Alex had outgrown his little navy blazer and mom hadn’t gotten around to buying him a new one. She figured, “Screw it, he’s 12. What are they going to do?” Alex arrived at the Club, of which, I should point out, he is currently a member, and the maitre’d came over with a bright red sport coat. “Excuse me, sir. Perhaps you’d feel more comfortable in this.”
When traveling Australia, we stayed on some island resort, reachable only by yacht. After carrying around a laptop for weeks, we left the resort and boarded our boat. Seconds before the boat is due to depart, Alex screams, “The laptop!”, and runs back onto land, halting the departure of dozens of pissed-off tourists.
Another stroke of genius? Alex and Peter were enjoying a sleepover at John’s house. In the middle of the night, John decided to climb out onto his roof and pee off the edge, while singing the national anthem and saluting. Alex then brilliantly locks the window, forcing John to break it. In breaking the window, John slices open his arm and Alex and Pete simultaneously call 911 from two different phones, prohibiting the emergency call from going through.
Alex and I were driving somewhere once, and the tag was hanging out of his black t-shirt. I went to tuck it back in and noticed that it read Banana Republic Intimates. “Uh, Alex. You’re wearing mom’s shirt.”
There are hundreds more to tell and hundreds more to come. Alex is a god, a genius, a gentleman and a goofball.
Happy Birthday, Biscuit!
I love you!!!!!
Monday, May 09, 2005
cleanup on aisle 9...
Margot, being hugely preggo, wobbles into the grocery store every morning right by work. She spends a fortune on her daily food, selecting tons of organic, healthy items which she then spends her day eating.
This morning, however, while standing in line waiting to pay for her array, Margot felt suddenly ill. Dizzy and woozy, Margot dropped her basket of food in line and headed outside, sitting on one of the many swing sets available for sale in front of the store. Feeling even more dreadful and not getting any better, Margot soon realized that she had to lie down. Immediately. So she dragged her huge self back into the store, selected an aisle and lay down. I find this ironic because Margot constantly chastises me for rolling around on the floor at work, a far less public surface than some old supermarket.
As it’s hard to miss a pregnant woman lying in the middle of the frozen foods section, Margot was soon spotted by staff who called her an ambulance.
I deal with shitty situations by telling shitty jokes. Sometimes, it helps. Sometimes, it doesn’t. Perhaps, when your dear pregnant friend calls you from the back of an ambulance, it’s probably not a good idea to say, “Hey Margot. I wonder if you were about to throw up, and the checker handed you a bag, if you’d have a choice between paper or plastic.”
I had to go to the hospital to pick Margot up, and was hoping to see some emergency room action or at least a hot doctor. No such luck, as Margot was waiting for me and very ready to leave. Delicately, I placed her in Rhonda the Honda, and proceeded to entertain her all the way home as she sipped her hospital juice.
Turns out, she’s anemic, which is apparently no big deal. She’s home and resting now, currently IMing me, concerned that I might write a blog about this. When told that indeed, I am detailing her medical adventure, she made it perfectly clear that I was to represent her bravely and to point out that she was rescued by 5 firemen and paramedics.
Margot via Instant Message: yea, not one was a woman. all men and asking me a million questions. very very nice charming gents. not a bad way to go!
Oh my. I think I’m feeling faint…
This morning, however, while standing in line waiting to pay for her array, Margot felt suddenly ill. Dizzy and woozy, Margot dropped her basket of food in line and headed outside, sitting on one of the many swing sets available for sale in front of the store. Feeling even more dreadful and not getting any better, Margot soon realized that she had to lie down. Immediately. So she dragged her huge self back into the store, selected an aisle and lay down. I find this ironic because Margot constantly chastises me for rolling around on the floor at work, a far less public surface than some old supermarket.
As it’s hard to miss a pregnant woman lying in the middle of the frozen foods section, Margot was soon spotted by staff who called her an ambulance.
I deal with shitty situations by telling shitty jokes. Sometimes, it helps. Sometimes, it doesn’t. Perhaps, when your dear pregnant friend calls you from the back of an ambulance, it’s probably not a good idea to say, “Hey Margot. I wonder if you were about to throw up, and the checker handed you a bag, if you’d have a choice between paper or plastic.”
I had to go to the hospital to pick Margot up, and was hoping to see some emergency room action or at least a hot doctor. No such luck, as Margot was waiting for me and very ready to leave. Delicately, I placed her in Rhonda the Honda, and proceeded to entertain her all the way home as she sipped her hospital juice.
Turns out, she’s anemic, which is apparently no big deal. She’s home and resting now, currently IMing me, concerned that I might write a blog about this. When told that indeed, I am detailing her medical adventure, she made it perfectly clear that I was to represent her bravely and to point out that she was rescued by 5 firemen and paramedics.
Margot via Instant Message: yea, not one was a woman. all men and asking me a million questions. very very nice charming gents. not a bad way to go!
Oh my. I think I’m feeling faint…
Saturday, May 07, 2005
my bitches don't like barbies...
What’s the deal with people who try to sell you crap while you’re out to dinner? Last night, I had dinner with Hannah, Greg and dear Bonnie who’s back in town. While downing margaritas and enchiladas, we were accosted by not one, but 3 (three!) people trying to sell us a bizarre array of shit no one would want.
First was the lady with the fake flowers, whereupon Greg reprised his famous, “My bitches don’t like flowers.” Then, we’re approached by this shady looking character who pulls a Barbie doll from within his disgusting jacket. Still in it’s packaging, he really pushed his one item on us, inquiring as to our daughters or nieces whom he’s convinced must have his stolen Barbie immediately.
Finally, some chick with bootleg DVDs arrives and Greg actually checks out her loot. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.” Greg says, flipping through filth covered films. Hannah, horrified that he’d even consider, tried to make him stop, but as luck would have it, Greg wasn’t interested in her selection anyway.
Hey, we’re all trying to make a buck. But why must they come at the most inopportune time, like in the middle of a hilarious story and during a very tense argument? Also, it’s one thing to hock your hot merchandise on a street corner, but it is entirely another to walk into a restaurant and hassle diners.
It also sucks because I feel like the biggest bitch in town when I plaster on a smile and firmly say, “No, Gracias.”
Although, I did want that Barbie…
First was the lady with the fake flowers, whereupon Greg reprised his famous, “My bitches don’t like flowers.” Then, we’re approached by this shady looking character who pulls a Barbie doll from within his disgusting jacket. Still in it’s packaging, he really pushed his one item on us, inquiring as to our daughters or nieces whom he’s convinced must have his stolen Barbie immediately.
Finally, some chick with bootleg DVDs arrives and Greg actually checks out her loot. “Let’s see what you’ve got here.” Greg says, flipping through filth covered films. Hannah, horrified that he’d even consider, tried to make him stop, but as luck would have it, Greg wasn’t interested in her selection anyway.
Hey, we’re all trying to make a buck. But why must they come at the most inopportune time, like in the middle of a hilarious story and during a very tense argument? Also, it’s one thing to hock your hot merchandise on a street corner, but it is entirely another to walk into a restaurant and hassle diners.
It also sucks because I feel like the biggest bitch in town when I plaster on a smile and firmly say, “No, Gracias.”
Although, I did want that Barbie…
Friday, May 06, 2005
cry me a river...
This guy just called the office and for reasons it will take too long to explain, started crying. So I e-mailed Big Chris because I was all sad that some old man cried his eyes out to me on the phone. He responded with the ridiculous, “I haven’t cried since 1989.” Bullshit. Not even at the movies?
Not even at the movies.
Come on! Guys cry at the movies all the time. I know it. So, I immediately contacted all of the straight men I could get ahold of within a half an hour and here’s what I’ve got.
Big Chris is an emotionless robot and hasn’t cried since he was 12.
Jason cried at Big Fish, Life as a House, My Life, Brian’s Song and Wit. Even thinking about Saving Private Ryan has him in hysterics at his desk.
Ben cried at Rocky. He’s claiming that he always cries at Rocky. I should point out that at lunch, I was nearly mauled to death by a pit bull, and Ben’s reaction was to laugh so hard that he had to take a moment and actually sit on the curb. He’s spent the past hour at work re-enacting my response to near death for the entire office. So, he’s obviously heartless and soul-less.
Marc doesn’t cry at movies. He cries at Indian music. Freak.
Alex cried at Field of Dreams and at Shawshank Redemption, but only when Brooks died.
My father completely lost it at the end of Cinema Paradiso. But he also cried when I graduated 8th grade. However, I should not talk. I cry at Nickelback…
Not even at the movies.
Come on! Guys cry at the movies all the time. I know it. So, I immediately contacted all of the straight men I could get ahold of within a half an hour and here’s what I’ve got.
Big Chris is an emotionless robot and hasn’t cried since he was 12.
Jason cried at Big Fish, Life as a House, My Life, Brian’s Song and Wit. Even thinking about Saving Private Ryan has him in hysterics at his desk.
Ben cried at Rocky. He’s claiming that he always cries at Rocky. I should point out that at lunch, I was nearly mauled to death by a pit bull, and Ben’s reaction was to laugh so hard that he had to take a moment and actually sit on the curb. He’s spent the past hour at work re-enacting my response to near death for the entire office. So, he’s obviously heartless and soul-less.
Marc doesn’t cry at movies. He cries at Indian music. Freak.
Alex cried at Field of Dreams and at Shawshank Redemption, but only when Brooks died.
My father completely lost it at the end of Cinema Paradiso. But he also cried when I graduated 8th grade. However, I should not talk. I cry at Nickelback…
Thursday, May 05, 2005
dear steven...
Every so often, I get a weird e-mail from someone who’s read my blog who I don’t know. I pretty much assume that the only people that read this are people who know me very well, people who I talk about and acquaintances people who have nothing better to do at work. But the thought of complete strangers not only stumbling across this, but spending enough time to ask me questions about something that happened in August freaks me out.
Thus, I will respond to the most recent e-mail publicly, in the hopes of perhaps answering the questions of other strangers:
Dear Steven,
Thank you for you letter.
1. Yeah, that was some pretty crazy shit that went down 10 months ago. Thanks for bringing it back up.
2. I have lots of favorite websites, but chose not to share them as I think it makes me look like a loser.
3. No, we have not heard from the crazy letter writer since last week, but Kristin hasn’t gotten today’s mail yet. I’ll keep you posted.
4. Yeah, I think Craigslist is cool too. Everyone does. Duh.
5. Yes, that is me on MySpace. Stop looking at it. Although, I’m both glad and frightened that you like the new photos.
6. I think that the next time we’re going on a family vacation is for New Year’s again, although there’s talk of Costa Rica. I’m happy you thought China was funny. And yes, I still make people do “Noses!”
7. No, people don’t send me e-mails about my blog very often. Do you read stranger’s blogs often and write them? If so, why?
I appreciate your letter. Keep reading. Tell your friends.
Your pal,
Spots
Thus, I will respond to the most recent e-mail publicly, in the hopes of perhaps answering the questions of other strangers:
Dear Steven,
Thank you for you letter.
1. Yeah, that was some pretty crazy shit that went down 10 months ago. Thanks for bringing it back up.
2. I have lots of favorite websites, but chose not to share them as I think it makes me look like a loser.
3. No, we have not heard from the crazy letter writer since last week, but Kristin hasn’t gotten today’s mail yet. I’ll keep you posted.
4. Yeah, I think Craigslist is cool too. Everyone does. Duh.
5. Yes, that is me on MySpace. Stop looking at it. Although, I’m both glad and frightened that you like the new photos.
6. I think that the next time we’re going on a family vacation is for New Year’s again, although there’s talk of Costa Rica. I’m happy you thought China was funny. And yes, I still make people do “Noses!”
7. No, people don’t send me e-mails about my blog very often. Do you read stranger’s blogs often and write them? If so, why?
I appreciate your letter. Keep reading. Tell your friends.
Your pal,
Spots
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
i'm going to need you to go ahead and come in on saturday...
I have a rather unfortunate obsession with the band Nickelback. I can’t explain it. I know I’m famous for my notorious poor taste in music, but even I’ll admit this is bad.
Anytime a Nickelback song comes on the radio, I go nuts, belting like a rockstar. It’s embarrassing, but alas, I cannot stop myself.
“Someday”? That’s like, the greatest song ever. I’ve actually lost my voice singing that song.
As I’m forcing my office to listen to Nickelback, my boss comes over and asks me to work on Saturday. This Saturday? Are you kidding me? Way out in the middle of nowhere? What is this? Office Space? Forget it. All I do is spend nights and weekends whoring myself out for this place, and I finally have one Saturday free to party with my friends. This sucks. I quit. I’m done. I’m having the worst day ever, everyone is yelling at me, all of my projects are falling apart and you want me to work on Saturday. No fucking way.
“Well, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I’d really like you to be there. I’ve got plans and they really want to interview staff.”
“Interview? They? What? Start over?”
“The TV crew. They want to interview the producer.”
That’s a horse of a different color. “I’d be delighted. What time should I be there?”
I’m sure there are Nickelback lyrics that are perfect for this glorious occasion…
Anytime a Nickelback song comes on the radio, I go nuts, belting like a rockstar. It’s embarrassing, but alas, I cannot stop myself.
“Someday”? That’s like, the greatest song ever. I’ve actually lost my voice singing that song.
As I’m forcing my office to listen to Nickelback, my boss comes over and asks me to work on Saturday. This Saturday? Are you kidding me? Way out in the middle of nowhere? What is this? Office Space? Forget it. All I do is spend nights and weekends whoring myself out for this place, and I finally have one Saturday free to party with my friends. This sucks. I quit. I’m done. I’m having the worst day ever, everyone is yelling at me, all of my projects are falling apart and you want me to work on Saturday. No fucking way.
“Well, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to, but I’d really like you to be there. I’ve got plans and they really want to interview staff.”
“Interview? They? What? Start over?”
“The TV crew. They want to interview the producer.”
That’s a horse of a different color. “I’d be delighted. What time should I be there?”
I’m sure there are Nickelback lyrics that are perfect for this glorious occasion…
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
finger on the pulse...
I like to think that I’m hip to each and every current trend. Thus, I’ve been hoping to find a severed finger in my food. Everyone’s been finding them, or at least claiming to, and I’m feeling out of the loop. I can’t imagine how I’d react if I actually did bite down on a severed digit, but I think it would include screaming and projectile vomiting.
This morning, on the way to work, I imagined a new bumper sticker. The possibilities are limitless, so I leave it up to your imagination.
I found a finger in my _______, and you don’t see me suing anyone…
This morning, on the way to work, I imagined a new bumper sticker. The possibilities are limitless, so I leave it up to your imagination.
I found a finger in my _______, and you don’t see me suing anyone…
down with kinkos...
I’ve having a big job printed at Kinko’s where I stopped by this morning to proof the photos I’m having blown up. I then proceeded to get into a huge verbal melee with Jeff, the biggest asshole in the history of the world.
Who sucks more? Hitler? Or Jeff?
You decide.
Beth: Hi, I’m here to pick up an order for Spotswood.
Jeff: It’s not done.
Beth: I know. I need to proof the first print.
Jeff: It’s not here. (pretending to look around.) Yeah, it’s definitely not here.
Beth: Well, Keiko said it would be here.
Jeff. Am I not being clear? I said it’s not here. I’ve looked all over, and I’m telling you. It’s not here at all. Oh, here it is.
Jeff then accuses me of changing my order, questioning his authority, and trying to sneak around our “main issue”, which he refused to define.
Beth: Why are you giving me such a hard time?
Jeff: I’m trying to understand your order.
Beth: Two photos. Blown up. Laminated.
Jeff: So you’re changing your order? Just admit that you’re changing your order.
Beth: Can I talk to anyone else?
Jeff: I am capable of handling this order. I just want you to be clear.
Beth: You are NOT capable of handling this order. You weren’t even capable of finding my proof. Can I please speak with someone else?
Jeff: Just admit that the order you called in yesterday is not the order you want today.
Beth: Are you trying to piss me off? I mean, I walked in here in a good mood. And now I’m pissed.
Jeff: Can you please try and remain professional so that I can do my job and amend this order? Are YOU capable of that?
I have an official “disgusted” look. I contort my face into a look of complete and utter disgust, visually expressing how offended I am when words simply aren’t enough. It is at this point that the manager comes over.
Manager: Jeff, print her photos. Cut them. Laminate them.
Jeff: She’s changing her order.
Manager: So?
Beth: THANK YOU!
Jeff and Manager at same time: That wasn’t necessary.
My project is currently being sabotaged as I type, by Jeff, the Kinko’s asshole. Oh, and before you say it. I know. Keiko at Kinkos. What a bunch of freaks...
Who sucks more? Hitler? Or Jeff?
You decide.
Beth: Hi, I’m here to pick up an order for Spotswood.
Jeff: It’s not done.
Beth: I know. I need to proof the first print.
Jeff: It’s not here. (pretending to look around.) Yeah, it’s definitely not here.
Beth: Well, Keiko said it would be here.
Jeff. Am I not being clear? I said it’s not here. I’ve looked all over, and I’m telling you. It’s not here at all. Oh, here it is.
Jeff then accuses me of changing my order, questioning his authority, and trying to sneak around our “main issue”, which he refused to define.
Beth: Why are you giving me such a hard time?
Jeff: I’m trying to understand your order.
Beth: Two photos. Blown up. Laminated.
Jeff: So you’re changing your order? Just admit that you’re changing your order.
Beth: Can I talk to anyone else?
Jeff: I am capable of handling this order. I just want you to be clear.
Beth: You are NOT capable of handling this order. You weren’t even capable of finding my proof. Can I please speak with someone else?
Jeff: Just admit that the order you called in yesterday is not the order you want today.
Beth: Are you trying to piss me off? I mean, I walked in here in a good mood. And now I’m pissed.
Jeff: Can you please try and remain professional so that I can do my job and amend this order? Are YOU capable of that?
I have an official “disgusted” look. I contort my face into a look of complete and utter disgust, visually expressing how offended I am when words simply aren’t enough. It is at this point that the manager comes over.
Manager: Jeff, print her photos. Cut them. Laminate them.
Jeff: She’s changing her order.
Manager: So?
Beth: THANK YOU!
Jeff and Manager at same time: That wasn’t necessary.
My project is currently being sabotaged as I type, by Jeff, the Kinko’s asshole. Oh, and before you say it. I know. Keiko at Kinkos. What a bunch of freaks...
go on, miss thing...
Tonight, Zoe and I attended the gayest event in all of San Francisco. And that’s saying something. Matt Alber, Beach Blanket star, was releasing his CD at a fabulous party at Nancy Boy. Nancy Boy is a super trendy, super expensive, super gay men’s beauty store. And yes, Jason, I got a gift bag. Don’t worry. It’s all yours.
You’d think I was a drag queen. You’d think I was Bette Midler. You’d think I was more of a faghag than I already am. But tonight I found myself standing in the middle of a men’s toiletry store, holding a glass of Chardonnay, Euro-kissing homos like there’s no tomorrow.
The party was surprisingly impressive, packed with the city’s trendiest gays and all of my pals from BBB. Not only was there free booze and uber-fabulous dessert trays, but Matt sang. And he’s surprisingly amazing. I’m not kidding. My boy fucking rocks.
There are few parties I can attend where a good 50 people will acknowledge the subtle genius of my corresponding clutch and pashmina. And while I often lament my fruit fly lot in life, I will never be more at home, more comfortable, more immensely understood than when I’m in a room full of gays listening to disco surrounded by very expensive men’s eye crème…
www.mattalber.com (listen to “the slow club”…)
You’d think I was a drag queen. You’d think I was Bette Midler. You’d think I was more of a faghag than I already am. But tonight I found myself standing in the middle of a men’s toiletry store, holding a glass of Chardonnay, Euro-kissing homos like there’s no tomorrow.
The party was surprisingly impressive, packed with the city’s trendiest gays and all of my pals from BBB. Not only was there free booze and uber-fabulous dessert trays, but Matt sang. And he’s surprisingly amazing. I’m not kidding. My boy fucking rocks.
There are few parties I can attend where a good 50 people will acknowledge the subtle genius of my corresponding clutch and pashmina. And while I often lament my fruit fly lot in life, I will never be more at home, more comfortable, more immensely understood than when I’m in a room full of gays listening to disco surrounded by very expensive men’s eye crème…
www.mattalber.com (listen to “the slow club”…)
Monday, May 02, 2005
big chris has something to say...
via e-mail from Big Chris:
I think I have found the greatest website ever created
by humans in the history of mankind. please share
with the world on your blog.
http://www.meet-an-inmate.com/
He also sent this today, which I think is kinda funny...
also I have some guy coming to look at my dent tomorrow at work, and I said to him something like a need a dent popped out he and this guy got all offended and said it not popped out it is meticulously worked out by hand.
sorry Michelangelo.
Big Chris and I swung by Capp’s last night to pick up Zoe and ended up staying for an eternity. You know when you’re having the one drink that you can feel is putting you over the edge…well that’s when we met Tom who started buying us drinks. It is at this point that I saw the cutest baby I have ever seen in my life and so I publicly asked Big Chris to impregnate me with a turkey baster. He declined, stating that he doesn’t waste his joy juice on just anyone.
Chris was quite excited as we were hanging out with the Beach Blanket cast and someone mistook him for an actor and asked for his autograph. He was quite thrilled by it and is still discussing it today…
I think I have found the greatest website ever created
by humans in the history of mankind. please share
with the world on your blog.
http://www.meet-an-inmate.com/
He also sent this today, which I think is kinda funny...
also I have some guy coming to look at my dent tomorrow at work, and I said to him something like a need a dent popped out he and this guy got all offended and said it not popped out it is meticulously worked out by hand.
sorry Michelangelo.
Big Chris and I swung by Capp’s last night to pick up Zoe and ended up staying for an eternity. You know when you’re having the one drink that you can feel is putting you over the edge…well that’s when we met Tom who started buying us drinks. It is at this point that I saw the cutest baby I have ever seen in my life and so I publicly asked Big Chris to impregnate me with a turkey baster. He declined, stating that he doesn’t waste his joy juice on just anyone.
Chris was quite excited as we were hanging out with the Beach Blanket cast and someone mistook him for an actor and asked for his autograph. He was quite thrilled by it and is still discussing it today…
midnight train to georgia...
Speaking of weddings, I am fascinated by the Runaway Bride. In case you’ve been trapped in a cave, a blushing bride-to-be went missing last Tuesday, a mere 5 days before her lavish Southern wedding. Foul play suspected, her entire Georgian community searched high and low, having public prayer circles and offering huge rewards.
Just as the police called off the search, apparently presuming her dead, she calls from Albuquerque claiming to have been kidnapped. Crumbling under pressure, she soon reveals that she got cold feet and skipped town, needing “time alone.” She had no idea that the world was looking for her, although took the time to chop off her hair and hop Greyhounds with Mexican couples all over the wild west.
With the 14 bridesmaids and 600 people attending these nuptials, I’ll admit the pressure of the wedding would be significant. However, I imagine the pressure of thousands of people searching the wilderness for you, your face being splashed across the international news media and a relatively hot groom standing at an alter getting pissed is far worse. Not to mention the pressure of being 32 and a spinster…
Just as the police called off the search, apparently presuming her dead, she calls from Albuquerque claiming to have been kidnapped. Crumbling under pressure, she soon reveals that she got cold feet and skipped town, needing “time alone.” She had no idea that the world was looking for her, although took the time to chop off her hair and hop Greyhounds with Mexican couples all over the wild west.
With the 14 bridesmaids and 600 people attending these nuptials, I’ll admit the pressure of the wedding would be significant. However, I imagine the pressure of thousands of people searching the wilderness for you, your face being splashed across the international news media and a relatively hot groom standing at an alter getting pissed is far worse. Not to mention the pressure of being 32 and a spinster…
Sunday, May 01, 2005
i most certainly DO...
A year ago today, I was clad in green taffeta, holding hydrangeas and walking down an aisle making eyes at the hot guy in the 4th pew. Never having been a bridesmaid before, I was taking this very seriously. We’d had a bachelorette party in LA, fittings and dress drama, an early morning hair and make-up session that morning in a hotel room, fabulous photos taken, a limo to the chappel and cameras flashing in my face as I strutted through that church. But I didn’t really get the whole point until I watched my beautiful friend Katherine marry the love of her life.
The ceremony was stunning, but nothing compared to that reception. Held at the San Francisco Film Society, overlooking the bay and the bridge, we danced and ate and drank. I found that being the only single bridesmaid had immense and overwhelming benefits, of which I took great advantage. But that’s a story for another day.
As I danced the night away with my groomsman, Rodney, Katherine’s Texan Aunt Sandy pulled me aside.
“I can tell that you’re the troublemaker in the group. Well, you know what? I’m a troublemaker too.”
Fabulous.
I was responsible for the after party at the Cliff House and late in the evening, rallied the troops. I remember little else, save that I cornered Shawn in the bar and gave him a lecture on taking care of my best friend, began making inappropriate toasts with Shawn’s college cronies, and spilled red wine all over my beautiful dress, which somehow ended up in a crumpled ball on the floor. Uh…
Katherine and Shawn’s wedding rocked my world, and I hope it rocked theirs as well. When I spent my lunch period in 1994 sitting on a bench bitching about being sixteen with someone who somehow seemed to be the only person “getting me” those days, I had no idea I’d one day have the glorious honor of watching her walk off into the Sunset, happily, happily, happily ever after…
The ceremony was stunning, but nothing compared to that reception. Held at the San Francisco Film Society, overlooking the bay and the bridge, we danced and ate and drank. I found that being the only single bridesmaid had immense and overwhelming benefits, of which I took great advantage. But that’s a story for another day.
As I danced the night away with my groomsman, Rodney, Katherine’s Texan Aunt Sandy pulled me aside.
“I can tell that you’re the troublemaker in the group. Well, you know what? I’m a troublemaker too.”
Fabulous.
I was responsible for the after party at the Cliff House and late in the evening, rallied the troops. I remember little else, save that I cornered Shawn in the bar and gave him a lecture on taking care of my best friend, began making inappropriate toasts with Shawn’s college cronies, and spilled red wine all over my beautiful dress, which somehow ended up in a crumpled ball on the floor. Uh…
Katherine and Shawn’s wedding rocked my world, and I hope it rocked theirs as well. When I spent my lunch period in 1994 sitting on a bench bitching about being sixteen with someone who somehow seemed to be the only person “getting me” those days, I had no idea I’d one day have the glorious honor of watching her walk off into the Sunset, happily, happily, happily ever after…
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