I love it. Every minute of it.

So I’m watching The Simple Life, the new season, Paris and Nicole are at camp. I believe they are at fat camp. And I think they’re currently administering high colonics, which is gross. But I’m personally still stuck on one of the opening dialogues:

Nicole: So, do you love it?

Male Counselor? It?

Nicole: Yeah, it.

Male Counselor: I don’t know. Do you love it?

Nicole: Yeah, every minute of it.

What the f does that mean?? At first I thought she was talking about sex b/c she mostly talks about sex on every other Simple Life thing I’ve ever seen. But I don’t think that was it. So then I thought maybe she meant life. But I think that would be way beyond her mental capacities, too deep. So I’m just at a loss.

High colonics are over – they’re now showing the campers pooping while N&P watch them. I think I’d rather die than take a shit in front of complete strangers, let alone bitchy little whorey celeb strangers. But that’s just me.

Oh also, I watched The Texas Chainsaw Massacre last night w/ Warren and Winnie. Warren and I picked it cuz we like scary movies. Winnie kind of cried and winced throughout the movie. He was kind of a little bitch. I guess in a special sort of way it was cute. I winced too, but I slept fine.

But the thing is, last night I was cool, but tonight is slightly different. I’m doing laundry which involves going out to the laundry room by myself in the dark and also Veeve is still at work so I’m all alone, and I keep thinking whenever I turn around that I’m going to see some kind of crazy dude wearing someone else’s face and wielding a chain saw. Dude, creeeeeep-yyyy.

And, to wrap up, I’m viciously sunburned. I rode my bike down to Manhattan B yday for Newman’s bbq and roo-hoo’s friend’s Danny’s bbq. I wore my bikini top in an effort to disperse my Speedo tan lines and then kind of burnt up my back. oh for the record, I’m pretty sure I witnessed the wedding b/t one very drunk man and a blow-up goat dressed as a bride. Don’t have too much too say about that. That there, is about 2 burritos short of a fiesta.

Oh, break, I’m watching a show about tanning salons in LA. Reality show about a tanning salon. No joke. And this chick just brought in her 7 year old and spent $1300 on a tanning package for her little girl, b/c “last year she was pale in her school pictures. I want her to stand out this year.” I think I just threw up in my mouth. Perhaps a good thing I’m leaving this city.

So then, back to my own personal tan. Today after brunch I laid out chez KT. So that makes for two full days of tanning and one very tan slightly red little back and set of shoulders. Again, perhaps a good thing I’m leaving this city.

Chateau myButt

So my muscles are super super sore. I’m full on recovering from a massage. Swear to G_d I just wrote that. Rehana was in town for the weekend; we went to get some massages b/c the weather, as it always is when people fly across the damn country to visit me out here, was shitty, and there is little else in LA to do aside from shopping, eating, or…grooming…if it’s crappy out. So that is what we did. Anyway, this morning, I woke up with a crazy sore back that I didn’t have yesterday pre-massage. My face hurts. My skull hurts. Places where I didn’t even realize I had muscles, but sure enough recall getting rubbed out yesterday, are hurting.

Did you know that massages I guess break up all the lactic acid in your muscles that can cause knots, and that’s what makes it hurt afterward – all the lactic acid being released? Did you know? I didn’t. Now I do. I guess that’s why you’re supposed to drinks lots of water post-massage; to flush out all the toxins.

Well then. Getting to the point here. Last night we were forced to drive to HWood. KT and Eve (little Freddy) had driven over to the West side all weekend so we humored them and hit up the SSet Strip post dinner. We decided to go all out and do something totally HWood, as it was a long journey for a Monday night. Ended up at Chateau Marmont.

So it’s a well known fact that I read UsWeekly and all that shit from time to time with the “to” being a fairly brief time so I read it kinda somewhat often enough. And more importantly I am avid reader of thesuperficial.com, etc. etc. so I know my celeb gossip and as importantly, my celeb hotspots. Not that I ever see damn celebrities. This is only LA after all, where they ALL LIVE. Continuing on. So it’s known that the Chateau is this place where skanky red-head hoes like the infamous LLohan hang out on a frequent basis. I figure she’s fairly picky, at least when it comes to what she puts in her mouth versus her. Wow. I really did almost say that but I held back.

Therefore, I figured that the Chateau would be all neat and great and v. hot and stuff. Instead, it’s: 1) impossible to find the entrance as the hotel and the bar are in two diff buildings (I say weird); 2) frequented by a lot of not very hot people at least on Monday nights; 3) decked out in weird décor including stuffed peacocks, fake butterflies, and ancient looking red fabrics; 4) possessed of neglectful and cross-eyed (yes, actually, not metaphorically) bartenders; 5) smelly. Like what I’m not so sure, but I think it smells.

I don’t get it. I really don’t. What’s the hype all about kids? I had a late afternoon drink at The Wilshire yesterday as well, and I must say, that place is so way better. And it’s on the West Side. And has outdoor fireplaces. And open air. And pretty furniture. And lovely flora all around. What’s not to like? Why would celebs pick such weirdo places to be hotspots? I’m at a loss here. Ideas are welcome.

On that note, I’m going to go to bed. I will likely continue to ponder this question as I fall asleep. Hopefully you won’t, as in all honestly it’s not realllllly worth pondering, but someone has to do it.

no more pins, no more spray, and don't touch me

So there is a sidewalk store on Montana today; Roo just got into town so post bridal shower I met her and the Veeve down there in all that madness. I figured it’d be nearly impossible for me to walk down 10 blocks, double-sided, of racks of clothes, piles of shoes, and stacks of handbags without buying a single damn thing. But in fact it did happen, mostly b/c I am fairly certain that the majority of the stores took their good stuff, packed it into a warehouse somewhere in Ventura, and then pulled all the shit they have not been able to sell for the past decade and stuck it out for 50% off. Even Planet Blue was a total letdown pretty much cuz it was like a turkey carcass, all bones, no meat, picked clean. And so crowded that I wanted to vomit. I also discovered a variety of stores that I never realized even existed. They sell things like raincoats for chihuahuas and shell-covered turtles for your door steps. You know. The daily essentials. The practical things in life.

Anyway. So I pretty much made my modeling debut on Thursday night. Look #1: sexy librarian. Look #2: nothing in particular, but v. cute dress. I know that none of you are surprised that I was involved, given the fact that 5’2” stunners with ghetto-sized asses are constantly prancing the runways, but if you were, please wipe the shocked look off your face. It’s not flattering, and I know flattering.

But so part of the deal was that we got our hair and makeup done. They were going with a side ponytail theme. So I had this wave thing going on on top of my head, can really describe, and then we had the side pony teased up into a little rat’s nest that sat right there on my shoulder. It was apparently a real good match with my suit. Personally I do always opt for 4 cans of hairspray, 87 pointless bobby pins, and hooker-style teasing, all thrown together with a touch of 1983 when I am heading into corporate America. Go figure that my choice would be their choice.

So then the hair folks would lurk around the dressing areas and insist on touching you up with meant loading you with more hair lacquer. Or perhaps a dab of pomade. Mostly they just pissed me off. but I guess that’s good for the angry-faced model thing. Which I pull of spectacularly. Or not. Depends on how you look at.

Other fashion show highlights: I did an act w/ Mark and Meliss. We both slapped Mark. While practicing I was kicking ass in the slapping dept but onstage I was weak sauce while Meliss apparently slapped the bad hair off Mark. Not so much. Sorry guys. Love you Mark. So hard though that no one even noticed my slap. What a set-back in my life. What else. I didn’t eat anything really after lunch. So the after party was fantastic, nothing like tequila on an empty stomach. Oh, and, I slept until 12:30 yesterday. That was awesome.

Ok then, veeve says time to go. I’m out love you bye.

Tour de Stupid

I went to bed on Saturday night with what was possibly the worst headache of my life. You see, at midnight on Sat, I was hungover, actually significantly into my hangover, and usually I think I’m asleep by the time I hit that point of my hangover. But, there I was, awake, kind of like the walking dead, and I know I felt awful, and I’m kind of thinking I looked even worse. I don’t really know. I could barely keep my eyes open long enough to get a glimpse of myself given my severe tiredness.

Anyway so let’s see. Saturday morning I was awake by 8:30am and over at Kokkomonster’s by 9:15am for a mimosa. I was hurried out of Kokko’s less than 15 minutes later by a crazy raging bitch that lived next door. Granted, I was blocking her parking spot, but that is no reason to foam at the mouth while abusing the f* word at 9:30am on a Saturday. And granted, she lives next door to KokkoM who has been on a bender for maybe 8 months straight, throwing little soiress until 4:30am on weeknights, but again, no reason to be so terribly terribly offensively scarily crazy. I think she almost spit in my face.

Btw, Saturday was Tour de Strand. For the uninformed: an annual event that brings current students and alums together for over 13 miles of biking and drinking in no particular order. Apparently you can get arrested for BUIs which is a wonder to me b/c there were like 200 retards let loose on the streets of the SoCal beaches on beach cruisers, with stomachs devoid of any food except yeasty beery goodness, and shark attack buckets which are wicked, venomous buckets of red stuff that come with 4 straws but might be better served by 8 or perhaps 12, and we didn’t get arrested.

There is photographic evidence of the moment when I tipped off my bike and into the sand, there is photographic evidence of me smooching someone that I need not have been smooching. You will see none of these photos posted here, but rest assured that they exist, so I can never run for office as I may be accused of being unstraight, but I do assure you that I most definitely, most definitely, like boys. There was lots of other stuff too, but honestly, at this point, it’s mostly one giant messy swirl. I only see pics that other circulate to let myself that I was in good, or really terrible, depending on your perspective, company.

And at some point, I dropped my bike off and was driven to Redondo Beach. A few things happened here. I began to fall asleep in my food, I called that loser boy who lives in Redondo (have since deleted his number; promise!), and I realized in my sobering up state that I had never wanted to be in my bed so badly. So instead of waiting for Stu and crew to leave, I sought out a cab. But I realized it would be too $$ to get back home, so I went over to Doempke’s to sleep. But there I discovered about 15 jackasses singing karaoke. I am a lover of karaoke, I am, but shit, I think my opinion of this medium might be permanently damaged. I drowsed on the couch before getting Stu, my future roommate and pretty much the sweetest sweetie and punkin-iest punkin in the world, to drive down and get me. And then it was home, and bed, and Jack and Jill in the morning.

I just want to know who ever thought it was a good idea to ride bikes for 10+ miles while drunk in the hot sun. My tanlines, which are a complete mess, my ass, which was sore on Sunday, my head, which wanted to explode – they would all beg to differ with the intelligence of this idea. And yet, here we are, in grad school, coming up with such brilliant little voyages. I guess it’s our spirit of entrepreneurship. It’s like, we can bike…we can drink…but let’s do something novel, we’ll bike – we’ll drink – at the same time! For an entire day! From 9am until past 9pm! It’ll be brilliant! We’ll all risk life and limb and drive on two unprotected wheels in 4 lanes of traffic! With no helmets!

Genius. Anyway, I shall leave you with this. Listen to these bands: 1) The Higher; 2) Shiny Toy Guns

I Am Not for Parents

It’s been so long, hasn’t it? It really has. Lots has happened since the last entry. I reconnected with a friend from jr. high via mySpace (hey dude, she initiated, I only played along), I found a place to live in San Fran (it’s beautiful!!! Pay my rent!!), and today little greggy graduated from college. Which made me feel old. I suppose it also made his girlfriend feel old, seeing as she graduated from college back in ’02 when I did and got to reminisce about college graduation with me while she watched her boyfriend do it 5 years later. She’s awesome actually, but I just can’t seem to stop joking about the age gap. I get endless amounts of entertainment from harassing my brother about it. Which is ironic considering that I suppose it makes him somewhat of a badass to be dating a girl who’s so much older when he’s not even in the real world yet. But I’m easily entertained anyway, so whatever.

Anyway, was chatting with my friend J the other day. Here we have the transcript:

Jami: lindy! Guess what? You’re famous.

Me: oh really. Do tell.

Jami: so I was telling my mom about Liz’s cookies and when she googled the cookie chew she arrived at a blog. So she called me and was like "Jami, Liz’s website isn't very good because it doesn't come up on Google. Instead I ended up on this random blog of a girl in California. She’s 26 and was writing some funny stuff. She sure used the s- word a lot." To which I replied "that's LINDY!!”

me: oh! She thinks I cuss too much! That’s not good! Make sure she forgets my blog address and doesn’t read it. I am not for parents.

I like this exchange. First it’s funny that your stupid ramblings can become so widely accessible. It’s also fun that J’s mom knows what a blog it. It’s nice to know that she thinks I write some “funny stuff.” It’s a bit concerning that she thinks I use the s- word too much considering J is an old college friend and I’ve met her parents several times and stayed with them, and until now her mom probably thought I was really nice. I guess if she read some of my entries her opinion of me might become slightly sullied. Hence why I hope she forgets my blog address like my dad did after my stupid ass brother revealed it to him.

I’m also a bit concerned for Liz’s Web site. I’ll put it here again just so she gets a little more advertising http://www.thecookiechew.com/ . Because it’s true that the site does not pull when you type it into Google, even variations. It pulls my blog and her mySpace page. We need to do something to make sure that Liz’s site is getting to the top of the search when you try to find it!!! Very important. Put that on my to do list.

Anyway, that pretty much sums up my thoughts regarding this little exchange re: J’s mom reading a blog excerpt or two. I guess I say shit too much. Well, shit. What can you do?

Somewhere in LA...

…There is a crazy homeless dude, wearing a wet suit that is too short in the legs and generally too small, and he’s pretending to surf the dirt pavement that covers our city. Or, maybe, he’s wearing the wetsuit and sleeping on the surfboard. Maybe he’s humping the board. Who the f cares. It doesn’t really matter what the f he’s doing in the suit or with the board, b/c the important thing is that the board is MINE and the suit is MINE. Little shit.

So, story is, I’m dumb. I moved my board and suit down to my parking garage (which is covered but ungated) and stuck it in front of my vehicle where it’s pretty much hidden. And the only people in our alley are like, homeless people searching for cans, and what would they ever want with a surfboard? I mean, you can’t turn it into the recycling center for change you know?

May is my month to park in the spot (Veeve and I switch off) so I went out to park today, and my board, is gone. I screamed f*** like 98 times really super loud. I mean, when Dorothy wanted to get back to Kansas she just kept saying “there’s no place like home” and it worked. So I guess I figured “f***, f***, f***…” would maybe bring back my surfboard? Not so much.

Funny thing, the board was gone, the wetsuit was gone, yeah, but there was a tv sitting there in their place. Do you think that maybe the thief was actually trying to arrange some sort of barter deal? Like, ok, I’ll take the board, and the wetsuit…but she won’t care! I’ll leave her this tv…that I also stole…and everything will be cool…

I’m thinking maybe so. But I would’ve preferred that they warn me before doing so b/c this barter deal doesn’t really work for me considering that I don’t have any need for a tv. Barter deals usually are like a two-party arrangement you know? No one told this schizo dude who’s surfing the streets of SanMon on my board. I’m pissed. Did I mention that? Can you tell? I’m so pissed.

But I contemplated doing something about it. And I thought about calling the police, but then I wondered how I’d sound if I was like, “so, my surfboard and wetsuit got stolen.” “where was it? Oh, well, it was sitting in my garage.” “gated? No, not really, it’s just open on the ally.” I basically could’ve stored my board out in the middle of the street. So I guess I have nearly given up on the sport anyway and that I’m moving up north where it’s super f’in cold and the waves are super f’in big, I guess the need is kinda dwindling anyway. But it still sux a lot.

Anyway. Again. That sucked. But, if you do happen to be out in LA, and you see some dude dressed to surf and it look slightly suspect, please give a shout.

Little Mucus Monsters

I have yet another miserable piece of shit cold. Since moving to LA, I think I average like one brutal cold every 1.5-2 months, and to me, that seems like a really high level of frequency, don’t you agree? I feel like the mucus monster on the Mucinex commercials moved into my lungs and then invited his family of 19 from Brooklyn to come stay with him for a couple weeks. And like 2 days into the party, they were like, oh, let’s call our folks from Jersey and see if they want to chill too. So then they called up their family in the Garden State and invited them to rent out the flat about them, otherwise known as my sinuses. Bunch of jerks. And, I’m taking Mucinex, for the record, and it hasn’t kicked them out asap like it does in the commercials. Advertising. So misleading. Kind of like steel-cut oats.

So aside from Mucinex, I’m taking about 13 other drugs. When I get sick, and by sick I mean get a bad cold, my bathroom starts to look like the bathroom of someone who’s dying. Or maybe, like Anna Nicole’s bathroom pre-OD. Or perhaps LLohan’s. Either way. It’s a mess. I have about 3 kinds of cough drops, several nasal decongestants, a couple chest decongestants, a few allergy medications, some cough syrups, various ointments and rubs like Vicks and Vaseline to free up my breathing and soothe my poor, chaffed nosed, and a giant box of Depends. All of that is true save for the Depends.

I wonder if all these drugs are actually doing any good though. I think when I take them at night, the sheer amount of chemicals I’m ingesting sends me into a sleep so deep that I really don’t know if I’m making anything better or not. Could be worse for all I know. And then I question my feeling slightly better during the day and how it relates to the drugs v. how it relates to just being up and getting stuff moving around inside my breathing passages. Can’t ever really be sure.

Anyway, no one cares about my stupid cold or all the drugs I’m taking, that’s my likely guess. But since I have a corporate valuation midterm tomorrow and my motivation to study is like null and void since I don’t ever study really anymore and I rather prefer to keep it that way, I thought I’d write about it anyway b/c there is no one here to stop me, only me stopping myself from working by wasting time writing about my…cold. But I think I’ve run out of things to say about it so I guess this means unless I switch topics all together I’m done. And since I’m too lazy to even think of another topic, I truly am done. I hope you don’t catch what I have, it’s brutal. And I’ve only got Brooklyn and Jersey; I bet the Bronx or maybe Harlem or perhaps Boston muc-i are even worse! On that note, au revoir. I think I need to go re-medicate.