No! Not My Lipglosses!!!

I ventured to Vegas yesterday, for work, not for play. A day trip. 8am flight in, 5:30pm flight out. Let me tell you, I could not have picked a more cherry day for travel.

Growing up, my mom made us arrive to the airport like 5 hours early. It always pissed me off to no end. So as soon as I started flying alone, I started traveling on my own terms, which generally involves arriving the airport like an hour TOPS before my flight and seeing how close I can cut it. I guess it gives me an adrenaline rush or something. It also results in me nearly missing my flight on a somewhat regular basis, but that is all part of the game.

Anyway, so I get to John Wayne/OC airport y-day around 7:10. The traffic is insane, I’m baffled. I valet my car. I enter the AP, there are like 20,000 people jammed into this little AP in lines that wrap like 7 times and run the length of the building. I find nice people and cut in line (yes, I know, you hate people like me), but the cut really does me nothing cuz I’m still way at the back. I ask the people, “is this AP always like this?? What is going on?” I have now established that I’m 99% idiot, completely oblivious to the fact that there was very nearly a massive terrorist attack. And that these terrorists are getting super creative, with their liquid/gel explosives.

I’m like there is no way I’m going to make my flight. I try twice more to cut in line again, but no dice, although I did see a guy who was my attempted partner in crime pull a super slimy move where he somehow cut w/out permission and got away with it. I think, hmm, I should call my boss and the guy I’m going to meet and warn them about my situation. Reach for cell phone. It’s not there. Of all days to forget your cell phone, I think I picked the worst. I felt like I was missing my right arm or something. Luckily I managed to borrow a phone from not one but two people during my travel day to make stuff work.

More important than the lines was the issue of liquids and gels. It cracked my shit up. There were tables put out, and they were strewn with everything you can imagine. Deodorant, Vaseline, shampoo, creams, religious oils (no joke), Carmex, etc. One thought that did cross my mind…what if you had like…a tube of KY in your bag? What would you do??? Anyway, they were not kidding around. I had only a purse with me and I’m like I’m cool.

But then I hear them announce that you couldn’t bring on lipsticks/chapsticks/etc. And I started to hyperventilate. Not really, but what if I did? Anyway. I leaf through my bag. Here’s what we have inside: 1 tube Chanel lipstick; 1 tube Laura Mercier lipstick; 1 tube Bourjois lip gloss; 3 tubes Stila lip gloss; 2 tubes Stila lip stick. The rational mind asks, why on earth were you carrying that amount of lip-product? But guys, variety is the spice of life. Never mind that all my glosses and sticks pretty much are the same color… And I’m doing math in my head, and I’m like this is well over $100 worth of product, and I refuse to give it up so the sketch-dawg AP security guys can take it home to their girlfriends. No way. I ask the security guy if he’ll help me out and he points me in the direction of the Security Mailer drop box. Guys, in 3-4 weeks my lipsticks will find their way back to Santa Monica. 3-4 weeks. Really???

Anyway, some people like long-story-short. I prefer short story long. So in the end I made it to Vegas, cuz my flight was delayed like 40 minutes. Note, btw, that it’s very, very sad to be in Vegas and stare longingly at the casinos and then head to Kelly Pipe and Supply to talk faucets. Very sad. And now I’m back.

In closing, I want to note that I called my mom last night around 10:30 her time to tell her how our travel is going to be revolutionized and how we will always have to check bags and stuff. We talked for like 20 minutes. She was totally lucid. She calls me this morning, she’s like “Umm, where are you?? Are you in Vegas or something? Did you fly yesterday?” I’m like, “Mom, what are you talking about. I talked to you last night. We talked for 20 minutes. Are you on crack?” (I did actually ask her if she was on crack – my friend Brian suggested that she is actually on meth b/c I guess that is the new housewife drug of choice). I guess she had taken her Lunesta and claims that has no real memory of our conversation last night. Said my dad said she was talking about Vegas or something. I love my mom…but I told her that our conversation was officially weird and that I had to go.

So, here’s to airport mailers and moms on meth. Long live America.

But Where Did It Go?

JTimb: I'm 100% delighted that you are bringing sexy back...really, I am. But I'm just really confused, because I don't understand where sexy ever went. I feel like I'm pretty sure sexy has always been right here and can't truly every disappear, but you feel differently.

If anyone can explain where sexy has been as of late, I'd love to know. In the mean time, just rest assured, it is back.

We're Going Theme-Less Today

When I begin my morning blog session I usually try to pick a theme and then go with that. It’s just like in 6th grade when you were learning how to create a composition and the teacher would be like: “Your Favorite American President” – Go. And you’d be like, “My favorite American President is Abraham Lincoln because he was very honest.” And then your whole paper would be about good old Abe and his good old honesty and the cherry tree and all that. FYO: I never actually did a paper on Abe. But I did write a report once about koala bears in 5th grade, and it kicked ass. PS: did you know that koalas are very mean? They are.

Anyway, I’ve got news guys. I have no theme this morning. Instead I have a random collection of thoughts.

Thanks for Reading, Friends: First of all, I had dinner with Kelly last night at my new fav place for the summer, Coyote Café. It’s directly on the PCH and the patio overlooks the water, views are stunning and the langastino tacos are TREE-mendous. This is all irrelevant. So, Kelly picks me up and says he has a present for me. He pulls a bag of Cheetos and a sixer of Miller Light out of the backseat from me in homage to my rant re: today’s modern manorexic. Kelly could eat even me under the table and I know that a meal w/ Kelly will not make me feel like an un-dainty hoss. Thank you, KK.

Can I Send You Some Faucets, or Something?: This is my new line. Seriously. I have been talking to all these people for research purposes, and they spend upwards of an hour on the phone – or sometimes in person – with me, giving me all this info to help me with my project. In return they get nothing at all, which makes me feel bad L. So now at the end of the convo I thank them gushingly and the offer up the only you can when you work for a faucet company, I say, “Can I send you some faucets or something?” They typically decline, although I did send one guy like 6 deluxe showerheads. They don’t want the “or something” either. I don’t really know what the “something” is anyway, so that’s good.

It’s a Lot of T&A: I was talking to this woman in our office, she’s an assistant, she rocks. She’s your motherly type, very sweet and helpful. I’m talking to her about Vegas, cuz I’m going there for ONE day tomorrow for work (sad!). She is like “Oh! I LOVE Vegas!!” And we start talking bout various Vegas things. I mention that I really like the pirate show, and she goes, “Oh, me too! But I don’t really like the new one.” I’m like “Oh, I haven’t seen the new one.” She’s like, “Yeah, it’s a lot of T&A.” And I’m stunned for a second. Can you picture your grandmother using the phrase “T&A?” No? Well that’s what this was like. Stunner!

What the F Does that Mean?: You know those vanity plates that display some really cryptic message? You get stuck in traffic behind “MR IM89STY” and you’re like, what the f does that MEAN??? They “drive” me insane (ha!). Why did you do that? Am I supposed to get it? Do you like to annoy and anger people? Or maybe most people don’t get annoyed or angered, but I do. Anyway, Veeve is really good at them. I am not. I sent her one this morning: “BNALANT.” The best I came up with was “banal ant.” But that really makes no sense at all.

Bringing Clothes and People Together: I occasionally listen to Ryan Seacrest on KIIS FM in the morning. He’s rather amusing, I must say. But anyway, he has some chick on the radio this morning and she’s kinda silly, and he asks her, “what’s your story? What do you do for a living?” Her response: “I’m a stylist. I, you know, work with clothes, and people…together.” I think that is a very, very LA response. It made me giggle. Especially since it reminded me of this book I read once called Slammerkin, and my friends Mary and Lorraine gave me endless shit for reading it (go find it at Borders if you want to know why). I always defended myself by saying, “What! It’s good! I mean, I like clothes! I like freedom!” So whenever I’m with Mare or Raindawg, I get a “I like clothes! I like freedom!” at least 28 times. It really sucks. That was pretty much one of the dumbest quotes that’s ever come out of my mouth.

You probably have a headache now from reading this rambly stuff. Go take an aspirin. The end.

Era of the Manorexic?

I think of my old roommate Bill and I think of what a man should be. Picture this: it’s Saturday late morning. Bill is in a tshirt from 1992 and some old sports shorts. He’s wearing slippers. Showering has not occurred and most likely won’t until the evening…or the next day. He’s got are paper in his lap, opened to the sports section. His beloved “Pats” are on tv. He’s in his green lazy boy chair, reclined. He has a huge plastic cup with the Incredible Hulk on it that he got with his value meal at McDonald’s in 2001, filled with Gatorade. Bag of Wise brand Potato Chips in his laps. Crumbs being brushed off hands directly onto recliner. This, this is manhood. No grooming products here. No counting calories. No gym obsession. Pure, unadulterated embracement of being male.

Now picture this. I'm hanging out with a guy friend last weekend. I am guessing his his morning routine looks like this: He wakes up, showers (probably uses something pomegrante-scented in the shower) gets dressed in jeans (probably from Neiman Marcus) and some trendy t-shirt. Rubs some hair wax (from Kiehl's most likely) into his locks. I meet him for brunch. I order: Eggs, pancakes, bacon, and a side of toast to sop up the yolks. He orders: two pancakes and a side of fruit. After eating he estimates he has eaten 500, at most, 600 calories. I invite him to yoga with me. It’s not enough. Forces me to run with him post-yoga. He is practically is on the verge of pinching his waist to ensure its still trim.

What has happened to males embracing their maleness? How on earth am I to feel dainty and feminine if I am constantly eating more than my male companions at meals? (well, one issue here is that I generally eat like a man, but let’s ignore that…). I shouldn’t be the one dragging you to Carl’s Jr. late night – you should be dragging me there! I should be counting the calories post-dinner, not you! And I should feel much less confident in my bikini than you do in your swim trunks. Well, except…no…nevermind…let’s keep the ego under wraps.

Anyway. It’s not just the example cited above that has made me call this male stuff into question. It’s a number of creatures I’ve encountered over the past year. I won’t name names, but, Newman obsesses over the gym and food like it’s his job. Joe, I eat more than you on a consistent basis. Eric caresses his abs more than SS touches her hair. Oops!! I think I named names. But I need concrete examples in order to make my point.

The thing is, I do try to take care of myself and preserve my sexy, of course, but I think it’s important to let go, particularly on weekends. Enjoy food when you hit up a restaurant. Eat that bread! Go ahead, dip it in olive oil! Drink that third glass of wine if you want it! I’m personally fine w/ the metro-ness in respect to grooming, b/c girls go crazy for a sharp dressed man (that’s an 80s song right??) but when I start to feel like the man in the relationship, and I’m pretty prissy, I feel like nature’s balance is being thrown off. I hear that machismo is coming back – check out the new Hummer commercial (hate the car but like this message) and take it to heart, please, so I can feel dainty again. And pretend like you keep your body looking svelte by eating cheetos and Miller High Life. No one has to know you are on the Lemon Cleanse. Oops, I’m slipping off my soap box, time to go. The end.

Locked Out, V2

Do not readjust your bifocals, you did indeed read the title correctly. That is right. I am absolutely a huge retard and have now locked myself out of my home, well, both of my homes, not once, but twice over this so far 6-week long summer.

We will need to backtrack, back across this past weekend which was most….interesting…to last Thursday night. I had a biz mtg (thank you Sean!!) on Friday morning in San Diego, so I’m like oh I’ll just beat traffic and have a little fun while I’m at it and head down to SD on Thursday night. I get home post-work, pack my stuff, and go out for a run before I head out of town. It’s around 6ish, and I am due in SD to have dinner w/ Erin and some of her friends at 8. Anyway, surrogate mom and surrogate dad are not home, and I know I’m going to be gone for like 40 minutes, so I just leave the door unlocked and head out (yes, I know, why didn’t take my key, really, b/c I didn’t have to, and b/c I was too lazy to do so).

So about 40 minutes later I return to my abode, reach for the door…and…ready for the punchline?? She doesn’t open! (yes, I do like referring to inanimate objects as he’s or she’s, and why is the door a she? I don’t know). I push harder. I shove. I kick. I knock. I ring the doorbell. I soon realize, v. quickly, that 1) the door is definitely not stuck…it’s locked. 2) My surrogates must have locked it. 3) My surrogates must have departed as soon as they locked it. 4) I have no idea when my surrogates will return, most likely not until 11. And 5) I need to leave for SDiego…and what the hell would I do for 4 hours in Laguna Niguel anyway – sit outside in the grass and meditate??? 6) I’m f’ed. This sucks, big time.

So, conclusions drawn, I take my sweaty self next door to the neighbors. Lady of the house answers, I introduce myself and explain my unfortunate situation. And ask perchance do they have a key? They do not. For the next 30 minutes, frustration ensues. We go next door and search the perimeter for alternate ways in (open window? Key hidden in bushes? Throw brick through sliding glass door? Hmm maybe not). We call surrogate mom…we call her three time…leave three messages… We try TommyBahama where surrogate dad works part time…no go. The whole time, lady of the house (LOH), who, I’m sorry, is tremendously dumb, will not give the phone to me to explain situation but instead makes “I’m thinking really hard” faces and leaves confused messages on my behalf.

I finally decide I need a locksmith. LOH asks MOH for “the” locksmith’s number, like they call locksmiths all the time. She tells him I need to get into my car. No, I need to get into the house. What good does getting in my car do? He’s like, “woman, I don’t know the locksmith’s number.” She’s like “oh I thought you would know someone to call.” Then son pipes in that his friend got a locksmith to remake him a car key for like $100. I’m like “oh, I need to get into the house.” For about 5 minutes LOH and son remain very much hung up on getting me into my car and finally after the third (very gentle!) correction they get it…and I get a phone book.

Locksmith says he’ll be there right away. 25 minutes (is that right away??) he comes with his giant toolbox and picks the damn lock open. I get in, and I get ready in like 15 minutes flat which is magical. Now it’s like 8:30. I head downstairs, and here’s the kicker, surrogate parents are sitting there watching tv. Surrogate mom is like, “Oh! I just got your message! How did you get in?” I’m like, oh well I spent $125 on a locksmith.” Fan-tas-tic. I’m overjoyed, really I am. Thank you for locking the door behind me and then leaving without your cell phones. Thanks for never giving me the code to enter the garage. Thanks a lot bitches!!! I know it’s not their fault but at this point I’m turning irrational and I’m kind of fuming internally, so I get myself out of that house as fast as possible before I start speaking to the surrogates like they are flesh and blood v. just surrogates.

I miss dinner w/ Erin but luckily join Meg and her friends in La Jolla, which is lovely, best part of the evening being observing the delightfully tacky and horrendously horrible outfits that all the cougars in the place were donning. We did actually use my camera phone to document the horribleness, but I don’t know how to transfer those over to a computer yet so that will have to wait.

Anyway, today is a new day right? And the $$$ has been spent, and what’s $100 when you’re $100K+ in debt for school anyway? I’ll just call it a day and quit whining. And will be sure to run w/ keys henceforth. The end.

I Swear I'm Not Trying to Steal Trade Secrets

I have an important announcement. Actually, it’s really not important at all. Also it’s not really an announcement, it’s pretty much just something I thought needed to be pointed out. So some entries ago I noted that I have been terribly abusing my cell phone plan and that it’s causing me serious financial pain. I walked my butt into Cingular today and decided to do something about it! Yessir, I have upgraded my plan. So now I am free to talk until my voice no longer exists and text until my fingers fall off (although seriously I doubt they’d really ever fall off). Just umm, wanted you to know. I am also working on getting a pink razor, but even a fake note on my account about some story to give when I call customer service courtesy of RJ “give me a call sometime I’m in Lake Forest all the time” Cingular Store man (side note why would I ever call you) doesn’t seem to be getting me anywhere.

Anyway, so they are really strict about security around here at work. I have my little badge right and it has this really awful picture and stuff, and you have to show it every time you walk through the door. Or you can go in the side door through a scanning device and avoid the annoying front desk people.

But, I switched bags over the weekend and left my badge in my white purse up in LA and therefore have not had it all week and cannot avoid them. Now, you’d think that since I have been coming in and out of this place for like 6 weeks and they do seem to know my face they would be cool with that, but, they are
not. In fact, I have to get a paper badge EVERY SINGLE DAY. And sign in. It’s like, hello, hi, clearly I work here. Why must you give me a sticky label with my name (spelled incorrectly each time even though S-A-R-A is really not so hard to spell, they prefer their own spellings, such as Sarah (not weird) or Sera (weird). I am not going to wear the damn thing, b/c I hate those stupid nametags. So why really why??? It ends up stuck to my cube wall.

And then I’m like, ok, not only is it weird that you insist on making me sign in even though you know me practically by name and know that I work here, but it’s also weird that you’re so low-tech. Don’t you at least have some sort of computer-based look up system? I suggest you get one. You know it’s rumored that they will even be like, “Oh, hi Bob. Please sign in for us” and have asked our VPs and Prezs to sign in when they forget the badges. This is not the damn CIA! Faucets, for crying out loud, faucets and lock systems. Honestly. There. Done.

Oh, Silly Memories

I have very sensitive ears and certain sounds tend to give me the heebs, no joke. Obvi, no on likes nails on a chalkboard. Other things I hate include the sound that manicure people make when they buff your nails (so I tell them now, “no buff please”), and the sound of sweeping on pavement (like when you’re cleaning out a garage). But why I am talking about this?

B/c I am this close to grabbing this chick standing in my cube area using the damn paper cutter and being like, “yo, seriously, go cut your paper somewhere else cuz you’re killing me here.” It makes this dreadful squeaky noise when you bring the arm up and then this awful icky indescribable noise when it cuts the paper. Ok thank G_d! Good karma! I wrote about it, and it stopped! Maybe this would work for other things…no… probably not.

Anyway, I was just IM’ing w/ Sauj. I think she’s actually doing work today. She’s researching about some sex doctor or something. She noted something about organisms. Yes she typed organisms, not orgasms. And this made me giggle, cuz I was reminded of this one time in seventh grade when I was giving an oral report on organisms and afterward, my teacher pulled me aside, and was like, “Umm, during your report, you used the word ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’” I don’t think I knew what the former was, but I knew it was bad, and I think I turned mad red. Kind of also like when during a game of Scattegories when I was little and the letter was “h” and the description was “adjective” and when they (they being my parents and my aunt and uncle) got to me my answer was “horny.” Giggling. “Do you know that means?” Of course I did! My response: “Yeah! Like, happy, or excited.” More giggling. “Yes, I guess that’s right…”

I don’t really have much else to offer on this topic, so I will leave you with a thought that will hopefully make you giggle cuz I get to giggle and it’s only fair if you do, too. Anyway, here you go. I was in the car last weekend w/ Sean and the new Paris Hilton song comes on and I’m like “Oh it’s the new Paris Hilton song! I love this!” And I turn it up. But I do so to be irritating cuz I’m waiting for him to fume and be like “turn this shit off.” But instead, he’s like “I do too! I do! I love it!” So, umm, Sean loves the new Paris Hilton song. If you know Sean, wow, this is tremendously funny, and you should laugh. The end.

And You Would Be...

For work I've been calling all sorts of people. Hotel people, architects, designers, plumbers, sales people, etc. etc. etc. Kind of cold calling. LIke, "hi, I'm an intern. Want to help me with my project?" Except much more formally and politely and all of that stuff. And of course I have this delightful color-coded tracking spreadsheet set up on Excel so I know who's who and when I talked to them and whatnot.

And when I leave VMs, most them actually call me back! Which is nice. But sometimes, like, say, just now, my phone rings, and I see a random area code and number, and my heart flutters, b/c I know I'm going to pick up and there will be someone there and they will say their name and I'm like great, who the f are you? Like just now. When Kevin called. And I'm like, "Oh, hello Kevin! So good to hear from you! Thanks for getting back to me!" And for a good 30 seconds I'm thinking, "Kevin. Kevin. Who are you Kevin? What do you do? What do I want to ask you?"

It clicked, eventually, but I'm sure that for a bit I sounded like a total idiot. I hate that! I am getting so bad with names. You know I walked past this woman Robi today and I've only known her now for like 6 weeks but for a minute I totally blanked her name. Is it transparent when someone says to you, "Hi (insert your name here!)" And you just say "Oh hey! What's Up?" back to them? Does that person know that you didn't address them by name cuz you had a temporary brain fart? I always feel like they know. I could keep going on with this subject b/c in my opinion there are many related issues, like when you are with a friend and you run into someone else you know and you need to intro the friend, but you have forgotten the other person's name. Bad!!! But, b/c it's nearly 5pm, I am done. So, ta ta! The end.

Other People’s Business: Same Thing as My Business

There was this big hoopla going on in the cuberhood today over in Brian’s neck of the woods. It was over some inappropriate email. Of course I jump up and am like “what’s going on? Let me see! Let me see!” B/c of course I cannot stand to be left in the dark over exciting things like randoid emails that have nothing to do with me. But my boss (who has maybe five years on me) is like, “no man, don’t show her. She doesn’t need to see that kind of stuff.” He’s laughing…but he’s like totally serious – he is censoring me like I’m the little kid in the office. I may be called Linderteen on occasion but I am still 25 – oh and 19 days 26 so mark your calendars – and I do NOT like this. I’m like “come on Nick I’m sure I’ve seen worse” but no dice.

Of course I did finally take a look like ½ hour ago. It was rather funny. But I won’t bore you with the details, as the real issue at hand is that I apparently am perceived as the little office innocent and not privy to viewing possibly offensive content. The irony here is that meanwhile, back at my desk, I’m reading a four part email sent from a friend in NY who was recently in the Hamptons. It’s a summary of one of her friend’s romps on the beach and it kind of reads like a Danielle Steele novel. Well I’ve actually never read Danielle Steele but I imagine that’s how they read cuz isn’t she like pretty trashy? I was blushing at my desk. Ok maybe I am a little kid. No I don’t think I am. Anyway I’m done arguing with myself now.

So then I’m GChatting with, actually, same friend. And she just returned from St. John. My friend Roo (who was recently visiting), her parents have a house there (yes, it’s ridiculous and tremendously lucky), and she took a few of our college friends with her for the weekend. And how bitter am I that I have to work and had to miss out on that trip? Off the charts bitter, sore subject, let’s not go there. But anyway, she’s giving me the brief recap of the trip. It’s something like this:

Friend*: We asked a police officer to strip. We went skinny dipping with randoms, in a condo pool where no one of us lived.
Friend: I stole a cripple's crutches, so she had to hop back from the bathroom. I got cut off at a bar. Went bushwacking through the forest in the nude.
Me: oh this is being blogged about.
Friend: oh NO IT'S NOT!!
Me: Come on. It's hilarious.
Friend: ok well wait until you have the whole story

I didn’t wait. Takes too long. And I’m impatient. Oh btw, anything in my life, which means anything in my friends’ lives, is up for grabs for blogging. Oops, maybe I shouldn’t say that. But I tend to be an honest abe so may as well throw it out there. So aside from learning that I do have to steal material from friends’ lives for my blog, I am also trying to make the point that it’s ok to show me silly stuff at the office guys! I’m big girl! I can handle it! In fact I thrive on it… Oh also, you guys, you St. Johners: what the f were you doing stealing a cripple’s crutches? That is terrible! And you, “friend” – you got cut off? I’m not surprised. And finally, bushwacking nude? The obvious question here is “why the f?” But also it just sounds incredibly painful. So much potential for bodily harm.

Ok need to run. They are yucking it up back in the cuberhood. Need to go not mind my own business.

*“Friend” is replacing said friend’s name to protect the innocent. Or, not really innocent. Whatever.

Too Clumsy for Roller Shoes?

I was at the grocery store last night, and I’m strolling over to find the plastic bags and Tupperware which were placed in a really obscure isle that made no sense, and I see this little girl glide by with her mom. I said glide, you notice, b/c she’s not walking – she’s holding onto the cart and just rolling long on these newfangled contraptions that I have noticed over the past couple years that make me really insanely jealous.

Have you seen these things? They are shoes…but they have wheels built into the bottom in a way that you can just tilt your feet and they convert into temporary roller skates. I’m not sure if I’m describing them that well, but I can't get a pic to upload, so you'll have to check them out on the In-Ter-Net for yourself. It’s nuts actually cuz I googled them and I typed in “roller shoes” just on a hunch and guess what: they really are called roller shoes!!! Wait hold up. I guess they are also called “heeleys.” How clever. Ok anyway, I always feel like I see kids in airports wearing this things.

As bad as I want them, my guess is I’d totally have busted my ass if I’d had a pair as a kid. Don’t kids still fall down all the time like they used to? It was normal to have skinned knees all the time right? I think I must have fallen off my bike racing through gravelly streets like at least once every two weeks. I think I remember taking particularly bad spills when I’d go rollerblading with my dog and let him pull me. When that dog got distracted and took off I was totally screwed and there was nothing I could do but go with it and know a fall was in my near future.

Granted, I suppose that I’m kind of clutzy – I actually did run my cart into the corner of a bread display last night when I turned my head to watch the girl on her roller shoes – and I have no balance in the morning when I first wake up in the morning and usually run into a bedpost or something – but I still think those things have to be dangerous.

And to close, I must say that I just can’t afford to be endangering my limbs at this point. My legs already look like two battlefields right now. I’ve got those bites from the bugs from hell on my thighs from hiking, I’ve got blisters from my fabulous hot but not so fabulous comfortable new shoes, I’ve got huge cutty-type things on ankles from my 10 year old rollerblades, and I have a large bruise on my left knee cap from I don’t know, probably bumping into something when I woke up one morning last week.

So it’s sad, cuz I really want some of those roller shoes, but it’s just not in the cards. Although you know, my birthday is around the corner and if someone bought me a pair I prolly won’t turn them away…

A Most Historic Affair

Got home yesterday evening from Chahhhhhelston. (That’s how Charleston sounds when pronounced by a Southerner) My friends Sarah, who was on my freshman hall and who I was virtually inseparable from for a good part of my college life at Wake, finally married Preston, her Charlestonian bf of like 8 years.

Given that the affair took place in Charleston, the wedding was big and southern in all its glory, beginning with the rehearsal dinner. It’s held at some sort of historical site, but thing is, damn near everything in Charleston is historical so that’s a mute point. Dix assured us that we were seated at the “fun table” and she did not let us down (thank you). We reunited with some lovely SigChi gentleman including Ben M, Puffy, and Carter who would become our late night reveling friends when all the Kappas peaced out at like 11pm (sorry Sophs are sweet and great but Strings will always be a better time). Memorable moments from dinner include:
· The history lesson: Yes, our dinner was kicked off with a speech about Charleston history so we knew how old the places we would visit for the weekend would be. It was actually v. cute and rather cool, but I have to mention how utterly traditional it is, would never find that outside the South.
· The cotton: Ben, who is as southern as they come, all pastels, seersucker, bowties, and floppy ‘do as well, who still lives in Winston-Salem which is the damn tobacco epicenter of the world, was moaning about the Southerness of the affair. He was particularly offended by the cotton that replaced flowers in the vases in the reception area.
· The champagne: Ben’s moaning aside, he did manage to nab us many extra bottles of champagne from the caterers, which while a grand idea at the time, I’m not so sure in retrospect that it was a good idea. But anyway.

We went out afterward and stayed out until I started to walk a thin line, verbally, and lose a bit of tact. I may or may not have been on the verge of making disparaging remarks to Shipper regarding some of the female attendees and to Donny regarding his notorious rep in college for being somewhat sketch. I was also pestering Carter to no end about getting me into a commercial or something (he’s an actor now…) and being a dreadful pain. At that point Fravs threw me into the cab, declaring, “Teen (my friends call me Linderteen, but I find this no reflection on my maturity), you are DONE!”

Slept until noon on Saturday and recovered with an Excedrin, a Coke (Classic, of course), and a Vitamin Water. After lunch and a wee bit of shopping it was like 2:30 and we had time for like ½ hour of lounging until it was time to prep for the evening. Once dressed and on the shuttle on the way to the church, Fravs made my night with a fantastic quote: “Oh, I forgot that we had to go to the wedding.” Hey motard, you came to Charleston FOR a WEDDING. When you boarded the shuttle did you actually forget about the religious ceremony which is essentially the reason you flew all the way from Boston? Anyway, I liked it.

The wedding was all of 20 minutes, but it was in every aspect lovely lovely, and Dix does make a stunning little bride. As for the reception hall, not gonna lie, we were dubious over the fun potential for the evening. They have this thing for heavy hors d’oeuvres v. meals at Southern weddings, which involves things like grit stations and ham biscuits. It is most tasty. But it does not involve assigned seating, which is an issue when you cannot find a place to sit down and it is 98 million degrees b/c you are in a “historic” 200 year old building, 400 people at your wedding, and it's hot as hell outside (I'm sorry, I've become very spoiled and cranky bout the weather in CA). But southerners graze they do not eat so this is how they do it, and I will admit that it's charming. So when we do find a place to sit down we survey the scene and what we’re noticing is no one is dancing, there is a couple holding a baby like two feet away from us. The baby was cute as a button, but babies don’t exactly scream “fun times tonight!”
Luckily there was plenty of schmoozy-schmoozing to be had as the great North-South (West?) divide meant for a lot of re-union-ish chatter and whatnot and at that the band which indeed kicked ass started to pick things up. By the time we departed the reception to hit up some bar which had a name involving a Tiger we were fully in revelry mode.

The center of entertainment for the remainder of the night became Missy: , a childhood friend of Sarah’s who held the role of resident crazy friend (I find that all wedding’s must involve at least one crazy friend who has a history and is somewhat unstable…this girl is a divorcee…I think she’s 26…) So anyway, she exits the church with like 2 giant centerpieces in her hands and starts distributing blossoms all around which end up in an amusing photo montage later, which I’m sure was appreciated by the bride and groom’s family.

She also requests some beers off the back of a truck which is the epitome of class (umm, I may have been involved in this...) And at the bar she reveals that she swings both ways after extensive petting of Erica’s hair and an eventual offer of a threesome to Donny and Erica (come on now, just like the crazy friend requirement, no wedding could be complete without an off-color sexual story).

We finally clear out, and my night ends with Ben telling me off b/c he cannot believe what I said about his girlfriend’s dress. Ok we shall backtrack. First of all, Ben was hitting (hard) on Frav on Fri night asking for a second chance (they hooked way back when in college). Fast forward to Sat night, I’m standing there with I can’t remember who, may have been Ship (who still pulls crazy hot chicks), who points out a girl across the dance floor as Ben’s girlfriend (excuse me?) who is crashing the wedding and then proceeds to trash her dress, which is too casual and generally unflattering. I nod in agreement, but I didn’t SAY anything about her dress. But of course…the other ingredient for a wedding is drama…so this had to happen, in a way, anyway. But thing is I most likely will not see Ben for at least another 5 year or something so…whatever.

In other news, it’s good to be back in LA where it does not feel like hell, literally, when you walk outside. Also, that girl in my office that wore sequins once? She’s doing it again today. Different top. Honey, no sequins in the office!!

For All the Lifeguards in Training

So I was at the beach sometime recently…and I saw a couple things that confused me so I just wanted to put them out there. If I were smarter I’d be able to make my observation in iambic pentameter and all that jazz (umm, TE, if you’re reading this, your poetry skills are crazy wicked good). Anyway, mine aren’t.

So, Thing I Saw #1: Man Wearing Underwear. Not boxers dude, straight up tightie-whities. And he had gone swimming or at least just sweat through them so they were almost tightie-skinnies and it was seriously icky. Now mon petite frere told me he hates Santa Monica beach cuz it’s dirty and cited the one time he saw a homeless guy swimming in his tighties. That is excusable. You see, if you are homeless you most likely don’t have a very big wardrobe, and you need to swim, I respect that, so go for it. Now you, guy sitting next to me on beach in your underwear, you have no excuse. You were wearing Oakleys, had a full towel/umbrella/sun block/book spread and I note that your wife was well-attired in a proper if not somewhat stylish bandeau style bikini.

It reminds me of this one woman at the pool I used to lifeguard at who would wear a black strapless bra to lay out in all the time. It was a country club for heaven’s sake. Keep you skivvies in your clothes madam! You see, she thought no one would notice, but it was the little rosebud between her cups that called her out.

Now considering I just mentioned lifeguarding, this is a perfect segue to Thing I Saw #2: “Junior Lifeguards in Training.” What the f. I sit down, and there is this whole gaggle of like, little kids playing lifeguard practice, doing all that swimming and running around stuff, cuz you know they are Junior Beach Lifeguards in Training, just to clarify. Now these kids could not have been older than like 12. I say this with certainty, b/c both the boys and girls were still considerably shorter than me, and nowadays I’m pretty much outsized by kids by the time they are like, oh, 14. Anyway, I’m fairly certain you have to be at least 16 to guard. Does it take 4 years of practice to be a lifeguard? I would say, no.

If I were talking to these junior lifeguards in training, here’s the advice I’d give them:

1) Tanning – Know your shit. Pick your preferred brand of lotion, and be sure to have your higher spf treatment and your lower spf treatment. Experiment with lotions, oils, dry oils, spray formulas, etc. Remember that practice makes perfect and a lovely shade of bronze, that is even all around, takes a lot of hard hours in the sun.

2) Authority – Pretend like you totally have it. Get really good at telling kids to “Stop running!!” and “Get off the lane lines!!” Another good phrase to have in your vocab is “Hey, stop that!” as it comes in handy quite frequently. Also, develop a really good swagger to use when you walk out of the guard cage and up to your tower stand. Especially if you’re 5’2” and really look completely un-authoritative

3) The Whistle – Learn how to use it. This does not only apply to when you blow it for adult swim, but for how you use it as an accessory of the job. It’s very important that you’re really good at twirling it in very creative ways, and very quickly. I recommend that if you have a choice of color for the neck lanyard that you select red. Red screams “lifeguard.”

4) Kids – Generally a pain in the ass. They are the reason that when you’re sitting in the chair you can’t just gossip on your walky-talky with the other guards about that crazy in her black strapless bra but rather have to watch out for their lives. The important piece of advice here is to treat at least a handful of them very nicely so you can get yourself a little fan club. Michelle and Maddy were my two key members. They do things like grab you Diet Cokes and French fries from the snack bar and go search the entire Olympic-sized pool for your tiny little butterfly earring (dude they were hot when I was 16) when it falls out. They will even paint pen your whistle so your key accessory looks extra wicked cool.

5) Chair Strapping – Don’t ever do it. I got suckered into starting early once and restrapping the deck chairs. This involves using a hot air gun thing and melting rubber straps and then touching the burning things with your bare hands and pulling on them to stretch them until your back wants to give out. It’s very tiresome, very not glamorous, and generally atrocious. Abort! Abort! A worse job than when I worked at Best Friends Kennel and was a doggie play time associate.

Anyway, I need to go get a mani. I am leaving for a wedding tomorrow morning and must get myself physically prepared. Expect stories.

This Meal Subsidized by the Crazy Horse Too

So last night I came up to dinner to meet brother/Greggy and dad/Dick for dinner in Redondo beach (Dad wanted to be somewhere he could look at boats and water and nautical things like that). As I am riding w/ a sales guy in LA tomorrow and then leaving for a wedding on Friday, I requested to stay put in LA and work from home today, so I am presently sitting at my kitchen table under a fan in clothing that would in no way be work appropriate as it is 100 degrees in here. I suppose I could go somewhere else to work, but that would require putting on decent clothing and leaving my apt and I’m frankly much too lazy for that at present.

So here I am, sitting in my unmentionables and working off of two laptops cuz I can’t get my wireless in my work computer to work but need it to access the fantastic “deliverables” I’ve been creating and thinking, what is keeping me here? Why can’t I put on my swimmies and hit up the beach? I had to miss a tanning weekend last weekend and then will miss another this weekend and that is going to seriously put me behind on my color maintenance. Working from home as far as I’m concerned is a crock of shit. b/c you know that MTV will be on in the background (hey, it’s MUSIC television and I usually “rock out”** to my iPod at work anyway), you know that at some point I’ll need some sort of refreshment that can only be found at a place other than my apartment, you know that I’ll decide I must multi-task and throw some laundry in, you know that lunch will be at the beach, etc. But I swear, I’m doing my best, I really am. You know, my dad tried to convince me to play hooky and hit up the beach w/ them today. He said he’d write my boss a sick note. But I can’t!!! I’m so good!! I’m so conscientious! I must keep shouting these things at myself!!! I sound like KBeck!!!

Anyway, let’s talk about last night’s dinner. I first heard about dad and brother’s trip to Mammoth where they were fly fishing: my dad apparently caught twice as many fish as my brother. He also told me like 20 times. My brother claimed he brought it up around every 5 minutes when they were in Mammoth. I guess they’d be watching tv and out of the corner of his eye Greggy would see Dick making fly casting motions and laughing. When the waiter comes to take our order my dad starts asking about the “sandabs” (apparently little fishies that resemble small sole and are all over the north/central west coast…) and then explaining to the waiter how he’s out here visiting his kids and telling his life story. Have another martini dad. He proceeds later on to tell the waiter AGAIN that he’s out here visiting his kids and the waiter actually chimes in and finishes his story for him. So in case you’ve every wondered about me…there it is…this is the stock I come from…

My dad wanted me to recap the Bruce Willis story for him so I did, he really got a kick out of that… My brother personally thinks I’m a total motard. I then told dad that I’d also recently done the same intro with a rapper. He liked his too. I told him the story, and I had to include the location (strip club), but it’s ok b/c my dad is pretty chill. We agreed my mom would have a minor heart attack over the story. I guess she is one of those women that really hates strip clubs. My dad just concluded that they are a business and fact of life. Anyway he apparently has done implants on strippers, so essentially, strippers put food on my table and a roof over my head for many years of my life. I’ll leave you to think about that. The end.

**There’s this chick in my office that continually walks by and asks me if I’m “rocking out” whenever I have my headphones on. Who says that???

My Office Feels Like Junior High

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A Trip to Idiot Island

I flatironed my hair this morning. This is at best a once/week occurrence. And all for what – for nothing, b/c the hair is up my friends. The AC on floor three (my floor) of our building is broken and it’s f’in 98 degrees in here just like the boy band. If you know me you know I already have a core body temp that threatens spontaneous combustion anyway, so this is really quite unbearable and I think I may faint. I am wilting. I am intensely unhappy and they can’t make me work in these conditions.

Anyway. While working is out of the question for the time being, I think I may be able to do stuff such as recap some weekend thoughts. Let’s start w/ Sunday night, Thievery Corporation concert at the Hollywood Bowl, joined by Flaming Lips and Os Mutantes (this trippy Brazilian Band). Great concert. I guess those crazy Lips were filming bits for some video they are making so they wanted it to be super special fantastic, as evidenced by them telling us to “Go Crazy” or “Go F** Nuts” before every song. That got old. Anyway, cuz of that, they passed all these glowsticks out to the audience so we’d do Nuts stuff like make big chains out of them or throw them in the air (ps that is dangerous!!!! I bet someone got their eye poked out!!). Or just wear them on various body parts.

You know I used to be able to fit one of those tubes around my waist when I was like 13? No joke. Why 13 you ask? B/c that brings me back to Bar/Bat Mitzvah days and no celebration was complete w/out glowsticks. B/t the ages of 12 and 13 Dick and Jane were fortunate enough to have immediate access to glowsticks 24/7, b/t for some reason it was cool to hold onto these things and maintain their glow by storing them in the freezer. So we had like tons of those things hidden in with the frozen spaghetti sauce and Schwan Man ice cream. Those were the days.

Oh can I mention a tee shirt I saw on some guy last night? It said: “Your village called. It wants its idiot back.” It was funny b/c the guy wearing it comes over to find his seat and then goes to his girlfriend, “Umm, I think are seats are actually over there” and points to somewhere pretty much all the way across and down…and the Bowl is big… Also reminded me of this one Sex and the City quote that I’m quite fond of (Mare, Mibs this one’s for you…and Mare…this quote can take the place of the lovely picture of you I received from Jami on Saturday night…): “Every day with my wife is like a trip to idiot island.” Don’t tell me you’re not laughing and that’s not funny, b/c it is.

In closing, while the weekend was good and included among other things a glorious as usual meal at Jiraffe and a lovely albeit very hot hike, the other highlight was my afternoon of retail therapy with my lovely brunch club ladies. I have to say that I think I found what could be the most perfect dress in the universe, not every kidding, along with these Marc Jacobs shoes that are simply divine and I smile just thinking about them. So, as I’m smiling right now I think I’ll attempt to do work or something but I don’t that will happen b/c I think I’m starting to sweat. Eww. I’d rather be on idiot island right now.

Energy for Sale

We are in the midst of an energy crisis right? I have a solution! All day at work I have felt like I’m running on 28 cups of coffee. I have energy like nothing you’ve ever seen. It’s insane. I don’t know why. I’m lying, I totally know what is going on with me, but I am not going to tell you. I bet that bugs you.

Anyway. So here’s what I’m thinking. I wonder if there is a way to take a human being who has too much energy for one’s good and hook them up to some kind of device that would turn that energy into energy that can run stuff, like your car or something. See, I think I could have something here. Also, what about people that suffer from extremely high internal body temperatures (like I do, especially at night). Can we use that heat to run stuff? I’m just thinking. B/c my energy would be super cheap. Right now I just want to get rid of it b/c it’s impossible to do work here at work with this going on and I might even make it free. Ok it’s 3:20 so I can now leave in one hour and 40 minutes.

Snakes Are Dumb.

Favorite headline of the day: “Python Gulps Queen-Size Electric Blanket.” Here’s the story if you’re interested - http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory?id=2212355 But…I have to tell you, there isn’t much too it beyond a python eating an electric blanket. Apparently he was eating his bunny rabbit dinner (L) and he confused where the bunny ended and the blanket began. Thing is, they really look pretty damn different. And don’t you think that when he got to the chord and electric box he though “hmm, this rabbit sure does have an odd texture. And he sure is crazy big and doesn’t really have any sort of flesh.” So I conclude that pythons must be pretty dumb. They are also snakes who give me the CREEPS.

Can we talk faucets for a minute? Because don’t forget that they are pretty much my life this summer. So I’m the new product development meeting yesterday. We have three new lines hitting Lowes and Home Depot this year. Right now they only have code names. I’ll give you one: Pinstripes. But I can’t give you
the others cuz then I’d have to kill you. (why do people love saying that so much??) So anyway. We are talking about these new families, and one of our VPs is like, “So, are we ever going to give these series names? I mean, Pinstripes, we obviously aren’t using that – that’s a Kohler line.” So my boss explains that he has our Marketing/Comm group working on the naming, and the woman who heads that heads the group hands him this list of names for the faucets. I strain to try and read it but cannot. So the guy is like, “Where the hell did these come from? Skylar? Ashley? These are terrible.” And the woman gets all bent out of shape and defensive about her market research techniques and it’s really kind of funny, I’m kind of wanting to laugh. The thing is, how the hell do you name a faucet? It’s this hunk of metal that spouts water, even if it is pretty. Oh – sidenote – this woman, the naming head, she is wearing sequins in the office today. I don’t think that is acceptable.

My fav comment from this conversation, which sorry if you don’t find it funny, but you have to remember that I’ve become a huge faucet nerd, was when they were talking about this one faucet. They are passing around the model, and someone is like, “This looks like Parisa on Jenny Craig.” (They also talked at length about how it resembled a woman’s silhouette…and that was weird). Anyway, someone suggested calling it Jenny Craig. That would be funny, no? If you were doing some remodeling and your friends were like, “So, which faucet are you going with?” And you’re like, “The Jenny Craig.” And they’re like, “No I’m not asking about your diet you silly! The faucet!!” Ok. I’ll stop there. Anyway, what if they just named their faucets after their summer interns? If they can have an Ashley…why not a Sara?

Pair of Jacks + Random Gym Thoughts

First off, update on Jack Bauer, the dog, not the tv character. My parents went up the kennel and put dibs on the pups, which are due to arrive in the Linderman house in August. Dad narrowed down to two, sent the pics y-day; the one in his right hand is his fav (don’t you dare make fun of my Dad’s picture, ps). He titled the email “Pair of Jacks” and signed the email the “Puppymaster.” No one is laughing at this right now, but I am.

Anyway, so do you find that you encounter the weirdest people habits at the gym? Cuz I do. Went y-day to swim. Checked to make sure before going that it was NOT 24 Hour Aqua day, btw. So this old-ish guy who is wearing like 20 tons of cologne – I shit you not you could smell the cologne in the water – gets in the lane next to me. He stands in the water, just standing there, for like 10 minutes. And then he waits precisely for the moment that I am pushing off to push out, and he full out sprints. He edges me by a tiny bit at the wall. But mind you, I was at the tail end of 700 yards. So I’m like, hmm, he is pretty fast, is he trying to race me? No!! Who does that? But then I see that he slows down dramatically, like seriously. And then later on he pulls the race stunt again. Guys if you are a 50 year old man, I think you have serious issues if you are so intent on racing the young girl in the pool with you at your local 24 Hour Fitness. Join Masters or something. Leave me alone. Or…just be blunt and be like, “yo, let’s go.” No wait, don’t do that.

So then I go into the steam room. This old guy is standing up on one of the benches rapidly swinging his arms in and out. It’s gross, b/c he has no shirt on and he’s dripping w/ steam room sweat, so his body parts are all rubbing together making these icky noises that sound a lot like something that I am too much of a lady to write here. Then he lies down and starts doing ab exercises. And he’s breathing like major super heavy. He is grunting. Again…these noises… Then he moves onto other exercises that I honestly could not identify the purpose of, but by this time I felt like I was going to witness him blow his load so I upped and outed that steam room.

It only make me wonder…what weird stuff do I do at the gym? Because I’m sure I do something weird. You know what I think it is? I think I make really weird faces when I’m spinning, b/c I get so totally beat that most likely I show pain on my face. Anyway, one last tidbit about the gym. Now I have only swum at this pool one other time, like 3 weeks ago. And that other time, I was swimming w/ this woman, probably in her 60s or something, and she asked if I swam competitively (umm, like 30 years ago, and I’m slow as balls now). But anyway, she goes at one point, “wow, you are like a real swimmer! We don’t see too many of those around here!” It was cute. So I am getting in last night, and she remembered me…she was like, “oh, you are like the real swimmer!” Yes. I am starting to get it. I am real, and I do swim, thus making me a swimmer, thus making me a real swimmer. Anyway, we chatted it up for a minute or two after that, she is a cutie. Maybe we can hang out and talk about our weird gym quirks sometime.

Adventures in Cyberspace

What an age we live in. Did you know that you are most likely connected by like 2,365 degrees to me even if you don’t have the slightest clue who I am? You’ve got Friendster, you’ve got MySpace, you’ve got FaceBook, you’ve got LinkedIn, etc. Now I get LinkedIn cuz that is a “professional” site, but the others I’ve never really gotten. Umm, yes, I am on Friendster, mostly b/c it’s just one more Web site to look at, but aside from its ability to connect you to virtually everyone else in the world that you never want to talk to (or provide you an avenue for cyberstalking), I really don’t get what it’s all about. I always ask people. They don’t ever have good answers.

Anyway, we’ll say for simplicity’s sake that these crazy Internet things seems to promote virtual networking. So, in the spirit of virtual networking, I think it’s only fair for me to give some Web shout outs so you can introduce yourself (virtually of course) to some other people and have some new reading material. Now, my friend Sauj knows about 98 other people who blog. I don’t know why she knows so many bloggers. I personally don’t. But, I do know Sauj, and her blog is quite cyberlicious (how many times have I used the word cyber???): http://saujpauj.blogspot.com/

I also recently discovered, courtesy of adventures in cyberspace, that one of Mr. Splendapants good friends has a blog: http://www.siggypoopants.blogspot.com/ Check it out! I think that her blog’s name was actually inspired by my blog’s name. And, it appears, based on the first entry, that I am also the source of inspiration for her to begin blogging in the first place. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Pinch my cheeks and call me flattered!

Happy reading friends.

You Just Can't Shut Me Up...Please Pay My Bills

You know those irritating TMobile commercials where you listen to randomers blabber about stuff and then at the end Catherine Zeta Jones tells you to “go ahead, talk it out!”?? Well, hey Catherine, F you, b/c I have gone ahead, I have talked it out. And I can’t afford this habit.

I am v. good about never going over my minutes. And then last month my cell bill was double what it usually is, and this month it was quadruple what it normally is, and no, for once, I’m not speaking in hyperbole. The people I talk to the most, my parents and this other person as of late, are Cingular so they are free. So who am I talking to? I don’t know. I just printed out my TWENTY-SEVEN page phone bill and am going to try to figure it out. I am also abusing the old text message. The problem w/ those things are that if you send one, you are bound to receive one, and if you receive, you are bound to send. So one turns into 2 and then before you know it you are over your allotment. And every text I ever send is usually really stupid anyway. So, if you are reading this, and I text with you, please don’t text me back anymore. Or just stop texting me. And calling me. And don’t pick up when I call.** In fact I think I think I’ll just become a hermit. Which is sad, b/c I just got a new Bluetooth headset for my phone (had to give in b/c my earbud thing always fell out b/c I guess my ears are misshapen) and I won’t even be able to use it if I become a hermit…

You know what though? Let’s continue w/ the irony. Along with my sick phone bill, I just got the bills for my 5 vocal therapy sessions. They apparently were $450 a piece (don’t worry guys they are covered by insurance, although I do have to pay all my deductible, which bites) but anyway. You see, it’s funny: The girl w/ the big phone bill is the one going to vocal therapy sessions b/c she has abused her vocal chords. Do you see the irony? Do you get it?? I don’t think my vocal therapist would approve. She would take my phone probably, and send me off to be a hermit that sits around blowing bubbles through an oversized straw into a cup of water, counting in sets of three, and repeating “Me, My, Money.” (Umm, if you are utterly confused and have no clue what I’m talking about, these are things I had to do in vocal therapy to help readjust my speaking voice as I “suffer” from “nodules” on my vocal chords: http://www.asha.org/public/speech/disorders/nodules_polyps.htm

And shit. I know what you are thinking right now. “She writes too much too.” I do. It’s true. Veeve and Roo basically told me over the weekend that you just can’t shut me up. I guess you can’t. The end.

**Please don’t stop texting/calling me!! That would be sad.

So, Do You Come Here Often?

All in all this was a fairly fantastic weekend here in LA. Rehana/Rafiki/Rohypnol finally came out from Boston to visit, and it’s always delightful to see old friends. It’s also nice when old friends introduce you to new friends, especially ones that are staying at the Ritz and don’t mind if you come crash at your pool for the entire day as they work on tanning off their hangovers. Famous last words on Friday included our assurance that we’d be taking it easy. Easy turned into a bottle of wine before dinner, three bottles at dinner, and a trip to Beechwood for lots more drinks. I think that Danny Number 2 and BobDickBrian would agree that we did not take it easy on Friday and Danny Number 1 is now afraid to see us on a night when are going out hard.

Anyway, after a day of tanning we went to Venice for a stroll and a snack – and I pet my first parrot. He was this little blue guy and Roo totally thought he was going to bite my finger off, but he just wanted to shake hands. I swear, the bird really did you give you his little claw thing to shake. Adorable.

Parrots are great, but we saw much more interesting things at the BHills Four Seasons bar last night. Aly informed us that it’s a place mostly frequented by hookers and old man, and I’m going to agree. The bar was packed and they make a mean mojito, but I have never seen so many old, unattractive and eerily unattached men in an LA bar, ever. And there were def hookdawgs. I’m pretty sure we came this close to witnessing public sex at this bar (and to note, I bet you this chick does like to do it in movie theaters). We were also very close to playing a game whereby I would pose as a callgirl just to see how much cash we could pull in, but I was not ballsy enough to try to play callgirl anyway.

What I did do…was more embarrassing. So, Bruce Willis walks in. He’s chilling at the bar, alone, standing right next to all of us. For like ever. And he looked so lonely, like he really needed some company, and I just wanted to help him out. And of course I was being egged on. Aly told me that I’m her courageous friend and that my dress was awesome and I should just go for it. Sean told me I should just walk up to him and grab his crotch. We plotted about what to say for a while and I finally just walked up to him. I learned that I’m a total retard and I lose all poise, wit, and intelligence when I try to talk to celebs (as I now have made an ass out of myself in front of both L’il Jon and Brucey).

So I walk up. “Hey, just wanted to come say hello.” Bruce extends hand, I shake, “I’m Sara.” (he doesn’t give me his name, guess he though I knew it). “My friends all wanted to come and say hello, but I was the only one willing to do it.” Bruce, w/ wry smile: “So, they sent you.” Me: “Yep, I guess they did.” Me: “So, do you come here a lot?” Bruce, probably thinking, wow, that is an original thing to say, “No, not really.” Me: “Hmm, yeah, it’s a pretty crazy scene,” (Who SAYS shit like this? Was I having an out of body experience????) Bruce: “Yeah.” Me: “Ok, then, have a great night.” Bruce “Sure.” (i.e., get the fuck out of my face idiot girl).

When I recount the convo to my friends I think they cringed. My favorite reaction personally, is I’m walking to the bathroom and I get a text. It’s from Rehana, it says “Sara just asked Bruce Willis Do You Come Here Often?” I told the motard that she indeed sent the text TO ME. Here is a note though, do you know that talking to Bruce Willis is really intimidating? It is. He’s really not easy to talk to, and he does not want to talk to you. Oh, btw, that little guy from Oceans 11 and Varsity Blues soon joined BW. Should’ve talked to him instead. Bet he would’ve been nicer. Oh well.

So that is pretty much my weekend story. I also had an extended chat w/ some old guy who was not cute by any standards, but hey dude, drinks at the 4 Seasons are $20 so I’m happy to exchange a chat for a bev. And the guy called me La Contessa although I’m still trying to figure out why and asked me if when I’m with my friends I feel like I’m different than them (for the record, umm, no, I don’t), and I’m also still trying to figure out what the hell that meant as well. Anyway, my Vitamin Water is done, and yoga starts in 20 minutes, so I’m out the door. I will say that I’m a little sad the paparazzi didn’t pop up and take a pic of me and Brucey so that I could get my pic in US Weekly, but this gives me some aspirations in life. The End.

My Personal Hell

I just got stood up for the second time in two days. Luckily it’s not really a blow to the self esteem cuz I didn’t get stood up for date, just a business call, but that’s pretty bad anyway because it leaves me with nothing to do.

Anyway, so last night I had my panties in a bundle for quite some time over a gym-related situation. I went to the gym prepared to swim, I didn’t bring any gym clothes save for swim stuff so I was pretty much married to the pool for the evening. I noticed when I was checking in that “24 Hour Aqua” was scheduled from 5:30 to 6:30 and it was nearly 5:15. I asked the guys if the pool would still be open and they said Aqua uses the whole pool…I asked if it was all old women…they didn’t hesitate in their affirmative response.

I suited up and was about 4 laps in before I was stopped dead in my strokes by this really fat woman. And then I realized all the lane lines were gone, and the pool was actually filled with fat woman. I’m sorry if you’re offended, but there is no other way to describe the scene. Unless you want to add that it was fat women in really heinous swim suits (note to staff: it’s not “old” women that take the class)*. I asked the women if they would keep a lane open for swimming, but they said that the instructor is really strict about that. They invited me to join them, said it’s a real workout. Yes, clearly, I can see that it also provides fantastic physical results.

The instructor arrives. It’s an effeminate Asian man bearing an effeminate looking boom box (PS: his music mix was just fantastic. You could barely hear it, but when you did it was playing something completely unexpected…his “mix” transitioned from early 90s techno, to Slim Shady, to Sinatra, to Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard. Scientifically crafted for water aerobics I guess.). I ask if he can keep just one lane open. He gives me a Meryl Streep-esque look a la DWP and informs me that he needs the entire pool for his class. Yes, let’s take a minute to think about why you might need the entire pool. And, side note, btw. I am thinking, if I’m really large, do I want to voluntarily put on my swimsuit? I don’t think that I do. So why are all the biggest women in this gym the ones putting on the least amount of clothing? Just a question.

So anyway, it’s 5:30, and I am meeting a friend (Mr. K Kent) in Newport for dinner at 7:30, and I really don’t see what else to do…where am I going to go? I’m in my suit…I have this time…nothing else to do…I am taking water aerobics. What to say about this class. We play with little foam weights and do QB little things, prancing from one end of the pool to the other, swinging our arms around, treading a little bit, kicking against the wall (PS: I’m 99.99% positive that during the kick session I was the only one who actually made a splash…). We were punching our arms, scissoring our legs, I don’t know. I am fairly certain that I didn’t even come close to breathing hard. The only thing I gained was an exercise in anger management, b/c I had a lot of frustration brewing inside, as I fumed over my stolen workout.

Later on at dinner I was telling Kelly about my little water adventure. He likened it to the time he took group swim lessons to improve his strokes, which required him to participate in the public pool’s group lap sessions. Now I won’t go into specifics, but he was a bit harsher in his descriptions of the other swimmers, which I think may have involved associations with certain marine animals, say, manatees.

Alright now. I am done. Lesson learned: always check the schedule for 24 Hour Aqua before packing up your gym bag. I can let this episode go now and move on. On a closing note, and completely unrelated, I really think I want to get a puppy. Veeve you reading this? There is something we need to talk about…

*Disclaimer: I do actually think it’s fantastic that these women were there, as they were actually getting out there and being healthy. I am just temporarily bitter that my workout was squashed by this lame class.

Umm, Yeah, I Guess I Do Enjoy That

I had just fallen asleep last night when my phone woke me up. It was Mr. Splenda. I berated him for waking me up, then we chatted for a few minutes, I told him how I’d gone running that night and gotten lost (I was running around this lake and it got dark out and I missed my turn off back to the road and I was out alone running past cobwebs and bats and it was quite unpleasant and not a little creepy, but I sure did run a lot, so that’s good…).

Then he asked me, “Do you enjoy making fun of me?” I guessed that he had been reading my blog and saw the entry where I…made fun of him. Of course he was not upset, but he did threaten to make comments on the blog so if any rude comments get posted that take jabs at me, umm, just ignore them. I mean seriously, the guy can’t tell when his milk goes bad.

Does this count as another entry making fun of you Splendapants?

Jack Bauer, that Furry Little Bugger

My doggy passed away this past winter. Jakey was our second golden retriever and indeed a great dog. Dick and Jane swore they would never again own another pup, but of course they soon will. Who would Jane talk to in the morning if they didn’t? So they went scouting and have been waiting for several months now for the lil guy to be born. Several weeks ago the litter bearing their soon to be new arrival was born, and by mid-August the Linderman house will once again have a furry little bundle running around it. Check out the pics of these silly little guys.

I asked my Dad the other day what they plan to name him. Verdict is in and they are calling him Jack. I thought this was in homage to Jake. You know, cuz Jake, Jack, pretty similar.

No, it’s not. Dick and Jane are obsessed w/ that damn show 24, and they are actually naming their new puppy after Jack Bauer. I am kind of embarrassed, kind of amused, obvi not embarrassed enough to not post it to the Internet.

Completely Helpless

There is a man in my life, who will remain nameless, who frequently needs advice related to extremely mundane topics. Like, I’ll get a call asking, “I made this chicken on Monday night. Do you think I can still eat it?” I don’t know dude, is it slimy? Does it reek? No? Then…eat it. Or, “This milk is stamped July 5th. It’s the 7th, but it still seems fine. Do you think I can drink it?” Umm, taste it…sour? No? Drink it…

Got this email today. Title: Important question: Is Splenda bad for you?
“I ask because we have free drinks in the office (soda, juices, milk, etc.). One of the options is a bunch of different flavors of carbonated water (lemon-lime, black raspberry, kiwi strawberry, etc.). Anyway, it's only 5 calories because it's made with Splenda. I'm drinking like 2 or 3 of these things a day Because it makes me feel like I'm drinking something with caffeine in it, but I don't know if Splenda is bad?”

My response: Title: Important question: Are You Retarded?
I won’t write my response, but essentially, 1) Why would you think I am some sort of expert on the health effects of Splenda? And 2) Do you have access to Google? Oh and how about three – why does Splenda make you feel like you’re drinking something caffeinated anyway?

Men simply are not resourceful. I get lost, I ask for directions. You get lost, you have this pride and you will waste ½ hour driving around aimlessly to save it. I want to know if my milk is sour, I give it a little taste. You have to call someone to get their advice. I grab the butt pocket on your jeans and rip a little hole in them (oops) you think it’s the end of the world. I take them to a tailor and get them fixed. “They can do that???!!!” Yes, you can sew things that rip back together with thread and needle!!!

Without women would men still be living in caves, eating berries and leaves and stuff?

You Cannot Be Serious

The other day, while relaxing in the sun at Pacific Beach (amidst frolicking 18 year olds sporting heinous full body tattoos, keg-standers, horse shoes, blasting head banger music, and in general, frat boys), I listened to my friend Erin tell Meghann (summer intern at Harrah’s) that she thinks casinos are next in line after big tobacco and fast food to be sued by obsessive-compulsive people who f* up their lives due to their lack of self-control. No, Erin, you were off. Next in line to be sued are stars, by normal people who look like them, who must endure cases of mistaken identity…You are confused, right? This sounds completely retarded, right? No kiddies, think again. Check this out: “Man says he's tired of being mistaken for MJ” -
http://msn.foxsports.com/nba/story/5766288?FSO1&ATT=HMA
This is seriously the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever read. Or at least it’s up there.

Let’s talk about other ridiculous things. I was bitching about World Cup the other day b/c I’m so sick of hearing about it. I was ready for it to end. Then I caught the last hour or so of the France/Italy game, and now I’m sad it’s over. Yes, I am no sports-watcher, this is true. And soccer I could generally care less about, but I think I’m reconsidering and may become a devoted fan. I LOVE LOVE LOVE how dramatic these (btw very very hot) soccer men are – how they get nudged and then roll to the ground and tumble like 20 times to get a yellow card pulled. It’s awesome. Specifically, it was the head-butt that got me. Who does that??? I can’t believe that guy ended his soccer career by head-butting a guy. I bet you he gets assassinated by some crazy French dude. Mozzarella!!!!

Final ridiculous things include Meg and Warren’s house in paradise across from the seals (can I move in?), the guy I met in a bar on Saturday night who I think hit on at least 25 women and made out w/ approximately ½ of them (although this is no where near Frederick getting her skirt pulled all the way up by a guy in a bar in the Hamptons), me getting hair dye on my face so it looks like I have a birthmark now on my cheek (I called L’Oreal, it does come out but I guess I have to wash my face for like three hours or something), and going to dinner w/ my surrogate dad last night. He offered to take me. Best date I’ve had in months. Only date I’ve had in months? Yes. That too. Anyway, wow, old men don’t really talk much…I sure had to pull weight during that convo…

Alright, this pretty much concludes my thoughts for now. So, the end.

I Need This!

Yes, I am blogging at work, it's true. Don't tell anyone ok? Anyway, I think eveyone has peaced out of this place to go to happy hour. I thought happy hour would not be a good pre-San-Diego-drive option, so instead I'm here...blogging...

But anyway. So I found a link to this story (thank you sauj) about these phones that are coming out (LG brand) that have a breathalizer built into them. I guess you are supposed to test your sobriety before getting behind the wheel although I highly doubt they will really stop anyone.

But...the BEST feature is this deal:
The LP4100 also allows users to set up the phone so on certain nights and after a certain time they do not call certain people in their phone book. Think ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend.
If you have a blood alcohol level over .08, the phone will not let you dial that person. So it not only promotes sobriety, but chastity — and probably your dignity, as well.

I can be a pretty pathetic drunk dialer. It's true that I relatively recenlty had a 16 minute conversation with a certain boy and then had no recollection of what I actually said the next day. I don't really think I said good things, just a guess. If I had had him programmed into my phone, I wouldn't have needed to completely remove his number from my phone to avoid any more dumb moves. Umm, I could also just not be a stupid girl (err, woman) but that is not really an option here... Someone keep me alerted as to when this phone will hit the US market!!

Just Thinking

Some random thoughts. So, first – names of people in my office. There is this one woman named Pixie Wick. How many times do you think she has been called Pixie Sticks? That would get really old. There is another woman named Lady. I don’t really have anything to say about that, but really, her name is Lady. That is worse than Coco. And, to continue this tangent, speaking of Lady, I was in a meeting this morning (me and about 10 guys) and I was referred to as a girl. Seriously, I am no girl, I am def a woman at the ripe age of 25. And last office thought…a fellow intern asked me if I’m on MySpace at lunch today (no, I’m not). But I did say I was on Friendster. And then I realized that I had a link to my blog on Friendster. So I flipped out that someone might look me up on Friendster, then go to my blog, and then I may write about coworkers and get in trouble, so I quickly logged into Friendster at work just to avoid any run-ins. Phew. How much do I over-analyze?

Final thought of the day. Veeve went on a date last night w/ some kid she met at her recent conference of Neurosciency people. I guess he’s quite hot and pretty much perfect, and as she thinks he’s def too hot to actually be a good guy, she refers to him as trouble. This makes me laugh. Then she can say stuff like “I Love Trouble.”

Eau de Jami

On Sunday night, just after leaving dinner, I received a call from my friend Erin, previously from DC now a San Diego resident. Apparently she was in town to help her brother settle his new apartment and have a 24 hour reunion with some college friends. She was supposed to stay w/ her brother that night, but he failed to have furniture for her to sleep on, and her other option was staying with his girlfriend Coco’s parents for the night. I guess that Coco has somewhat atrocious parents, and one dinner at their v. exclusive beach club was all she could handle. Again, her name is Coco.

Anyway, so Erin spent the night. The next morning, before my third brunch of the weekend, Erin, Veeve, and I were discussing Erin’s friend Lauren who I knew in DC. I guess Lauren finally broke up with her boyfriend Jim, who Erin could never stand, but the real kicker is that during their last weeks of turmoil he started to hit heavily on our friend Jami. Jami is a good friend of Veeve and mine from Wake, and the thing about her is that she attracts men like flies to honey.

Now, Jami is great – she is pretty, she has a great personality, she’s wicked smart – and she does have amazing boobs. But we have a lot of friends that fit this description (as flat as I am, I do have a lot of girlfriends with very large breasts).

Erin, Veeve, and I started to talk about something, and it’s not the first time our friends have discussed this – what exactly is it about Jami that makes the men flock to her? Seriously, in school, she was NEVER w/out a man, in DC I had several friends fall for her, it just happens all the time, and I don’t care what you boys will say, it cannot just be her bodacious ta-tas. I think that is has to be pheromones. And I think that I could seriously make a lot of $$$ if I could figure out how to reproduce and bottle Jami J pheromones, and call it Eau de Jami, or Essence of Jami, or something like that. I’ve been saying lately that I don’t think I’m cut out for a standard office job and that I really need to own my business, and I think I might have an idea. Now, how to go operational…Food for thought.

Sloppy and Classy All in the Same Weekend

I’m a quick learner guys; instead of leaving at 5pm again this past Friday I left at 7 and made it back in 1 hour 15 minutes, which was a much better deal than last week’s 2.5 hours. And I had plenty of time to get dressed and ready for Friday night dinner at The Buffalo Club, planned a la Danny, who insisted that the hour wait for our table even though we had reservations would be well worth it. It wasn’t; my halibut that arrived around 11:15 pm was less than delightful, but the night was almost worth it just cuz I got to see a couple things that I feel only happen in LA.

One would be the $38 per person food minimum noted on the menu. This does not include drinks. Mind you many of the entrees don’t meet that minimum. Anyway, so our bill was pretty huge. We had pretty mediocre service and it was pretty disappointing, but when some of us bitched to one another about it, someone, I forget who, pointed out that they didn’t charge us for the appetizers. Oh really? Maybe that’s b/c we didn’t order them – they we part of the Buffalo Club “taking care of us.”

So aside for paying a lot for very only decent food, people in LA also apparently like to eat their pricey meals while watching go-go girls gyrate on the speakers over by the dance area. I can hear it now… “My, the béarnaise on this filet is delightfully prepared. Hey, check out the ass on that chick in the hooker outfit!”

To compensate for our hunger, we drank too much. I was two martinis and one glass of champagne in by the time my meal arrived, but by that point I had lost interest in food, so I picked at my fish and then concentrated on drinking more. We danced a lot, someone may have let someone else flirt quite overtly with them only to avoid paying attention to someone else (who is that childish?), and then we went back to an apt where several of our friends live to drink more. I pretty much passed out on the couch upon arrival only to awake confused the next morning, which is too bad, b/c apparently Eric and Victor got into a little fight which sounded somewhat amusing. Meredith walked home barefoot to her apt. (from West LA over to Brentwood…) in an effort to sober up the next morning. Personally, after brunching (ps I brunched on Sat, Sun, and Monday, which I think is the sign of a great weekend), I hit up yoga, where 10 minutes into it, the heat and movement got to me and I interrupted my “practice” to throw up.

Don’t worry, I made up for the immaturity by being extra mature at my friend Aly’s wedding on Saturday night. This wedding was amazing. Granted, “Anal” Aly (don’t worry, she asked us to call her that) is known as thus for a reason, so we were not surprised by the immaculate sense of detail, but from start to finish it was a perfect affair. The bride was beautiful, and both bride and groom smiled like goofballs the entire night. My only complaint was the lack of some nice hot Jewish boys for dancing with. Luckily the marketing girls all came into town with their dancing shoes on, so I guess that compensated.

The weekend has now ended, and to close, I just have one question. Why the f are there no fireworks in neither Manhattan nor Hermosa Beaches? That was a really bummer. I got some great beach time, I enjoyed my fourth, but I sure did miss my celestial artwork.