Awkwardly Social

You put fried chicken. With waffles. People will flip!

Um. So. Bust Magazine. You guys heard of it? Yeah. Well, I’m currently being brainwashed with their, ‘all women are beautiful and that includes librarians who aren’t pretty with their hair down’ message.

Like I need to be more empowered. Come on! That’s what Cosmo, Vogue, Glamour and (hehehe, I just looked down at the shirt I’m wearing and it’s so fucking ugly…but I digress) all those other ones with ugly ass skinny girls with buck teeth and thin hair are for. Christ, the messages in those magazines, you know, how to please a man, how to look pretty in only 3 hours a day, why you should never ever leave your boyfriend because you’ll die alone, those are words I live by. And when Vogue does their hard hitting interviews with screen legends like, say, Kirsten Dunst, I take notice. That girl has some good advice for me, I mean granted she’s only like 13, but seriously, she’s pretty. And I do what pretty says.

BTW, I heart Tina Fey, even though I know she’s totally trying to steal my boyfriend, Jimmy.

You’ll all be happy to know that I had a kind of bad day yesterday. That’s right, I was a little crazy yesterday and stayed in bed. I watched, don’t laugh, the marathon. Mmm-hmm. I was riveted to the most boring race ever run. 26 (or something) miles of guys running. They aren’t jumping, they aren’t racing towards the finish line, they’re on a 2 hour run. TWO HOURS. OF RUNNING. Then I felt really bad when I got kind of excited that someone tackled the Brazillian guy. SOMETHING HAPPENED! HOLY SHIT! HE’s BEING TACKLED! Then they continued to run. Watching the running helped the anxiety a little bit, but then men’s volleyball came on. I got really into it, rooting for the Italians (’cause they were cuter) and pondering the scoring. In highschool you can’t score unless it’s your serve, not so at the Olympics. And net serves are good? Woah. So then the hot hot hot Italians lost and I got a little anxious again. So I read some…I’m kind of embarassed to say it…Emily Dickinson. Hey. At least I’m not writing sad poetry. I’m just reading it.

I thought Rally burger would cheer me up. Nope. I do like the name though. RALLY BURGER! WOOO! Then the EMT called me. Made me laugh. And for the hour that we were on the phone I felt a little better. A little less anxious and sad. Talking about the complexities of irony and the curse of Scientology on Hollywood has a way of taking your minds off things. Did you know that Forrest Whitaker is a Scientologist? Can you believe it?

That about sums up the weekend. I guess if I had just looked in the paper and seen that Laura Brannigan had died, it would have explained it all.

My sister re-designed her site, with a little help [read: entirely done by her husband] from her talented husband. I’m jealous.

And if you want to be even more confused about irony, you should read this article from the Guardian. I particularly like the conclusion. Or, whatever.

I thought of something.

While we were eating dinner at the Cajun place, Cirxa, an acquaintence of the EMT came over to the table and presented us with two postcards. The EMT and I both asked, “What’s this?” The aquaintence replied, “It’s my show. I’m showing my panties!”

“Your panties? You’re showing your panties?” I was pretty excited, thinking wow, this chick is going to have some kind of kick ass show. A lingerie designer showing her panties. Fabulous.

“Um. Paintings.”

“Right, panties.”

“No. My Pain Tings.”

“Oh. [beat, drink a drink of wine, yum, wine] Are they on panties at least?”

“No. They’re just paintings.”

“You should really try painting on panties next time.” Note to self, don’t give advice to artists… especially advice that involves a GENIUS idea of painting on panties, keep that shit to yourself.

It’s really too bad I’m not a painter. ‘Cause, I can see it now…

I was going to write a treatise on my stupid alarm clock, but couldn’t begin to make it funny or interesting. This, I think, is what comes with the ‘happiness.’ I like my job, I laugh everyday, I’m seeing someone who happens to be normal, nice and seems to like me, the screen writing is progressing nicely and I don’t have any sad thoughts. You all are going to have to bear with me through this happy time. I promise it won’t last.

I re-met Mrs. Shitpants last night over birthday dinner for Mels. Mrs. Shitpants got her name when some dude she had an e-mail fight with sent her an Amazon wish list labeled M______ Shitpants. The stupid guy didn’t even get creative with the items on the list. We all decided that he should have only put books on that had to do with poop. Like, Everybody Poops, Walter the Farting Dog, and then we all trailed off, because as much as we love talking about poop in our group, we couldn’t come up with any other books that have poop or poop like references in the title.

Mrs. Shitpants regaled us with ‘assistant’ stories from her life as an Hollywood assistant. There’s a reason ass is the first part of assistant. And about the usage of ‘an’ above, it seems wrong, but you know, I can’t be bothered with the grammar this morning.

A little note for anyone who’s going to order dessert at Gingergrass. Do not, I repeat not order the bread pudding. The Vietnamese, as it turns out, are not so good at the pudding part of the bread pudding. It was basically hunks of dry bread surrounded by some kind of cardomon spice milk. Not delicious.

All in all it was a delightful evening.

Hurts. Might have something to do with the pizza and wine combo I had with Elliot last night. Whoooo boooy. I don’t think the 7-eleven coffee is helping. Or the plane crashes in Russia. I’ve never been to Moscow, but I have fond memories of the post Soviet airport in St. Petersburg.

My sister warned me about it. “You’re going to de-plane on the tarmac, very, very close to a runway. A bus will arrive. Make sure you get on that bus. It will drive to what seems like a different part of the city, but it’s not, it’s still the airport. 20-60 minutes later you’re bags will be thrown on a rickety baggage wheel that looks like something out of Blade Runner. You will then be directed to customs. Don’t laugh when you see the way they run customs, it pisses them off. If they question the amount of snacks you brought for me, cry. I need those snacks. They’ll speak what sounds like Russian, it isn’t. That’s English. Get used to it. Bring long underwear. It’s cold here.”

I can’t believe that was 10 years ago.

Or the President was getting killed on TV or raped even? Wouldn’t you want to know? How would anyone tell you if your phone was always off?

I’m hard to get a hold of. For some it’s just really annoying. For others it’s intriguing. Some don’t have feelings on the subject either way. I like to go with the intriguing camp, because not only do they wait patiently for me to call back, but they leave me funny messages. I used to get annoyed when people didn’t call me back then I became one of those people. It has nothing to do with you I realized, it has to do with the sheer laziness/ineptitude/tiredness/depression/fun-timeyness/didn’t-get-the-message-’til-you-were-sleepingism of the person you are calling. So if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

Sunsets in the desert are the best.

Tom Jones has a thing about him that I’m not sure I can explain, being so young and un-used to old men gyrating wildly on stage. Elliot wasn’t the only one throwing panties. There was a whole crowd of women, front row, screaming blowing kisses dancing gyrating panties crying. (There is no way to punctuate the women’s actions. It is impossible.) But seriously, after we got over how weird it was to see a man that old still pointing to his peepee at certain times of the song and pelvic thrusting across the stage, we all began to sort of, I don’t know, like him. Like, we want to hang out with him. We want him to be our new best friend. Because after the tears of laughter and the feelings of pity we realized, this man loves what he does. He loves it. And we loved him for it. The best thing I’ve seen at Vegas yet. And I have seen a lot of crazy shit in Vegas.

Close runner up to the best thing I’ve seen in Vegas, imposter taxi man…
So we got lost in our hotel lobby everytime we tried to leave it and Tom Jones night was no different. Hard Rock isn’t even that big. We went out a side entrance and had to tramp around to the front of the hotel, past all the waiting limos, almost to the taxi stand when a taxi screams up out of nowhere and yells, “Hey ladies, need a cab?” Yes. Yes we did. Hmmm…. We jump into the cab, saving our feet from the extra 50 yards to the cab stand. Then Elliot realizes something. There is no picture on his cab license. He has removed it. She is frantically whispering this information to Mels who is sitting in the middle, when I realize he is driving down the middle of the street. The middle, where your car is not supposed to be, yeah, that middle. It’s very quiet in the cab but I start whispering furiously to Mels that our cab driver is wasted. We screech up to the MGM Grand and when I say screech I mean, seriously, he was doing some action movie type driving around parked cars, limos and bell man. Elliot and I try furiously to open the doors and they are unlocked but we are trapped. Those doors no open from inside cab. This is when Elliot has it in her head that the cabbie is going to take us somewhere, rob us, rape us and murder us. I was just worried that everyone was going to know I was drunk, because you know, when you can’t open a door, people stare. All of these things might not seem like much to you, but he didn’t have change. What kind of cabbie doesn’t have change, except a fake cabbie who likes to take pretty girls to the desert and rob, rape and murder them.

We survived. Obviously.

And one last thing. I totally have to give a HUGE SHOUTOUT!!!! to Mels’ friend Cliff who got us on the list at Ghost Bar, which by the way, is as fabulously cheesy as it sounds. Thanks Cliff! You made our evening.