Your Girlfriend is Ugly

Now she'll never show me how to follow the yellow brick road...

Well, hello there! Rebecca from LosingIt here, guest posting for Leeeeessssahhhh, who is trying to avoid her Blackberry while on vacay, aka she’s doesn’t love you enough to take the time out of her super relaxing days to lower herself to write something for you salivating, blog-reading hyenas (don’t get pissed at me, I’m just telling you what she said).

Today’s post is about someone who I can’t stand, so much so that my blood roils just thinking about her. No, I’m not talking about worthless female bloggers (rhymes with Shmelissa Shmee Shmorris) who are married to their grandfathers and can only write about their ugly, expensive possessions and ugly, wisp of a “dog,” because they have to do SOMETHING since their grandfather’s wrinkly, dried-up, ancient balls ceased to function eons ago and can provide her absolutely no pleasure (guess that’s why she has to stock up on Jif and loves her dog so much…). No, I’m talking about the timesheet troll at work.   

Let me just say: As much venom as I spew here on teh internets, I really am a pretty easy-going person; my blog is just my passive-aggressive way of dealing with my inner, evil emotions. In real life, for the most past, I’m polite, friendly and cheerful with people I don’t know.

Ok, to back to the Troll. It all started when I got to work one morning (it was like my 3^rd week of working at this job). It was around 6:30, I was still trying to shake off the previous night’s Vicodin, and I was jonesing for a giant chai latte to perk my ass right up.  I got into the parking garage elevator to head downstairs and sank back against the wall as the doors closed. Just as they were about to shut, a very hairy, small arm shot through the crack.

“Oh shit, a furry, European child!” was my first thought, as I dived for the Door Open button and frantically pressed it, hoping the force of the doors hadn’t mangled their limbs beyond repair. The doors started to open and I breathed a sigh of relief. As the doors pulled back, I peered through the widening space to ask the furry, European child if they were all right. As I started to speak, the doors opened all the way and the words died in my throat as they changed into a giant gasp.

Before me stood a midget. No, not like someone who’s short and you teasingly call a midget. We’re talking honest-to-God, we-represent-the-lollipop-guild midget. It scared the crap out of me, because I was expecting a little kid, and was met with a small adult (c’mon, it was early morning and “suddenly seeing midgets” just isn’t on my list of palatable morning events). However, it wasn’t only the stature that startled me, it was also the appearance. I am in no way a blushing beauty, but she was, um, one of the most unique-looking midgets I have ever seen (no, really: she looked like someone hacked the tiny conjoined twin off the head of the big conjoined twin from TLC, plus a mustache, unibrow, snaggle teeth and the most body hair I’ve ever seen on one woman).

Now, again, remember: I am not a mean person in real life, ONLY ON THE BLOG. I wanly smiled, she grimaced (smiled?) and said, “Did I scare you?” I snapped out of it and stuttered, “Uh, yeah, just a little,” and held up my thumb and pointer finger and squeezed them together, making the “little” hand sign. And then, in my head, I motherfucking panicked. I thought, “OH SHIT, I SAID LITTLE AND SHE’S LITTLE!!! OH MY GOD SHE’S GOING TO THINK I’M A RACIST OR A BIGOT OR WHATEVER IT IS WHEN YOU MAKE SAY SMALL OR LITTLE OR TINY IN FRONT OF SOMEONE WHO’S A MIDGET!!!” And then, I did the worst thing I could possibly ever do: I listened to the crazy voice in my head, got super nervous and unwittingly giggled. I COULDN’T HELP IT, IT’S A DEFENSE MECHANISM. 

Her unibrow narrowed, and I thought, “Oh good, now she thinks I’m making fun of her,” and she stomped into the elevator as I turned bright maroon. It was the worst 30 seconds of my life, riding in an elevator with a pissed-off midget (who was making weird, growly, snorting noises), while I was trying to choke back the ever-increasing giggles that were threatening to escape at any moment. Thankfully, we reached the ground floor with no incidents, and I quickly strode off the instant the doors opened. I walked as fast as I could, practically running inside the building and heading for the elevators. As I stood there, praying the elevators would hurry the fuck up, I heard a sort of snuffling behind me. I slowly turned around, and there stood my new BFF, Midge (yes, she got nicknamed during those tense 30 seconds in the elevator). Shit. The doors opened and I sighed, going inside and hitting my floor button. She got in, too. And didn’t hit a button. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck me, she works at the same company I do!!! We reached our floor, and we got off and headed to opposite sides of the office. “Have a great day!” I chirped, trying to make peace. She turned around. “YOU TOO!” she practically spit out, and huffed around the corner.

Since then, the Timesheet Troll (as I now affectionately call her) has been making me pay for that goddamn day by making me batshit crazy. She is CONSTANTLY changing my times, docking my minutes and “accidentally” taking away my PTO. My boss has had to talk with her more than once about the shit that she’s pulling, but to no avail. Midge will leave little passive-aggressive tick marks next to my name on the timesheet if I forget to sign in, she’ll get here EARLY to make sure that I’m ACTUALLY HERE at 6:30 and not just padding my times (swear to God. She’s fucking nuts), and if she happens to get here a little late, she’ll RUN to my cubicle and then casually stroll past, surreptitiously looking over her shoulder to make sure that I’m really in there. I would call it harassment if she didn’t look so goddamn adorable, running on those stubby, little legs and swinging her stubby, little arms.  

My magenta cartridge is low.

A handsome printer sales rep was in the office yesterday. We didn't speak but exchanged two smiles.

I sourced his contact information and sent him an email asking what his thoughts on alcohol were, maybe he'd want to get a drink?

No response yet, however printers are demanding work. I should know, I jam them all the time.

*UPDATE*

Blog and ye shall receive right?

Received response:

Hi Lisa,

Thanks for the invitation.

However I have a very long commute every evening so I leave pretty early so I can get home to spend time with my wife and 6 month old baby.

Have a great weekend!

 

There was no ring. Let's be clear about that.  The baby comment was overkill. But there you have it.

An Italian in Paris.

I have to preface this blog with a comment regarding children and families on airplanes. Seriously. What the fuck. Do parents really think that I want to hear their child screaming during a trans-Atlantic flight? No. I don't. I don't care how cute and cherubic your little 6 year old is. He's screaming bloody murder and I'm trying to get some sleep so I'm not a total zombie when I land.  I have less than zero sympathy when it comes to this type of thing. When I was a small child my parents never let me scream or make a scene so I know it can be done.

And of course it's always the family that you see when you're waiting in line for your ticket. Always. I spotted this kid -or heard him rather- from a mile away. He was clutched to his father who just shooshed him while the mother stood there pushing the luggage. This kid belonged in Guantanamo with that scream it was so torturous. I thought to myself those people are SO going to sit near me on the plane. Lo and behold, they were two rows in front of me and their little stain of a child didn't stop screaming for three hours.

I don't love much about the French but what I do love is that they totally and completely do not give a shit. Halfway through the third hour of screaming -and the parents weren't even doing anything! Not walking the kid around or shoving Benadryl down his throat. They were just sitting there!- the male flight attendant goes sauntering up to the parents and says, "What is going on here?"  I couldn't hear what the parents were replying but I could hear the one sided conversation of the flight attendant:

"Your child has been screaming for three hours..."

"People are complaining!"

"So what you're saying is that there's NOTHING you can do? You have no control over your child AT ALL??"

mumbling something in French and then walking away.

I really think that airlines should get the hint and put all families with children in one cabin together. That way they can all torture each other. 

The kid finally stopped shrieking but I wasn't able to fall asleep because as soon as the crying ceased the free red wine hit the guy sitting next to me. His wife had taken an Atavan and passed out and he kept talking to the guy in front of him, his travel partner apparently,

"IRA! CHEERS! TO TWO WEEKS IN PARIS IRA!"

Merrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

You're probably wondering why this blog is entitled an Italian in Paris. Well, for one thing I am 50% so it's not like I'm misrepresenting myself, but also it's summer and this is when I get ridiculously tan. Seriously. Being half Italian and half Irish I'm alabaster in the winter and a brown bean in the summer. I'm my own yin and yang!

Well I must've looked like I came over from Capri because everywhere I went people were speaking Italian to me. In Versailles one guy boisterously proclaimed, "BON JOURNO!" as I walked into a gift shop.

I stopped and smiled at him.

"Italian words I don't know. Italian words I don't know. Italian. Italian?"

Me, "...........................(smile)."

"Where are you from Bella?"

"Boston." My sister who travels all over told me to never say that you are an American when you travel abroad because of the current state of affairs in the U.S. Ooops. I flaked.

"Aaaaah you are American. I thought you were from Italy. You look like you could be."

Then he regarded me some more and said, "Or you look like you could be Spanish."

"Well, hola!"

He laughed, I bought a water for 3 Euros then headed to the Palace of Versailles where I would pimp around the gardens for a solid 5 hours before returning to Paris to eat steak frites, drink a bottle of red wine and pass out.

On the second to last day of my trip I had just finished walking along the Seine and stopped to get a crepe at my favorite crepe stand on the Rue Saint Germain Des Pres. I was enjoying the little band that was playing and the grandma who was dancing along when I decided to snap a photo of my favorite cafe, the Cafe Bonaparte.

As I stood on the sidewalk I heard a rumbling behind me. I turned and saw a man who looked like he was in his late 40's. He was speaking to me in French.

Me, "........................(half smile)."

He spoke to me in English, "Where are you from?"

I pulled from my earlier experience at Versailles and said, "Italy" in the most American accent you could've imagined.

"Aaaaah. That is what I would've guessed. Actually I was thinking Mexican but yes..."

He sized me up like a dog would size up a steak before he ripped into it.

Ew. This was not the type of Frenchman I fantasized about having a steamy affair with and then leaving the next day without giving any contact information. No. This was the type of Frenchman people would give to the criminal artist for a police sketch after I went missing.

"Um..."

"Do you speak French?"

"No. Do you speak Italian?"

"No."

*PHEW!* Dodged a bullet there!

He then leaned into me and put his hand on my arm and started to pull me in the direction of the alley.

"Come have a coffee with me."

"No thanks."

"Come have a coffee. I can speak French to you and teach you."

"Thank you but I'm all set."

At this point I started to panic because I thought I was somehow getting pick pocketed.  I whipped my phone out of my pocket and said, "I'm getting a phone call. Bye." And I scuttled off back to my hotel.

I stopped in front to make sure that my wallet, passport and gum were all still in their proper places. Everything was there. No pick pockets. Just a gross horny Frenchman. I found out later that "Come have coffee with me" is code for, "Come have coffee with me and then we will have sex together."

The purpose of my Paris adventure was a business trip. I had to go visit a glass factory that was located in Normandy. So on Monday afternoon, Mr. Vadecar picked me up at the hotel and drove me to the country.

Newsflash: no one in the country speaks English. Even when they say they do, they don't.

I was meeting the English speaking engineer from the glass factory but not until 7pm for dinner. It was 4pm when I arrived at the hotel and I refused to sleep. So I sauntered downstairs and asked the petite woman at the front desk who claimed to speak English if she could arrange a taxi to take me into town.

"Where you go?"

"I want to do some shopping?"

"French."

"............."

"FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH........................."

"........."

"..................."

I was starting to get panicky. Clearly I was making no headway with the front desk woman and it would've been so easy to just say forget it, enjoy the lovely day outside in the chateau gardens, take in the flowers and drink champagne. But the guilt was crippling me. I was in the French country side! I had to go sight see! When would I ever get back here!!??

I told the woman to hold on a second and then grabbed my Berry -it made the trip!!- and dialed the number of my sales rep in the US who speaks perfect French. She explained to the woman at the front desk what I wanted to do. I stared at them anxiously as they decided my activities for the afternoon. Front desk woman hung up and then called me a taxi and I sat outside to wait.

The taxi arrived and this hefty woman came lopping over to where I was sitting.

"French French French French Treport French?"

"Oui." I had learned from my French speaking sales rep that I would be going to Treport, a quaint little seaside town about 5 minute drive away. I hopped in the van taxi and off we drove. A few minutes later we were in Treport and she pulled over to the curb. I handed her my Euros and said, "You can pick me up here at 6:30?"

"Uuuuuh....six....uuuh..."

"Thirty. Six thirty."

"........................."

She was wearing a watch so I grabbed her hand and pointed to the 30 hash. "Six...here....."

"Aaah ok! See you at six-sirty."

Treport was beautiful. I stuck my feet in the water and no it was not the beach of Normandy, scene of D Day. But it was so lovely.

At six-sirty I wanted by the corner where I agreed to meet my taxi driver woman. I was enjoying a pistachio and chocolate twist ice cream cone when her van came barreling towards me. Full of other people.

I walked up to the passenger side door and my taxi driver started speaking frantically to me in French and pointing to the back of the van. I didn't comprehend. The entire van was full of people. Did she want me to hop in the way back? Like go through the trunk? I gripped my ice cream cone and started to make my way towards the trunk.

A collective "NO!" came from inside and I went back to the passenger side window where the driver was gesticulating wildly. I smiled and said through clenched teeth, "I have no idea what you are saying."

This went on for a full minute. I could see in the back seat one older than dirt French woman glaring at me and muttering things under her breath while flicking her hands wildly this way and that.

Clam.

Finally. After 90 seconds someone piped up from the back, " 'er 'usband eez right behind us. 'e will pick you up."

I stared at the girl, mouth agape. Really. You couldn't have spoken up earlier when I was ready to tie myself to the roof rack?

"Ok. Ok. Thank you!" I smiled and backed away from the van taxi.

I finished my ice cream in blissful peace while I waited for Mr. Vadecar to come and get me.

The trip went by pretty smoothly after that, save for the creepy French guy incident. Don't get me wrong, the taxi experience was hard core brutal but what do I care? Not like I'm ever going to see those people again. At some point you just have to jump and immerse yourself in the situation. How else are you going to learn?

It does feel good to be home though.

p.s. I am going to China in September. I can't even IMAGINE the oodles of blogs that will come from that trip.

Fun in France coming soon...!

Hi everyone!

I'm back from France and back from my little mini-vaca down the Cape. Naturally I have stories from my trip that I can't wait to share with all of you! Stay tuned. I'll be blogging about my adventures later on this evening.

I hope you enjoyed all of my guest bloggers while I was away. Let's give them a round of applause shall we!!

Ok......oooookay.....haha...That's a pretty rousing applause....uh huh...

Ok.

ENOUGH!

:)

Xx

Pet Peeves while you're in Paris...

Hola, people!

I come from the faraway land of La Petite Belle to share my wisdom with YGIU readers while Lisa is away in Paris. I'm not jealous. I mean, she's probably drinking Champagne at Place de la Concorde or shopping for fabulous underwear at On rue des Saints Pères. So what. Whatever. booooring!

Anyway, I'm here to talk about a huge problem in our world today. And it comes in the form of a question.. (and no, I'm not deep or smart enough to pretend I'm going to discuss politics or global warming, but for the sake of not losing YGIU readers I will also not debate Pink vs. Peach lip gloss)

What happened to the gentlemen of the world?

Have you noticed they are all gone? Did they all get married to girls like me complete bitches, who then turned them into asses and threw them back into the world?

Let me explain.

I grew up in a second-world country where women are still considered second-class citizens. I'm not saying that's a good thing. Bad. Very, very bad.

However, most men still have basic manners there. (hence me marrying a man from there, even though I didn't technically choose him for those reasons, as I'm sure none so many of you know I married my husband only because the baby carriage came before the love and the marriage)

What is so wrong about going into a packed bus and having a man stand up and offer me his seat? I actually have to make weird noises now, pretend to clear my throat so Rude Dude gets a clue. Or I have even gone so far as to pretend I'm pregnant. Popping my belly out...  sighing and pretending my back hurts so he gets the clue. (Oh myyyy, this Sciatica pain is kiiiilling meee) Which of course, he ignores because he's too busy listening to his stupid iPod or pretending to work on his Blackberry to notice this damsel in distress.

So who cares if I don't regularly take the bus. Stick to the point, people!

I also like to have doors opened for me. But after moving to America 6 years ago, I quickly learned my lesson.

When I first moved here, I was quite naive. Not only because I was 18, but because often I thought men were opening the door for me, but then when they pushed me aside to walk in before me. I quickly realized, after being pushed several times, that I was wrong and that they were opening the door for themselves. (and to top it off, the only people that came to my rescue, after these rude men pushed me, were women.)

What is happening with the world?

Another one. This one is big. Spitting. I think spitting in public should be outlawed. Or, okay, maybe they should create a law that states that if there is a female in your 1-mile radius, thou shalt not spit.

A fond memory I have of this, would be of a man making a pre-spitting sound, followed by a spit, followed by a grin and wink, followed by a "how you doin".

Seriously? [enter eww sound]

Or as our dear Lisa would say... have some game, dude.

Bonjour mes amours !!

By the time you all read this I will be in France having a lovely fromage filled time! I know you all miss me but I'm sure you're enjoying my hand selected guest bloggers. Give them copious amounts of love and comments and of course go check out their blogs!

I know you're still wishing you could have a Lisa original though. I mean right? Am I right? 

You can! Go check out Burt Reynolds' Mustache and read my guest post entitled "The Call of the Booty".

I post on the 11th of the month there so make sure to come back!

Mom and Dad, I love you.

Xx

My girlfriend isn't ugly...

But technically I am single. Actually, that's all bullshit- how can you just technically be single. Either you're single or not.

Same goes for technically being a "virgin".

Or telling a supermodel that you're technically rich.

When it all comes down to it, you either are or you aren't. Life would be alot easier without all of these damn technicalities and fluff. More black and white and less grey areas. That way, we all don't have to walk around like neurotic lunatics wondering about this or that and the other.

I really think, what seperates me (inside my own mind) from others is my ability to stay out of grey areas as often as I can. I am cognizant of the fact that, by being so certain and matter-of-fact you set yourself up to be seen as arrogant but- wouldn't you rather be arrogant as opposed to technically confident.

I would.

I really cant think of anything I would want to technically be. When you put the word technically in front of anything it's like saying you are...but really not. And that's just fucking stupid.

I almost forgot.

I'm not Lisa.

Or Leeeeeeesa.

I'm Matt and you can find my blog Here. 

So yeah, I am single...definitely, not technically.

Guest Blog #1 In the House!

Greetings, people with ugly girlfriends!

            This is Lisa’s friend Vanessa, reporting for blog relief duty from beautiful Los Angeles, California.  Apparently, “surviving” 20+ years of friendship with a person who has a blog qualifies one for blogging, too!  Who knew?  Anyways, it’s good to finally get payback for the Great Rhinestone Headband Incident of 1987.  (And no, Lisa, I really never will let you forget that;) 

 I’ve never really blogged before, save a couple of random ramblings on Myspace when my boyfriend’s ex engaged me in a vicious back-and-forth blogging CATFIGHT FOR THE AGES!!!  (Believe me, it warrants the all-caps/multi-exclamation point treatment.  And for the record, she totally started it).  So if I for any reason bust out in totally random “oh snap!”-worthy statements, I apologize in advance – old habits die hard.

                Okay, so now that all the boring introductions are out of the way, let’s talk about drugs! 

                I know it seems really stereotypical to represent the Cali faction of YGIU with a blog about drugs – rather like blogging about lobster when you’re in Maine, or about cacti when you’re in Arizona, or about annoying people when you’re in Texas – it’s almost too easy, right?  But hey, I never promised originality, people.  I’m a sub, for God’s sake – the one who shows a video to the class because I clearly have no idea what the heck I’m doing.  So…go ahead and humor me.

                I’m pretty much lying, though, because despite a few transgressions during my wayward youth, I’m squeaky-clean like Windex.  This isn’t going to be the kind of blog that you can’t read with your four-year-old niece on your lap, full of people c-walking and getting shot and OD’ing.  This isn’t Boogie Nights.  The blog’s freaking pink-and-white.  So without further ado, I present to you: the Most Chaste Drug Deal of the Century, Possibly of All-Time.  I write about it not because I’m proud of what went down on that fateful day, but because there’s an important moral wrapped up in it.  And also because it’s almost midnight on August the 10^th, and I totally told Lisa I could do this, so I need to write something.

Last Saturday, I woke up with a blistering migraine.  I don’t know if any of you have ever fallen victim to a migraine, but let me tell you: they are no freaking joke.  I pretty much felt as if a mean little gnome was sitting on my pillow, kicking me repeatedly in the right temple. 

And now, a brief science lesson.

[Donning glasses and pointer]

                If you don’t catch migraines before they start, you’re pretty much screwed. 

                [Removing glasses and pointer]

 Now, if you go look up “migraine” on Wikipedia, you’ll find some very intriguing and borderline questionable information about migraine treatment/avoidance.  For instance, did you know that sexual activity can help prevent migraines?  Or that the normal 9-to-5, 5-day workweek may not be “advisable” for a migraineur?  Or that the leaves of the cannabis plant can be helpful in alleviating migraine pain, particularly – and I quote – “if smoked”?

                I love Wikipedia.  I love the fact that some burnout, horny, slacker dude (sorry guys, but this crap was clearly written by a dude; or more accurately, “some dude”) who suffers an occasional prickling in his prefrontal cortex can go online and disperse such wildly unproven theories to the masses.  Masses with severe headaches, who are likely to claw at their throbbing heads and cry, “If it’s on the Internet, it must be true!  Bring me cannabis!  Bring me whores!  Call my boss and tell him I quit – I am getting rid of this thing right now!”  It’s kind of criminal.

                So, of course, I called my friend C (names altered to protect the semi-innocent) for her government-sanctioned weed stash, as gifted to her by a friend on her bday not a month earlier.  It was the fact of it being FDA-approved that swayed me, Mrs. Gradie, I swear.  I figured, if it got past rigorous government testing, it must be safe.  Of course, I neglected to factor in that the same government testing still can’t figure out the difference between tomatoes and jalapenos when looking for deadly strains of e-coli, but these are minor details when sadistic gnomes are perching on one’s pillow, making life utterly unlivable.

                Regardless, C. was out of town that day, so she referred me to her friend M., who was house-sitting for her in her absence.

                Now, I’ve met M. all of, oh, one whole time.  C. runs in pretty Hollywood circles, so her friends are of the too-pretty-thin-and-well-dressed variety.  M’s very sweet, but she’s also intimidating in that “I don’t actually need to wear makeup” kind of way.  Plus, I loathe talking on the phone.  To the point of it being kind of a problem.  People get mad at me.  If you’re ever thrown into jail (hey, it happened to me) and they give you one phone call, you’d better have someone else’s number memorized unless they let you send text messages.  So, you see why I was already nervous to call M.  With the result that it ended up going a little something like this:

                THE MOST CHASTE DRUG DEAL OF THE CENTURY, POSSIBLY OF ALL TIME

                INT – A room.

                Ring, ring.

                M: Hello?

                V: Oh, um…M?

                M: (clearly weirded-out, probably not wearing makeup) Yes…

                V: Erm, hi…this is C’s friend, Vanessa.

                M: (still semi-weirded-out) Oh, hi!

                V: Hello!  Um, so…how are you?

                M: Oh, fine.  You?

                V: Oh, fine.  Um…I have kind of a weird favor to ask you.

                M: (back to fully weirded out) Um, yes?
               

V: Well, see, I have this terrible migraine, and C. said she’d let me borrow some of her…marijuana.

Okay, first clue that your drug deal is way too civilized: “marijuana”?!  Adam thinks I’m a total loser for using that word, but what was I supposed to say, “Yes, may I please borrow some of that Cali-chronic, hydroponic, sticky-icky, no seeds, no stems, no sticks?”  Okay, fine, I’ll hand in my copy of The Chronic now.

Continuing with TMCDDOTC, POAT:

M: Ohhhhhhhhh!  I’m so sorry to hear that.  Okay…well…I’m going out to see a friend right now, so I won’t be here if you want to come pick it up…

V: Oh, well…um, could you possibly leave it on her doorstep?

Strike two!  I know.  I know.  It’s almost as bad as the time my friend paid for drugs… with a check.   I now relinquish my entire collection of Tupac CD’s (thank goodness, who has room for 12 million albums – and counting?).

And, moving on:

M: Sure! Did she tell you where it’s stored?

V: Yes…in the drawer…by the fridge.

M: Okay, hold on. Let me look…

 [A few moments of rustling later…]

M: Found it!

V: Lovely!

M: Okay…I’m going to put it on her doorstep…in a Barneys bag. 

Ladies and gentlemen, we have strike three!  We have now reached critical mass for the least gangsterific drug deal of all time.  I will now sacrifice The Chronic 2001, Doggystyle, and Justified in penance.  (What?   J.T. is totally on BET.)

And now for the conclusion of the whole sorry affair:

V: Oh, yes, thank you!  I’m so sorry for the trouble.

M: Oh, no problem.  I hope you feel better!

V: Thanks! Bye, now!

M: Toodley-pip!

Okay, she didn’t really say “toodley-pip,” but you get the idea.  I swear, my hair turned three shades blonder during that one conversation.  I’m so ashamed.  How could this happen on my watch?  I live right near where they shot Biggie!  I totally dated a DJ once!  I love Doritos! 

Sigh.  Well, thanks for letting me get it off my chest, readers.  This has been good for me.  Chicken Soup for the Wannabe Gangster Soul.

The moral of the story here, is, of course, don’t attempt to buy weed when you have a migraine, because you’ll be really embarrassed later when you write about it on your friend’s blog while she’s in Paris because you have nothing else to write about because you’re boring.  Oh, and also: stay off the weed, kids.  And…blogging’s harder than it looks.  Words to live by, readers!

Toodley-pip.

I'm off!!

Bonjour everyone!! I am coming to you live from the Air France lounge at Logan Airport. I'm just sitting here sippin' on a Perrier and waiting for my Air Bus to board. I hope you all have a great weekend and a fab week! Bon voyage to moi!! XO

Channeling my inner blond.

It's no secret. I sometimes wish I were blond. Don't get me wrong, I have gorgeous thick, healthy dark brown hair and impeccable bangs. And even though I have to get it colored every four weeks to hide my grays I am still thankful for my full head of hair. But sometimes I do wonder if blonds have more fun.

You all remember my blond wig. The one I bought for Halloween 2006 as part of my Mary-Kate Olsen: The Dumpster Years costume. Long after Halloween had some and gone I put the wig on and danced around my apartment with a bottle of CAB SAV and the New Radicals blaring.

Exhibit A:

And I thought I looked damn good.

Today I learned that the Mary Kay website has this TRY ON technology where you upload a picture of yourself and then do yourself "up" with the various hair and makeup looks provided by the website.

This is what I came up with:

Clearly this is my alter-ego Savannah Horowitz. She just got her hair blown out and her eyes done in preparation for her week in Boca Raton.

I could've done the hair dark brown, but I figured, let's mix it up!

I would still love to try being a blondie but I know that my hairs will never recover -yikes! Peroxide!- and I'll have to end up resurrecting that Mary-Kate Olsen wig.