Mmm Hmmm, yeah, lately I've been compelled to start everything I say with either a "Mc-" and end with "-ster," "-ton," and "-son," or begin with "Von" and end with "-stein." I hit an especially low point today when I called Spence "Wency McWenstenstein." Can I be any more gay?? I have no idea how this "situation" surfaced. I'd blame it on Erica if I hadn't been the one who caused her to suffer from the same verbal affliction of absolute GAYNESS. Seeing a shrink is in order. Are there shrinks that specialize in verbal communicative disorders or am I just shit out of luck? F-word. I'm banishing myself from verbal dialogue altogether until this problem disappears. Hence me actually visiting my pitiful blog for the 5th time since March to write.
Speaking of problems, I took a survey from a Camel cigarettes representative the other night pretending I'm a smoker so I could receive a prize....and I ended up with a lighter. Go figure. But this lighter was an exceptional piece of machinery that stands apart from its fellow competition: this thing had a blue flame only. There was no blemish or sign of weakness in this firestarter. This monster fire maker wouldn't deign to have any woosified yellow elements to it's flame. I could've used this thing as a blow torch to construct a bridge to Catalina. Or cleanse by violent fire an Al-Qaeda compound in the hills outside of Karachi. Unfortunately in a moment of sheer idiocy I made the mistake of pushing the button while the torch of death was turned upside down.....toward my ring finger. The blue flame made direct and extended contact. Not sure how the extended contact occurred. Probably because my brain is so slow to react to virtually anything, especially math, that it took me about 1, and then 2 seconds to notice my finger was being permanently and irrevocably damaged. Conclusion: I am a tard.
As far as tards go, I went to Jim and Stacy's ribald wedding last weekend on Halloween. Spence and I crashed it because the invitation list was for family only. Had we known those who were invited were told not to wear costumes, we wouldn't have showed up dressed like The World's Most Interesting Man and a box of Franzia (dispensing wine out of my costume to boot). Altogether the feedback was pretty positive though, and the bride and groom, being the unpredictable people they are, decided they'd prefer to have their two wedding crashers sign the documents as their two legal witnesses than say, their parents. Go figure again. Very flattering though. I was touched. But I do wish I'd anticipated that there would be multiple jokes at the wedding about my box (i.e. "Now that's a good lookin box," and "Can I get a squirt from your box?"). Woulda been nice to pre-plan some quality comebacks. Jesus the Millichaps are so wonderfully unholy.
Life is great now that I'm paying WAY less rent and live two blocks from the beach in an apartment virtually twice the size of my last.....but I've missed my only local friend Jen. She's good for the soul and makes me a better person. Luckily Jen's coming home on Tuesday and she's bringing her godly French guy with her so we can execute a "make the French dude love us and leave France" marketing campaign. I'm excited to meet her French Hercules. I have a crush on his pictures. Of course I told Jen that and of course she laughed hysterically. I love being engaged because you're allowed to have little meaningless crushes. Makes no sense? Sure it does. You commit to someone and are secure with them in every way, and vice versa, so it's safe then to say out loud "man I'd give anything to make out with that feast." Of course you typically follow the shocking revelation with another in your head that goes something like this: "but my Feasty Von Feastenstein at home is feastier than any feast.......well Eric from True Blood is pretty feasty....and maybe Tom Brady without the cleft.....but still, my Feasty is the best feast of all."
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Katie Holmes-Cruise Has a Bigger Derriere Than I, and Gene Simmons Does Not Party Ever
Prior to this last month, the only celebrities I've seen have been professional athletes from 500 yards away, in game apparel that obstructed their actual facial features from view. Oh and maybe football players I made out with in college that are now playing in super bowls...but I guess they don't count because they weren't famous when I was in college - or very much worth the recollection anyways.
In continuation of my contempt for baggy, rolled-up boyfriends, I thought it only appropriate that I record my experience spending quality time in Boston getting to know Katie Holmes-Cruise - Tom's wife - the devil who made the horridenim trend popular for 2.8 seconds. Well....maybe Katie and I didn't exactly exchange BBM pins....or talk....or even make direct eye contact for that matter. Technically we only dined at the same restaurant and I was forced to crane my head around a table of dignified non-gawkers to take a gander at the splendid little nuclear Cruise family + bodyguard spectacle. And I must admit, I was an embarassing gawker. I was utterly mesmerized with Suri Cruise's toddler heels. What a friggin liability. I cannot comprehend that apparel companies are making kid heels when Mattel has been in deep legal shit with simple Polly Pocket and Batman figurines. I can't even walk in heels, how the hell did a toddler manage to run around a restaurant in them??! It must be some sort of hierarchical privilege for higher beings like Scientologists. Evidently there are no spiritual electrodes that these elitist anti-thetans can hook up to themselves to make their derrieres reduce in size, because Katie Holmes-Cruise has a mighty rump. Maybe her ass is a valuable scientology asset (pun intended) acting as an impregnable prison for evil dead alien thetans - similar in function to the modern landfill. I'm not exaggerating when I say her can is almost twice the size of my own. And do you know what I say to that??? Bravo, Mrs. Cruise. Bra-vo. Thanks be to Xeno, or whatever the hell they call their shotcaller god. Wouldn't ya know it but the crazy actress has a normal body. Hmm. Weird.
While in Boston I also walked through Ben Affleck's movie set of "The Town" and saw Ben in his glorious toupe. But I can't give him any pub time or my brothers could likely go into cardiac arrest. Case in point: see my facebook profile. Coo-koo.
But speaking of coo-koo, my month of celeb sitings takes an interesting turn with the celebration of the birth of Gene Simmons 60 years ago. I somehow landed myself an invite to his birthday party.....at a bowling alley of all places. It was a solid night, to say the least. I'd expected it to be one of those, "let's just go so we have a story to tell even though we're nobodies and nothing eventful will truly happen anyways but we'll pretend it did to all our friends" sort of things. Gene Simmons actually made an effort to be our friend. We laughed with him more than once. We hung out with his ex-porn star wife and her ex-porn star sister. We were accused by his son Nick of stealing his Ray Bans. We helped Nick find his Ray Bans (well, Erica did). We were given customized t-shirts to commemorate the severing of Gene's umbilical cord, and the non-severing of his foreskin back in the Jurassic era when his Hebrew mother shot him out of the womb, and sent him in a basket down the river....Oh that was Moses? Well close enough goddammit, Gene Simmons kicks ass. And according to the 1984 Playmate of the Year, Gene Simmons has never had a drop of alcohol OR recreational drugs in his life. Coulda fooled me when they rolled him out in a wheelchair with a respirator! I guess he's eaten too much challah the past 6 decades. Bread products make you unhealthy and swollen. Just ask Katie Holmes rear.
In continuation of my contempt for baggy, rolled-up boyfriends, I thought it only appropriate that I record my experience spending quality time in Boston getting to know Katie Holmes-Cruise - Tom's wife - the devil who made the horridenim trend popular for 2.8 seconds. Well....maybe Katie and I didn't exactly exchange BBM pins....or talk....or even make direct eye contact for that matter. Technically we only dined at the same restaurant and I was forced to crane my head around a table of dignified non-gawkers to take a gander at the splendid little nuclear Cruise family + bodyguard spectacle. And I must admit, I was an embarassing gawker. I was utterly mesmerized with Suri Cruise's toddler heels. What a friggin liability. I cannot comprehend that apparel companies are making kid heels when Mattel has been in deep legal shit with simple Polly Pocket and Batman figurines. I can't even walk in heels, how the hell did a toddler manage to run around a restaurant in them??! It must be some sort of hierarchical privilege for higher beings like Scientologists. Evidently there are no spiritual electrodes that these elitist anti-thetans can hook up to themselves to make their derrieres reduce in size, because Katie Holmes-Cruise has a mighty rump. Maybe her ass is a valuable scientology asset (pun intended) acting as an impregnable prison for evil dead alien thetans - similar in function to the modern landfill. I'm not exaggerating when I say her can is almost twice the size of my own. And do you know what I say to that??? Bravo, Mrs. Cruise. Bra-vo. Thanks be to Xeno, or whatever the hell they call their shotcaller god. Wouldn't ya know it but the crazy actress has a normal body. Hmm. Weird.
While in Boston I also walked through Ben Affleck's movie set of "The Town" and saw Ben in his glorious toupe. But I can't give him any pub time or my brothers could likely go into cardiac arrest. Case in point: see my facebook profile. Coo-koo.
But speaking of coo-koo, my month of celeb sitings takes an interesting turn with the celebration of the birth of Gene Simmons 60 years ago. I somehow landed myself an invite to his birthday party.....at a bowling alley of all places. It was a solid night, to say the least. I'd expected it to be one of those, "let's just go so we have a story to tell even though we're nobodies and nothing eventful will truly happen anyways but we'll pretend it did to all our friends" sort of things. Gene Simmons actually made an effort to be our friend. We laughed with him more than once. We hung out with his ex-porn star wife and her ex-porn star sister. We were accused by his son Nick of stealing his Ray Bans. We helped Nick find his Ray Bans (well, Erica did). We were given customized t-shirts to commemorate the severing of Gene's umbilical cord, and the non-severing of his foreskin back in the Jurassic era when his Hebrew mother shot him out of the womb, and sent him in a basket down the river....Oh that was Moses? Well close enough goddammit, Gene Simmons kicks ass. And according to the 1984 Playmate of the Year, Gene Simmons has never had a drop of alcohol OR recreational drugs in his life. Coulda fooled me when they rolled him out in a wheelchair with a respirator! I guess he's eaten too much challah the past 6 decades. Bread products make you unhealthy and swollen. Just ask Katie Holmes rear.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Baggy, Rolled-Up Boyfriend Jeans Suck
Many things have occurred since my last blog entry about getting in a chick fight. Since then I've actually gotten in a real chick fight where punches were thrown (only by me) after a junkie tried to steal my wallet; I played at Adult Nationals to commemorate my volleyball mediocrity; my 6 Man squad (Team Rockstar) won it's 15th silver, and I got engaged.
Despite these so-called pivotal turning points in my life (well, not really pivotal...except for maybe the engagement), I'm choosing to use this entry to focus on how hideous this new fad in denim really is.
Baggy, rolled-up boyfriend jeans are the biggest catastrophe to ever abominate the fashion world. I don't even know if abominate is an actual word but it seems a fitting verb for this eyesore from the denim community.
I've seen regular girls on the street wear these jeans. I've seen celebrities in magazines wear them. And I'm being totally honest when I say that I haven't seen one of them look good in baggy, rolled-up boyfriends. In fact, every person I've seen brave them (and brave is and understatement for these pathetic self-proclaimed fashionistas), has been a soldier of mankind - a storm ranger through the couture wilderness.
No fashion-forward denim trooper ever really looks in the mirror while wearing baggy, rolled-up boyfriends and tells themself, "I look really dynamo today." You can't tell me that an overwhelming percentage of celebrities are on government disability aid for vision impairment. They all know how shitty these atrocijeans are. They have to.
So why do they subject themselves to a full day of scorn for jeans that look like the contents of a toilet bowl after one of those gnarley 2 week cleanses?
I'll tell you why: because some washed up moron LinkedIn describes as a fashion designer decided that every idea had been exhausted, and it was time to recycle an 80's trend that never became a trend because it was revolting, simply put. You know a style is bad when fashion criminals from a banished decade on the historical timeline of design decide they can't wear a trend before it even hit the stores.
So what the hell is wrong with people in 2009?
Clearly there is a pandemic spreading we do not know about. Some neurological disease that affects our judjment and causes many people to think aesthetically terrible-looking objects appear pleasant and flattering. Luckily some of us are immune. I, fortunately, being one of them.
Despite these so-called pivotal turning points in my life (well, not really pivotal...except for maybe the engagement), I'm choosing to use this entry to focus on how hideous this new fad in denim really is.
Baggy, rolled-up boyfriend jeans are the biggest catastrophe to ever abominate the fashion world. I don't even know if abominate is an actual word but it seems a fitting verb for this eyesore from the denim community.
I've seen regular girls on the street wear these jeans. I've seen celebrities in magazines wear them. And I'm being totally honest when I say that I haven't seen one of them look good in baggy, rolled-up boyfriends. In fact, every person I've seen brave them (and brave is and understatement for these pathetic self-proclaimed fashionistas), has been a soldier of mankind - a storm ranger through the couture wilderness.
No fashion-forward denim trooper ever really looks in the mirror while wearing baggy, rolled-up boyfriends and tells themself, "I look really dynamo today." You can't tell me that an overwhelming percentage of celebrities are on government disability aid for vision impairment. They all know how shitty these atrocijeans are. They have to.
So why do they subject themselves to a full day of scorn for jeans that look like the contents of a toilet bowl after one of those gnarley 2 week cleanses?
I'll tell you why: because some washed up moron LinkedIn describes as a fashion designer decided that every idea had been exhausted, and it was time to recycle an 80's trend that never became a trend because it was revolting, simply put. You know a style is bad when fashion criminals from a banished decade on the historical timeline of design decide they can't wear a trend before it even hit the stores.
So what the hell is wrong with people in 2009?
Clearly there is a pandemic spreading we do not know about. Some neurological disease that affects our judjment and causes many people to think aesthetically terrible-looking objects appear pleasant and flattering. Luckily some of us are immune. I, fortunately, being one of them.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I Got in a Chick Fight
When I hear the term, "chick fight," I immediately imagine two girls or more in some sort of tribal bout with hair pulling, slapping, and excessively annoying shrill voices. When I say I got in a chick fight, I mean I fought another chick. Period.
I dressed up last Friday night for Kashi's bridal party wedding rehearsal dinner in all my finery not expecting to go to bed after 11 PM, let alone get in a chick fight. I'm 28-years-old for hell's sake. Last time I engaged in any form of violence outside of twisting sticky jar lids I was in the 8th grade. In a nutshell, this broad was a total harpy to Spencer. I let her cuss at him for a few minutes out of bored indifference because the guy can handle himself. But when this moronic drunken shrew decided to call Spencer ugly, I lost all sense of reason. I immediately jumped in and yelled at her for the hypocrisy of it.....her shirt was ugly. I informed her she looked like a cheetah in it. Then when she couldn't think of an acceptable comeback I mimicked her lame one-liner and told her she sounded retarded and redundant and she should be ashamed of herself. Well, evidently I pushed her too far. The cheetah-retard-redundant call proved to be more than this girl's pride could handle. She told me to meet her outside. I asked her if she was sure because that particular night I was standing at 6'5" at least with my heels on, and I made sure she was aware I would "kill her." This girl evidently wanted to brawl because even after my warning, she still wanted to see me outside. So I went outside and quickly put her head in the asphalt twice. When the cop car lights flashed, me, Spencer, Stacy, and Jimmy fled to freedom. I lamented later that night that I'd lost a heel and chipped my first fake nail on account of this ridiculous incident. That girl wasn't even worth a heel or nail chip.
The next day when it was my turn to walk down the aisle in my pepto pink grecian gown (that was made for someone about 5'9"), the groomsman on my arm whispered, "Did I hear you got in a fight last night?" And so the domino effect began......from the ceremony, to the pictures, to the reception word spread. I was forced to tell the story more than 20 times in one night. It became such common knowledge that guests started calling me Bruiser. I even took the liberty of punching the air when the bridal party was announced officially to enter the reception.
Needless to say I feel this was a learning experience:
never wear animal print.
I dressed up last Friday night for Kashi's bridal party wedding rehearsal dinner in all my finery not expecting to go to bed after 11 PM, let alone get in a chick fight. I'm 28-years-old for hell's sake. Last time I engaged in any form of violence outside of twisting sticky jar lids I was in the 8th grade. In a nutshell, this broad was a total harpy to Spencer. I let her cuss at him for a few minutes out of bored indifference because the guy can handle himself. But when this moronic drunken shrew decided to call Spencer ugly, I lost all sense of reason. I immediately jumped in and yelled at her for the hypocrisy of it.....her shirt was ugly. I informed her she looked like a cheetah in it. Then when she couldn't think of an acceptable comeback I mimicked her lame one-liner and told her she sounded retarded and redundant and she should be ashamed of herself. Well, evidently I pushed her too far. The cheetah-retard-redundant call proved to be more than this girl's pride could handle. She told me to meet her outside. I asked her if she was sure because that particular night I was standing at 6'5" at least with my heels on, and I made sure she was aware I would "kill her." This girl evidently wanted to brawl because even after my warning, she still wanted to see me outside. So I went outside and quickly put her head in the asphalt twice. When the cop car lights flashed, me, Spencer, Stacy, and Jimmy fled to freedom. I lamented later that night that I'd lost a heel and chipped my first fake nail on account of this ridiculous incident. That girl wasn't even worth a heel or nail chip.
The next day when it was my turn to walk down the aisle in my pepto pink grecian gown (that was made for someone about 5'9"), the groomsman on my arm whispered, "Did I hear you got in a fight last night?" And so the domino effect began......from the ceremony, to the pictures, to the reception word spread. I was forced to tell the story more than 20 times in one night. It became such common knowledge that guests started calling me Bruiser. I even took the liberty of punching the air when the bridal party was announced officially to enter the reception.
Needless to say I feel this was a learning experience:
never wear animal print.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Why We Blog
My birthday was Monday of this week. That probably would've been an editorially better day to start a blog about myself because let's be honest, blogs are narcissistic entities. Anyone who has one (myself included) has a certain level of vanity that causes them to think that 1. people care about our lives enough to click on a link, save it onto their favorites, and continually return to read about us daily 2. people are wildly entertained by our musings about ourselves 3. people will surely look at every idyllic picture we post of ourselves and believe that's what we really look like, and 4. people will definitely remember each of our posts lovingly so that the next time we run into that person, we will feel appropriately in touch with one another.
Just the process alone of naming a blog is wholly debasing because the necessary action is to use a 3rd person reflective title. "Carrie: The Reluctant Californian." If I actually said something like that out loud in a conversation I should hope someone would slap me for being a self-absorbed hussy living in some socially delusional world where it's okay to use your birth name, as opposed to "I" and "me" when talking about yourself.
A blog is just as criminal as excessive talk about yourself. And I'm not gonna lie, I talk about myself a lot. Anyone who says they don't and that it's an unpardonable social crime to do so frequently is an idiot. What else are you going to talk about when a conversation crumbles because the person you're talking to is totally uninteresting in every way? You talk about what you know best: You. In all your blogworthy glory.
Just the process alone of naming a blog is wholly debasing because the necessary action is to use a 3rd person reflective title. "Carrie: The Reluctant Californian." If I actually said something like that out loud in a conversation I should hope someone would slap me for being a self-absorbed hussy living in some socially delusional world where it's okay to use your birth name, as opposed to "I" and "me" when talking about yourself.
A blog is just as criminal as excessive talk about yourself. And I'm not gonna lie, I talk about myself a lot. Anyone who says they don't and that it's an unpardonable social crime to do so frequently is an idiot. What else are you going to talk about when a conversation crumbles because the person you're talking to is totally uninteresting in every way? You talk about what you know best: You. In all your blogworthy glory.
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