On Being Miss Hershey McJones

Thanks?

2010-11-28T17:18:00.000-08:00

There was something spectacular I was going to write about. But I've had two habanero bloody marys and I've forgotten.

So typical.

Because of my pesky penchant for blackouts I wondered if I was an alcoholic (just like my pesky penchant for dick years prior made me wonder if I was a slut). Well, that mystery has certainly been solved since I actually went online, took the quiz and discovered, thanks to Al-Anon.com, that I AM an alcoholic.

I took the quiz vicariously for the majority of my friends, and, they're alcoholics too.

I wonder if I should tell them?

Anyways . .. I was probably going to write about Thanksgiving. And about how being around my family simultaneously dances upon my very last, frayed nerve while bringing sentimental tears to my eyes. I love them. I hate them. I hate to love them, love to hate them and so on.

I doubt there's any other family in which I truly belong.

Probably not . . . I've seen a lot of well-adjusted, malfuctioning, emotionally depraved, sickeningly loving, twisted, straight-edge andall around fucked up familial units. And I'm pretty sure after extensive informal research that I am definitely not adopted.

My beautiful cousin Karrill made me sad for me, for her this holiday. Apparently her fiance had given her the "too fat for own our health" discussion and had given her a mere week to step up her health and weight gain. Game. Of course, any sane person would know that this isn't nearly long enough to start to change your mind and attitude enough to make any impact on your body.

Words were exchange.
Insults throttled like the engine of a Maserati.
Each one of them raced off alone into single. Without checking the rearview mirror.
And although I'm sad for her, I'm also sad for him.

He's lost a lion. We're lions, Karrill and I. We've learned from Benelia and Sharon and Lillie Mae that there simply isn't any other way to be. There really isn't any other way to be.

We don't know how.

Enough.

2010-11-10T22:29:00.000-08:00

I just saw "For Colored Girls."

When I try to articulate, even to myself, what I've just seen and experienced, I can't get past the swell of moisture beneath my eyelids and the brick of heavy on my chest.

I'm devastated.

This was a movie with no sunlight. No warmth. No whisper of balance of yin and yang or good and evil. Or right and wrong. The movie just was truth. And is.

ME.

And I can't help but wonder (and I hate when Carrie Bradshaw says that phrase in her lilting voiceover that sounds pretty but is void of any responsibility for her current state of fashioned - and fashiony - chaos, but I digress) is THIS the kind of colored I am? The soaked through sadness? The wistfully romantic, but unrealistic? The hardened with thick rhinocerous skin? The heartbreakingly naive? The misplaced righteous? The lost and near broken?

This was a movie with no sunlight. Begat from a play with no dawn.

But, I WANT to be the colored that shines! The capital C-olored forever awash with tiny pinpoints of ethereal light. The kind of Colored that makes mouths water for chocolate so rich and delectable and . . . Godiva.

The kind of Colored that makes mouths happy.

But how can I? With a heritage so burdened with skin-hued despair?
But how can I? When people, even my own, tell me I can't because I am not colored enough?
But how can I? When I'm trying to be better? Faster? Stronger? Smarter? To prove that I am just as good. As everyone else. Trying harder than everyone else, just to be . . .equal.
But how can I? When my speech isn't peppered with the streets that I don't know because I was raised in the suburbs?

I'm not exactly sure that I'll ever be colored enough to be Colored.

My Reality is Musicality

2010-11-09T21:22:00.000-08:00

I sincerely wish that life was a musical.

People of all characters and walks of life breaking into song in line at the DMV, celebrating the deliciousness of their customized beverage at Starbucks, actually enjoying the walk of shame after a night of particularly kick ass no-strings attached sex.

Just singing. And smiling. And hitting high notes and spontaneous choreography like a Disney movie or Broadway.

My body aches wishing that this was my everyday reality. . . which is why I ALWAYS tear up and get misty eyed while watching "Glee."

If I could've broken into song walking through the halls of Moreau Catholic I would've.

I should've sang my way across campus at USC.

I need to blow up some karaoke at a hipster bar and scare everyone else of the mic, just living my fantasy.

Just singing. And smiling.

A Day of Cerenity, November 1.

2010-11-01T23:03:00.000-07:00

A very dear friend of mine told me tonight that major birthdays like 30 are for reflecting.
Granted, we were sitting in our sweats swigging an entire bottle of the delicious nectar of Lambrusco, but her advice still rings true.

It's also true that reflecting is much more positive than sitting naked under an old bathrobe in the dark feeling sorry for myself (Pilaar: age 29), still trying to figure it all out while job-related perks and tons of useless, free stuff outweighed my actual life achievements (Pilaar: age 28), or throwing world's best pajama party (Pilaar: age 25).

Okay, maybe not Pajama Jammy Jam. Nothing beats Pajama Jammy Jam '05. Trust.

In this time of self-reflection throughout the month of November, I thought it fitting to go on 'head and start with an Open Letter to Jesus. Kinda like the prayers that started off each and every day at Fremont Christian School. Only this time God and I are in a better place now that I'm an adult and we can speak more candidly. He's the Homie. Capital 'H' (cause He's God, we can totally do the upper case.)

Ahem.

Dear Jesus,

I pray that I turn out nothing like Phaedra on "Real Housewives of Atlanta." Although if Star's body continues to rival Apollo's that is certainly acceptable and welcomed.

Thank you so much for your many blessings! I appreciate being genetically pre-disposed to aging exceptionally well with examples like Benelia Terry, Kathy Watkins and Sharon Dean to lead me down The Path of Graceful Maturity. It's nice to look into the face of the future when it has such well-appointed, milk chocolatey smooth skin. High five, Jesus.

Thank you for your free of charge, round the clock omniscient surveillance and protection. I have done many, many, many, many stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid things. I've given blood after eating a mere apple for sustenance. I've picked up dudes off the street. I've gotten inebriated and fallen into bushes and/or gotten into fights. I've dated losers. I've smoked Black and Milds. I've done things considered unfitting of a sheltered girl with a private school education. There are some things that have happened in gas station bathrooms that I'd rather not share. I've driven without insurance or valid registration. I've been to Amsterdam.

How, praytell, am I still alive with all of my working mental capacities intact?

You, Jesus. That's how.

Jesus, I am not worthy of the everyday blessings you've provided me in the form of my friends and family. I am not worthy of the laughter, the lessons, the Lambrusco. It's hard to hear that I'm not quite as perfect as I think, but the people you've put into my life to teach me about loving myself and others as YOU would love them are awesome, Jesus. Just freakin' dope. Of course you know this though, you're Jesus! Such a cool job.

Thank you for Starsky, Jesus. I can't without him. I just can't. Well, I mean I couuullllddddd but I just really, really, really don't want to. You broke the mold with this one Jesus. And then you gave him to me. I am forever and eternally (redundant?) grateful.

And lastly, thank you for granting me the passion to write. Although I'm not sure it's exactly what You planned, I can make anything funny! Anything from bacterial vaginosis, to dusty shoe-stealing wenches, to quitting my wretched job to mexican diet pills to racism. Racism is funny, Jesus! Because of You. Thanks. (insert finger guns, Jesus)

At least every day this month, I'm gonna make you proud of me and write something. Anything.
Flexing that writing muscle like a squat thrust at Bally's Total Fitness. Or a chest fly after I've snuck in at Crunch. After they kicked me out that one time though, I really hate Crunch (just a sidenote, Jesus, but I digress.)

You are awesome.
Let's do this.
Amen.

Pause.

2010-07-24T15:56:00.000-07:00

It's Saturday afternoon and I'm actually at home. I'm watching the sun sift through the slats of the wooden shutters that line the windows of my apartment.

Out one window is the city. Hustling, bustling, breathless and flying by at a dizzying speed. Just right outside. I can hear the boulevard.

Out another window is our backyard garden. Quite literally the exact opposite. Serene. Green. Lush. Tranquil and full of heavy sighs of patience. Calm.

Quite literally my couch and I, clad in a weekend t-shirt, a fierce fuschia pedicure and a freshly showered skin that smells of mangoes, are smack dab in the middle of it all.

City and country.
Rushed and relaxed.
Grinding metal and engines pushed to breaking and the gentle cacophony of the birds in the trees.

What a nice place to be . . . right?

. . .and before you get jealous, really think about that last time you paused. It's sad that I, Miss Hershey McJones, can't even remember. When was the last time I did something my heart wanted - rather than what I thought I should do? When was the last time I said no? Dammit, when was the last time I said yes? Yes without waiting for the complete question to be asked because I was so full of Want to comply? When was the last time I allowed a release to the dam of words that are constantly filling my head?*

I. CAN'T. REMEMBER.

I'm rusty on the Pause. Gotta lubricate.

Footnotes:
- I swear to God, some people see in colors and sounds. All I see is words and ways to sexually manipulate the alphabet. I love to love language. Nerd alert.

Seeing Merlot.

2009-09-08T20:33:00.000-07:00

Usually when people get angry they remark that they're seeing red. The color of bulls and matadors. Of heat and fire. Of oxygenated blood cells.

Of passion. Hearts and bullshit. Valentine's Day. Ugh.

Well friends, I'm angry right now. Livid. Appalled. Malcontent. Effing pissed. And, truth be told, all I can see is the juicy insides of my companion glass of Merlot. Merlot and I are sitting on the couch, t-shirts and boy shorts, just exasperated.* Merlot and I are seeing each other.

Merlot, the "other" man if you will, calms me down when I receive weekend emails or chain letters from my mom, who is recently retired and remarked that "every day is like a Saturday!" In my world today was a Tuesday, it felt like a Tuesday and Wednesday through Friday are a puddle at my feet. I'm wearing socks.*

Merlot gives me leave when a drunken gentleman, peddling his way through Boys' Town, slams into my rear tail lamp and cracks the glass. Merlot is there for me when I learn that parts and labor will cost the same and my boyfriend expresses that it's probably NOT good idea to buy the part and replace it myself.*

Merlot provides solace when I learn that True Blood is taking a two-week hiatus to get me into a frenzied and panicked state awaiting the finale of the BEST. SHOW. EVER. He is also there for me when I learn that the Vampire Queen and Eric are officially dating.*

Oh, and Merlot is the bomb diggy when ANY of the ladies on More to Love complain that they never got male attention because of their weight. Cry me a river ladies, womp.

Footnotes:
- Truly friends, I can think of a million words to express my emotions at the moment. And not one of them is nearly enough, for fuck's sake.
- Seriously, HOW GROSS are wet socks on your feet? Seriously.
- I was thinking it'd probably be awesome to wear a bikini while doing the car repair, upload the video onto YouTube and become the brains (and beauty) behind "Girls Fixing Cars in Bikinis." Cool, no?
- If she has dated both Marilyn Manson AND Eric, Sherriff of Area 5, that pretty much means that Evan Rachel Wood is a super freak? Super freak. She's super freaky, yawl. (Thanks Rick James you said it best for sure.)

Numerically Speaking

2009-09-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

Just some little things hopping around on the moon bounce of my brain. Tiny things, insignificant things.

1 . Dry shampoo to me sounds like some white people ish. Everyone else uses water, you should too.

2 . As mentioned in a previous status update, a lot of my friends have thrown their backs out. While it’s funny, it’s also very very sad because it means that they now have to have very careful and orchestrated sex. And very careful and orchestrated walking. Which sucks.

3 . In similar body deterioration news, I think I am developing carpal tunnel in my right wrist. Computer injuries are lame and basically scream “I never work out.”

4 . Which I totally do, sometimes twice a day.

5 . So I’m not thinner with a rockin’ body because what? God hates me?

6 . My new filing system at work involves taping important emails to the wall in front of me because I am too lazy to order a corkboard from Office Max. My office looks like the cramped apartment those serial killer psychos that tape up old newspaper clippings about random stuff. Like abductions they know they did.

7 . Recently, my bellybutton ring was completely ripped from my flesh. While this sounds gross and terrible, it’s not as gross and the ER cartarizing the wound with silver nitrate. Basically my belly button ring was RIPPED OUT and then BURNED SHUT. And this was before 8 am on a Saturday.

8 . Now accepting your sympathy.

9 . Remember in college when you could call someone at 11pm, talk for an hour, then decide to go over to their house to watch a movie until 3am and then wake up and go to an 8am lecture? Now all my friends fall asleep at 10:30pm. Coming over after 11pm is blasphemous and a phone call after 10pm means “it’s an emergency.” No it doesn’t. It means I’m bored and my boyfriend in on the computer or watching anime, TALK TO ME.

10. It’s really hot. Thanks for showing the fuck up, Summer.

Shudder.

2009-04-06T09:31:00.000-07:00

There really aren't a lot of things that gross me out.

I will openly discuss flatulence, loose or especially stubborn stool, sexual deviance, and our ex-president without batting a pretty little, almond shaped eye. I like watching horror movies* and surgeries, I do not faint at the site of blood. I enjoy popping, ripe, taunting whitehead zits on myself and others. I even love extolling the virtues of the fruit and vegetable detox diet which result in amazingly awesome Armpoops.*

I’m a guy’s girl.
I don’t bullshit.
I am not squeamish.
For serious, I am not to be fucked with in the gross-out game. You won’t win.*

But, oh my dear Lord in heaven YOU GROSS ME OUT. And I seriously cannot decide which is worse:

Your body odor. Even after showering, it’s widely known that any anti-perspirant is no match against your wonderfully potent, eye-watering ethnic musk. I do so admire your sweat glands’ stubborn petulance to witholding your George Clinton and Parliament-level of funk from the rest of us. Please shower more often. I implore you.

Your vurp* inducing, ever-widening girth. WORK THE FUCK OUT and DON’T tell me how you’ve eaten 3 cupcakes at the office party today but you’re “getting your body right.”

Stank breath. Super hero stank. Octo-mom stank.*

Your incessant need to be up-in-da-club. I’m not one to judge but you’re a FATHER and if you’re breeding your little one to think that putting a hand up some girl’s skirt completely UNSOLITICED is cool then . . . Ew. That’s all, just ew.

I mean . . . Everything.

I can’t. I just can’t.

Will someone hug me? Nonononononononono NOT YOU.

Cause you’re gross.

Footnotes:

Usually hidden in Chocodonis' shoulders or barely hiding my face behind splayed, frigid, and terrified fingers. But whatever, I am THERE.

Ridiculous, record-breaking poops the size of my freaking arm. I could run a marathon and STILL not feel as fucking accomplished as post-Armpoop.

TRY ME.

Vomit/burp. Word I made up that’s awesome.

I just don’t know, something about her just makes me think her breath is as stank and her huge vagina.**

Footnote footnotes:

Which I’m pretty sure will never be the same again. EVER. I do wonder if the last one just kinda walked out with an ipod and a gogurt after some quick cardio in her uterus. With all the space in there and all.

Strategic Bulemia

2009-02-11T16:50:00.001-08:00

*This entry is graphic, I'd apologize but I'm not really sorry. If anything, I'm pissed. Ugh.

I just threw up at work.

5 times.

Do you know how incredibly tough it is to stealth barf? Hovering over the porcelain, shuddering, shivering and trying to see your reflection in the toilet cover dispenser through watery, bleary eyes? Listening with the precision of a blind person* for the click-clack of heels sure to discover your session of digestive dysfunction?

And for what? What is worth it? Did I get to erase 1000s of calories of a poor eating choice?

Hell to the no.

I got a rip-roaring case of food poisoning from the GRILLED VEGETABLE PLATE at the Daily Grill.

I don't think you heard me, y'all.

I didn't throw up something worthwhile, like a churro filled with cinnamon toast crunch, or a bucket of Popcornopolis Caramel Corn*, or a meat ship*, or even a burger from The Counter.
I hurled a GRILLED VEGETABLE PLATE.

The involuntary, yet appreciated, abdominal crunches caused by stomach clenching.*
The watery eyes.
The fear of getting caught and labeled "the bulemic girl in the office."
The rancid after-breath of zucchini and balsamic vinigarette.
The shame.

All for fucking nothing.

I swear that the next time I experience a digestive dysfunction where my food intake travels north against my will, I will have eaten a Bacon Explosion,* so help me God. I vow to be much more strategic with my bulemia - I mean, if you're gonna throw up that shit BETTER BE WORTH IT.

Grilled vegetable plate. Really? I mean, I just . . .

I am ashamed of myself.

Footnotes:
- And you KNOW their senses are heightened like superheroes and stuff.
- Truly, the BEST caramel corn in the land.
- You MUST visit thisiswhyyourefat.com and behold the meat ship. And yes, it's an edible ship made out of meat.
- And I already ran 3 miles this morning, what a bonus this extra workout is! Score!
- This delicious dish involves a mat weaved entirely of bacon. And then filled with sausage. And then sprinkled with more bacon. And then smoked and covered in BBQ sauce. If the NY Times says it then it MUST be true http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/dining/28bacon.html

Workout Lady

2009-01-26T21:09:00.000-08:00

You.

Yes, you.

Lady in the peach athletic tank top and clearly unsupportive, non-athletic bra bouncing around anti-rhythmically in front of me. Making a significant and voluptous mockery of cross, cross, hook, knee, jab, cross.

You're killing me.

While I am glad you're here in Jada's cardio-kickboxing really following through on your '09 New Year's Resolution, getting healthy and all. . . you are a hopeless flailing mess. I believe in you and I honor your pursuit of a healthy lifestyle. No doubt you'll reward yourself with a tasty cup of sugar free pudding after an appropriately portioned dinner of brown rice and veggies, just like me. No doubt you'll leave class sweaty and self-satisfied, all full of that "can do" attitude that pounds the fat tissue out of the blubbery cast of "The Biggest Loser."

No doubt, I'd love to accidentally kick you in the head.

Please oh please, workout lady. Stay in your personal space. Get ON beat. And wear a bra that will hold your out of control mammaries.

Thanks.

Back to the Future

2008-10-08T23:59:00.000-07:00

Go Big Green: Back to the Future

There are a few things that people don't tell you when you graduate from college:

a) Entering the workforce is beyond terrifying.*
b) Your consumption of wine will seemingly skyrocket to where the term college graduate could easily be the equivalent to that of a run-of-the-mill wino.
c) It is almost imperative that you attend your 10-year high school reunion. (Please note that this is especially important if certain class enthusiasts tried to organize a 5 year reunion that may or may not involved go-karting, but which certainly and utterly failed. Of course now, THE PRESSURE IS ON, right?*)

And so I suit up.

And by suiting up I mean get mentally ready to see people I haven't seen in more than 3,650 days. Do you KNOW how weird this is?

I suppose anyone who has experienced any type of reunion can relate BUT

a) I had a MUSHROOM CUT.
b) I was COLORGUARD CAPTAIN.
c) I was on YEARBOOK STAFF.
d) Obviously, A-C make me completely uncool.

It's clear that there's a LOT that I'm up against. Shit I brought against myself. Ahhh, but I have more depth of personality, right? Like when I used to drive a Ford Tempo that smelled like Black and Milds*, with a driver's side window that was permanently stuck about 4 inches down (which, when it rained, was AWESOME), and an engine that was on its last, feeble legs.* It wasn't pretty, but gosh darn it it gave me loads of personality.

But I digress. . .

So . . . 70 pounds down, unmarried, childless, sexy ass chocolatey boyfriend I set out specifically to kill 'em. And let me tell you, no amount of alcohol can ease the awkwardness of seeing people who knew you at your most . . .green.

A few observations:

a) An MBA does not a success story make.
b) Somehow those with children and married seemed the least fulfilled. While the singleton clan seemed the happiest.*
c) Most Likely to Succeed does in fact mean Ph.D. in Biophysics.
d) The quiet people ALWAYS turn out the coolest.* Myself, included.
e) Even people's whose bodies didn't increase in mass, experienced fat faces. I'm not sure if anyone else has ever experienced this, but dude. A mighty percentage of my class has coke bloat face.* It was like before showing up people lathered on a thick layer of time.
f) Filipino people LOVE breakdancing. LOVE LOVE LOVE it.
g) Anyone who says that they "do a little modeling" but still rocks cornrows in 2008, probably doesn't "do a little modeling."

And the most important observation, I believe, is spending a few minutes of conversation (or drunken bathroom heart-to-hearts) with people you never talked to in high school and realizing that your dumb ass missed out. John and Melody, I'm talking to you.

I'm skipping the 20 year reunion because, my friends, I won.

Footnotes:
- I ran away to Australia for 6 months to avoid exactly this. Only to return to LA to sell office supplies door-to-door for exactly 5 days.**
- Of fucking course it is.
- Oh dear Jesus, I used to date a loser that encouraged me to smoke these hobo cigars. For shame, Miss Hershey, for SHAME.
- I mean, at stoplights people were staring. Then frowning. Then staring some more at the sounds that my poor little Toaster was making.
- I don't know about you, but to me happiness = drunk cripwalking.
- Or the craziest/most psychopathic. You'll have to tread lightly with this one as its a potentially deadly toss-up.
- And I totally mean coke bloat face in the nicest way.

Footnote footnotes:
- Where I sold exactly 1 ream of paper. Office supply peddling doesn't seem to be one of my strong points.

Oxymoronic Shopping

2008-09-17T16:17:00.000-07:00

Okay, I am the FIRST person to go ape shit if someone says the word "same difference."

Why?

Because it is annoying and because it SIMPLY DOESN'T EXIST. Each term cancels itself completely out, creating a gaping hole at the beginning, middle, or end of a sentence. And, the word is usually employed to make a certain point or win an argument, ultimately rendering its user a complete dumbass. *

Because I am so passionately against this word and all it stands for* . . . Please y'all, never use this word again.

I have to give you my personal stance on oxymorons and how much I hate them so we can all enjoy the irony that is Miss Hershey McJones. You see, dear readers, the ultimate hater of all things oxymoronic (particularly the term 'same difference') is . . .

An oxymoron. I am a SHOPPER who does not want to be sold.

Let me paint you a picture:

I'm in the mall with my good friend, Asal, shopping for the dress that will perfectly swaddle my newly, svelte figure as I am the maid of honor in her upcoming wedding. Clearly, a dress like this should be classy, but sexy, beautiful and stunning but not in any way direct attention away from the breathtaking bride and HER DRESS*.

With high standards and a clear directive (and not to mention a size 6 body and size 12/14 boobs, which sounds totally cool but I can assure you is decidedly NOT), clearly I am on a Level 5 Alarm Shopping Trip. I am here to shop, but people try to SELL me shit all the time while gallavanting from mall to mall.

Kiosks trolls, mostly of African-American and Middle Eastern descent, trying to sell me hair extensions and cellular phones and hand lotion.

Anorexic sales girls trying to upsell shoes and telling me about the latest discounts and sales.

Cash register matrons fervently pitching the store credit card hawking a measly 10% discount which will surely do more damage to my Sallie Mae-slashed credit rating than it's fucking worth.

Pockmarked, angst-ridden teenagers in severly ill-fitting skinny jeans trying to get me to sample Auntie Anne's pretzels. (Double fucking ew because those toothpicks look RECYCLED)

Gay dressing room attendants "checking in to see if I'm okay with the size." Their voices through the dressing room partitions and curtains grate my very soul.

I HATE YOU ALL.

Which is no wonder I ended up buying my dress from ebay.

Footnotes:
- Or a fucking third grader.
- Namely abject stupidity and the lack of a solid vocabulary, an ailment that I am blessed not to suffer from as my vocabulary is extensive.**
- Seriously, I've seen the shit and it's a PROCESS getting into it. She deserves any and all eyes in the room to be solely on her due to the amount of labor we'll both expend just getting it ON.

Footnote footnotes:
- Owing mainly to my father's need to impress his friends with his "super kid's" private education and the ability to memorize a shitload of flashcards.

Dirty Vegas

2007-02-20T18:09:00.000-08:00

This weekend past is swiftly fading into a hazy blur of tinted sunglasses at all times of the night, gratuitous bluetooths (blueteeth?), and urban lifestyle streetwear like Ecko, Sean John, and Phat Farm, and neon green, leopard, or hot pink lycra (lots of it) for the ladies.

I was in Vegas. At All-Star. Cursing my very being for submitting myself to this sort of desert venue of urban punishment just because I really had nothing else to do. Also, so I could write this blog, pretty much.

In the past 3 years, I've attended All-Stars in Denver, Houston, and now, the crowning jewel of Las Vegas. Some stuff pretty much stayed the same:

* The event is still a perfectly pH balance of the Essence Music Festival, the now defunct Freaknic, the Superbowl, and the Slauson Swap Meet all fucked up on blunts and, of course, Lil' Jon's Crunk Juice.

* The event still draws the likes of white girl groupies (with whom I had much one-on-one interaction), super tall black guy basketball player poseurs, aspiring baby mamas, and . . . Miss Hershey McJones (for some terrible, wholly incomprehensive sadistic reason.)

* And Las Vegas, true to form, still is the undisputed title holder of "City Where You Will Undoubted Spend Hours On End Wandering Around Aimlessly in Heels For Some Fucking Dumbass Reason."

And I, true to form, will set forth to mercilessly document the countless demerits and merit (notice how there is only ONE SINGLE MERIT) of the past 36 hours. Cause, basically it's what I fucking do:

A. All Star Casualities: These are the unfortunate souls that, like the Donner Party, didn't quite reach The Promised Land. This is the quartet of gentlemen who made sure that the candy paint on their Chevy Impala gleamed in the sunlight, made sure that their white tees remained crisp and fresh and that the spinners on the ride were well-oiled and shiny.However, they failed to ensure that there was enough oil in the engine resulting in a breakdown on the I-15.
And let's not forget the Persian Mafia, cuffed and detained on the side of the road after caught in some illicit desert drug trafficking. Or the motherfuckers in the Uhaul that ran out of gas.

B. Borrowed luxury - Mercedes coupes. Hummers. Bentleys and Roll Royces dotted the Interstate . . . in all of their rented glory. I completely understand that impressing the "quality" ladies that All-Star attracts is key. But I don't understand the unnecessary worry a rented vehicle, that costs more than a house, can bring.

Am I returning the car with more than 3/4 gas in the tank? Should I have purchased the renters' insurance? Will they notice the holes punctured in the roof from the clear heels that ho Tamika was wearing as a result of an All-Star gang bang in the parking structure at the Wynn?

C. Inappropriate attire and accessories - I saw gratuitious ass. I saw gratuitous tittes. I think I even saw uterus.

Ladies, the is not okay. And really, you're hurting my feelings . . .and my eyes.

. . . But really, not everything in the weekend sucked all that much, I did get a contact high walking through the casino, I did have fun with Brianne, I did walk directly into Diddy's party at JET without passing go or collecting $200 . . .

But then . . . I walked directly out. Leading me to this -

D. Insane club access - Word to the motherfucking wise, DO NOT EVER LEAVE A LAS VEGAS NIGHTCLUB UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES BECAUSE YOU WILL NEVER, EVER, EVER GET BACK IN. EVER.

Making this grave mistake will inevitably lead you learning exactly why Vegas holds the CWYWUSHOEWAAIHFSFDR* title. This place is bananas.

E. REMOVED FOR EDITS. I'd really like to tell everyone this part but my lawyers advise that it would be unwise.

F. I. SAW. MICHAEL. JACKSON. - When celebrity spotting people, especially Black dudes, adopt the whole "I'm too cool to look and shit" and will catch quick glimpses out of their perifery. This happened in Vegas when Queen Latifah, Dre Bly, Allen Iverson, and Jadakiss were all in close proximity.

Michael Jackson is an entirely different story. His quick sprint from his black SUV to the Wynne caused a small riot in which dudes wearing sunglasses and bluetooths screamed "Hey it's MICHAEL JACKSON!!!" waving their arms and looking close to fainting dead away like white surburban chicks did when they saw the Beatles back in the day.

Michael also made passed out drunks, namely me, spring to attention and become enraptured in his majestic majesticness and tight black pants. It was like the Jackson Five video (only the were now referred to as The Jacksons because of some vicious legal battle with Motown) "Can You Feel It" when the guys were like happy giants sprinkling fairy dust on everyone to joyous song.
Yeah, it was kinda like that.

G. All Star vs. Chinese New Year - I'm all for the racial diversity of blacks and asians all descending on Sin City to simulataneously celebrate basketball and a New Year. However, I'm a bit wary about exposing small Asian children to contact highs, acrylic pedicures, Louis Vuitton Air Force Ones and parking lot pimping. That can't be good, right?

H. Fearing for my safety and virtue certainly wasn't pleasant. As an incredibly attractive female walking to and fro, I made sure to keep my head down and walk fast to avoid any inadvertent eye contact with the riff-raff.

However, trapped in a crowded elevator I was forced to engage in "conversation" about the pluses of traveling to Vegas by plane with a man named Pootie from Houston.

Pootie. From Houston. I had to TALK to him. Or he would have raped or shivved me, I'm sure.

Footnotes:
- City Where You Will Undoubted Spend Hours On End Wandering Around Aimlessly in Heels For Some Fucking Dumbass Reason.

Dozing Extremities: On the Road Again

2006-09-24T11:17:00.000-07:00

I'm all hopped up on Squirt and Sprite. The former is not so hard to believe as it's a crazy mix of lemon lime and heroin, while Sprite has no caffeine. So one can only imagine how many fizzy beverages I've knocked back today.

Miss Hershey is back in the work travel groove and on the road again.

I'm nestled between the soft glow of four soda vending machines and the cold granite walls of the belly of a aging sports arena. Life, between this and my awesome two bedroom suite at the legendary Holiday Inn, is good.

Let me tell you what isn't good, natch.*

- What isn't good is that my foot dozed so hard yesterday afternoon while I was reading Bitter is the New Black on the toilet that I actually would have rather self-amputated than let it wake up. I mean, has anyone ever noticed that when the blood rushes back into your sleeping extremities that it HURTS?

HURTS BAD? REAL BAD? At this point I'd rather drag around my permanently sleeping right leg,*than enjoy two fully functional stems.

- What also isn't good is the toilet paper situation. Apparently this particular venue still employs the one square TP method favored by the late 80s. That annoying toliet paper that doesn't roll out in one long glorious strand of tissue but piece by annoying piece. Does anyone but me remember this? Those one square bastards of toliet paper make you pull out 15 slices of paper just to accomodate the whole wiping of the ass.

I've never worked this hard to be hygenic.

You know what else ain't right? My fucking location. My little workstation of whimsy is loading dock adjacent. If I wasn't dressed in Chip n' Pepper camos and had Macy and Tracy* out and about I might've been mistaken as a fishmonger's lady of the night.* Today I've been mistaken for volunteer information center, parking pass lady, and someone who looks like she's just dying for that flyer to get into the Ed Hardy party tomorrow night.
Do I look like an emaciated Hollywood type just dying to blow out my hair and smoke cigarettes while trying to act like I totally don't care? While wearing leggings?*

The fact that my panties are trying to make a break for it and my g-string is creeping out of my camos is also not great.

And the last not great thing, promise, is the fact that I am soooooo bored. I get out of the event too late to be all independent woman 2006 and see a movie or dine at Black Angus, so I'm relegated to hanging out in my hotel room, alternately reading, writing,and doing about fourteen push ups.

Otherwise, life is good.

Footnotes:
1. Natch - It's a sweet abbreviation for naturally!! Thanks for that one Jaqueline (Jackie)! It's not as sweet as, say, UPS** or MDP** or LDR** but it's pretty damn awesome. Plus it rhymes with 'snatch.' A synonym for my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE WORD ON THE PLANET. A word that rhymes with 'runt.'

Think about that for a second.

2. Like those two guys did with their dead boss in "Weekend at Bernie's" and "Weekend at Bernie's Two"

3. Macy and Tracy - My boobs.

4. The whole situation conjures up visions of unsavory women in fishnets and red patent leather heels milling around burly types who frequent loading docks to both a) load things and b) kill people.

5. I hate leggings. I mean, I REALLY HATE LEGGINGS.

Footnote footnotes:
a. UPS - unprotected sex. NOT the guys in brown who deliver stuff.

b .MDP - mexican diet pill. My weight loss secret. That and churros and pie.

c. LDR - something that, thankfully, i am no longer in. thanks for making the big move to Killa Cali, sweetie peetie pie!!***
Footnote footnotes' footnotes -

i. Totally gay, I know. But I love, Starsky. I just do. So I'll call him some nauseating pet name if I want to. Fuck you.

An Open Letter to the Las Vegas Shoe Thief

2005-09-01T16:36:00.000-07:00

Dear Las Vegas Shoe Thief,

I shouldn't address you as 'dear' because you are a dusty wench with an evil heart. WHO STEALS SHOES FROM THE CLUB? Someone's sweaty, funky, danced all night and now the balls of my feet are throbbing, must. . .make. ..it . ..to. . .the. . .car. . .shoes?! My friends are very confused because when I say, "Someone stole my shoes!?" they think I mean:

a) the housekeeping staff at Mandalay Bay
or
b) a crafty pickpocket with a penchant for shoes that are currently being worn by the original owner.

I am not referring to them. Fortunately I found the housekeeping staff at the Mandalay Bay hotel in Las Vegas to be very polite and trustworthy. I even left a $500 chip on my bed table next to an empty bottle of Jack and they left the chip in tact. Anyone could steal from a wasteful and careless drunk, as I pretended to be for research purposes, but they didn't. Most importantly they did not steal my shoes and changed the sheets on a regular basis.

Crafty pickpockets remain blameless mainly because I don't really have pockets on my ass. I tend to wear skirts and kitchsy pants that have no pockets but still make my butt look good. Sometimes there are pockets in the front but those are tougher to pick. Also, I don't carry a wallet so there's actually nothing they'd be interested in. To them I am another wallet-less and pocket-free chick walking around Vegas with a nice ass. Of no consequence whatsoever, but nice to look at just the same. You already know, LVST, that the pickpockets did not steal my shoes.

You did.

This infuriates me.

I loved those shoes.

I JUST BOUGHT those shoes.

I hope you feel stupid because one was a size 9 and one was a size 10. I have irregular feet. I often switch shoe sizes when sales people are not looking. I have become very good at this and, obviously, it works for me as I achieve optimal comfort in great looking shoes. That being said, I hope your left foot is significantly smaller than your right.

So, LVST, I'm sure you opened the bag you pilfered from MIX Lounge hostess stand, delighted at your evil deed. Only to find a mismatched pair of beautiful snakeskin wedges in different sizes AND sticky adhesive because I ripped the heel grips out after I wore them the first time because they made the shoe too, too tight.

Trying wear them, loser. Try selling one size 9 and one size 10 on Ebay. Try explaining the stickiness in the heels. Try explaining the baby powdery odor mixed with foot sweat that I'm sure I made traipsing around the club that night fending off wannabe suitors with judo-chops to the groin area, trying to track down Prince, and feeling a little incestuous because Common looks like my brother and yet I still think he's cute.

You can't.

So basically I hope you either trip and fall or your wack Ebay auction starts and stalls at 99 cents even AFTER you post it for 10 days.

Who steals shoes?! You dusty wench.

Sincerely,
Pilaar A. Terry

Ridiculously Glorious Part Deux

2005-08-26T14:29:00.000-07:00

For those of you that actually read these with some regularity, please lean back in your chair and chuckle in remembrance of 'Ridiculously Glorious.' This was a blog written in incredulous astonishment at the work colleague who took it upon herself to stretch the boundaries of decency and wear booty-cutters to the workplace. Complete with ass-cheek leakage and uterus viewing.
In you haven't - go read it now. Funny stuff.*

Well, since I'm always on the lookout for silly conversational fodder, and to my advantage it sometimes falls into my lap, consider my experience during a trip to my local grocer. Albertson's on Lincoln in Santa Monica, yes, I'm talking about you . . .

I was shopping for the necessary ingredients to make ice cream sundaes - nothing says 'Get Well Soon' better than ice cream, whipped cream, flavored syrupy sauce in fudge or caramel (I mean, really. Who eats the pineapple sauce? I'll never understand.), topped with nuts, cherries, and sprinkles.

Since I was buying with someone else in mind and have yet to have cracked the code as to his favorite flavor of dairy delight

I browsed.

I searched.

I read flavors carefully with the scrutiny of a fatty satisfying the jones of her next sugar fix.
Vanilla? Chocolate? Strawberry? Too pedestrian.

Dulce de Leche? Rocky Road? Too complicated.

Cookies and cream? Mint chocolate chip? Sooooo junior high.*

As I peered through the frosted glass of flavor upon flavor upon deliciousness . . . My breath caught in my throat. The air rushed out of my lungs. My mouth hung open in suprise:
There is an ice cream flavor called Fudge Tracks.*

People, I'm not kidding. It's made by a perfectly reputable ice cream company called Dreyers.
But seriously, when I was growing up 'fudge tracks' were something to be avoided at all costs. Because if you didn't your mom would find the pair of offensive drawers and bring it immediately to your 5 year old attention by yelling at you while waving said drawers in front of your face. While your friends are over. Playing Chutes and Ladders or maybe a rousing game of CandyLand.

"But I wiped!" is simply not a good enough excuse.

A girl in junior high PE unknowingly displayed her 'fudge tracks' during the mandatory shower after class. We pointed. We made fun. She didn't have many friends.

THOSE are fudge tracks. NOT an overpriced dairy dessert.

What ice cream exec ever thought that this flavor would be okay and gave final approval? Thought it might be tasty? Tantalizing? Mouth-watering? Dreyer's fucking Fudge Tracks.
Ridiculous. Glorious.

Footnotes:
- Seriously go read it. I'm a big fan of utterly shameless self-promotion. It'll be worth your while. If not, I'll give you a dollar. I'm good for it.

- Also, I'd like to mention that I couldn't pick the chocolate flavors anyway because I'm deathly allergic. And please save the 'you can't eat chocolate? but YOU'RE chocolate?!' bullshit. It's unoriginal. I call myself Hershey for obvious reasons, not because I love the cocoa bean but because I have ample amounts of melanin and I wear it well.

- I would've have liked to take a picture of the half gallon of dairy dessert with the camera phone for verification purposes, but I left it in the car. I was expecting a call but not trying to wait by the phone for it so I could "accidentally" miss it and be mysteriously unavailable. You KNOW you do that shit too. So, sorry. But I'm not making this up; Fudge Tracks are real.

Please don't eat them. Please.

On Second Thought . . .

2005-08-18T23:03:00.000-07:00

You know how your whole life people have told you what the next step should be?
Elementary school. Junior high. High school. College. Good job. Marriage. Kids. White picket fence perfection?

I'm being held hostage in my friend's apartment listening to her argue with her boyfriend. I know she screamed

i hate you.

you don't understand me, either.

fuck you.

how does it come to that? i don't understand.

i've never been good at relationships - getting one, keeping one, ending one in a mature and noble and mature fashion my mom would be proud of. i simply lack the knack. i lack the knack.
i'm just being honest.

and yet - the next step on my life's roadmap dictates that i enter into a verbal agreement with someone. promise to bend over backwards. hold my ankles while he fucks me when i'd rather be enjoying vh1's celebreality.

and now, when i think i might want to stop accepting applications. because maybe i can handle one now. maybe i'm a big girl. maybe he's just around the corner or right in front of me. pick a well-qualified candidate and take the next step

i'm being held hostage in my friend's apartment and she's still screaming.

i don't want that.

i want sex everyday. i want suprises. i want kisses in the middle of the night. i want our major compromises to be mexican or chinese. is that wrong?

i'm throwing my roadmap away. someone's given me the wrong directions.

The Search Continues

2005-08-10T14:00:00.000-07:00

Noah and I are looking for a roommate. We took an ad out on Craigslist. And it went a little something like this right here:

See, it's like this. We have a cool house and we're cool people. There's two of us, a guy and a girl. One is black so if you're a racist or believe that Black people steal then this place is obviously not for you. Brentwood may be available. Oh yeah, the other is white. So, if you subscribe to reverse racism and think "The Man" is the root of all evil and wrong in this world, then this place isn't for you either. I don't know where those people go to breed and/or create a livelihood. Try Brentwood? Mar Vista? Actually you're on your own, you bigoted bastard.

I will be completely matter of fact and list the pros and cons of the place:

Pros - Santa Monica address - people will think you're cool and hip. Plus we're close to SMC to you can feel smart simply by geographical osmosis.

Washer/dryer - You won't need quarters anymore! You'll no longer really have an excuse to keep a sock full of quarters by your bed as a makeshift weapon or coin purse, but think of all the telescopes you can gaze into at the pier! (We're close that too.)

Street parking - There's tons. Sometimes a guy with a Vespa who lives across the street hogs curb space, but we simply laugh at him behind his back. Sometimes we kick it when he's not looking. Stupid Vespa.

Hardwood floors - Great for sock hops and makeshift slip-n-slides. Newly remodeled kitchen - So you can cook stuff and impress your friends. Or defrost like I do. Either way, your kitchen is definitely better than everyone else's you know. Unless they are millionaires and live in the hills and in that case, why don't you go live with them instead?

Utilities included - Go ahead. Leave that light on. Energy crisis, shmenergy crisis. Facilities - You live in a house instead of an apartment. How cool and grown up are you now? Very. And when delivery people ask you what the apt. number or floor is you can smugly reply, "It's a house." Be the asshole you've always wanted to be.

Full creative control of the decorating scheme - Right now our look is "new college graduate chic." We are ready for a new look. But no crazy girly candles and shit. Fuck that.

Cons - Extreme varying climate - My grandpa built the house and there is no central heat or air. It gets hot. It gets cold. We adapt. And by adapt we mean sweaters in the winter and fans in the summer. Pretend it's New York . . .by the beach!

The Door - For some reason there is a door through the master bedroom to the room in the back. Ah, grandpa was such a kidder. Since the master bedroom would be yours, you must be okay with this. The person in the back room (moi) usually uses her private entrance. Sometimes she will go through your room when you are not home to get to her own. As addressed in the intro paragraph, she does not steal.

Walls - The walls are kinda thin. Sometimes you hear things. Just pretend you didn't the next morning. Or cheer your housemate on silently and then laugh at them in the morning. Once again, we adapt. Right.

So now that you've read about the house you kinda know what you're getting into. We watch reality tv, we share food, no one steals, sometimes people have sex loud, we drink together, smoke weed often (more not than often, but worth mentioning), welcome porn and various vices, but no pets.
Room available for move in between Aug. 15 & September 1. Who's got dibs?

F.ornicating U.nder C.onsent of the K.ing

2005-07-12T17:56:00.000-07:00

Everyone who knows me is astutely aware of the hard and fast fact (you'll see the pun in a minute) that I LOVE SEX.

I dream about it. Write about it. Get distracted by the mere thought of it during my busy, busy workday as a high powered entertainment publicist. It keeps me from plowing through stoplights as soon as the light turns green. I'm distracted from staring at the gear shift. Certain foods I can't eat because they remind me and entice me into thoughts of copulation, penetration, etc. I feel dirty even looking at dessert because, well, there's just so many opportunities right there. On my plate. In front of me. In public. Bananas and cucumbers in the produce aisle? No comment.

Oh Lord, I am such the consummate sinner. Consumate, there's another word about glorious, glorious f.u.c.k. See? I can't even concentrate to finish this here bloggity blog. Cause I want to . ..well, you know. I've already spelled it out for you. Literally. Two lines up. Yup, right there.

Given my lustful mindstate and my self-titled moniker as the world's truest Scorpio, you'd think I was a jack rabbit. Prone to random acts of phucklust, wandering around in glazed eye post-coital bliss any and all of the time. Skin constantly glistening and sparkly with the earthy scent of baduss* on my person. A knowing twinkle in my eye and muted aftershocks* as I continue about my day. For Pete's sake I wear my sexuality like a second skin. Mmmm . . .skin.

But I'm not.

For some reason I can't seem to seal the deal. Ever since Voldemort (Chrystina are you reading this? Laugh now.) my lovebox has been locked. And I can't find the key to open it. I want to want it again.

I am insatiable, sex-crazed, tingly, sirenous*, and suffering from nymphomaniac tendencies. Where did I go?

I miss me.*

Footnotes:
Baduss - short for badussy. If I need to tell you what this is you are probably too young to know. Or a virgin.

Aftershocks - Tiny little wonderfully suprising orgasms that occur after sex or a particularly satisfying session of "me time." Like a delightful little sneeze in your happy places. Or lemon drop shots in a crowded bar.

Sirenous - Siren-like, you know those women that lure men in with their good looks, honey phone voices, and witty blogs and then crush them? That's me, only I won't crush you. Just make you really, really sore and short of breath. In a good way.

I miss me. - Okay, really. Somebody just PII. Not UPS though. Plenty of PII, ahhhh PII!!
(These anacronyms I refuse to explain. You'll have to message me to find out.)

Ridiculously Glorious

2005-06-06T17:56:00.000-07:00

I'll make this quick.

Most of you know I work in a PR firm. It's entertainment so the atmosphere is relaxed, no suits or ties or anything. My boss is wearing Diesel jeans and a vintage t-shirt and phat kicks* for Pete's sake.

We've all crossed the line of appropriate work attire at some point or another. I myself have donned the occasion wife beater sans cover-up, track pants, or sombrero. It's cool like that, I'm pretty lucky.

BUT TELL ME HOW A GIRL IS WEARING STRAIGHT UP BOOTY SHORTS IN THIS PIECE TODAY.

I mean her ass is hanging out. I can see her uterus. It's so OOC* I can't even think straight to type. Ass cheeks at work. Now I've seen it all. Well almost, I need to get to a lesbian wedding and a pig intenstine eating contest and then I'll have truly seen it all.
Audi 500.*

Glossary -

phat kicks - dope shoes. limited edition nike dunks, retro air jordans, bathing apes, etc. see "sneakerheads" or "sneakergeeks"

OOC - out. of. control. may also be referred to as OOFC, out of fucking control. only to be used in extreme cases of out of controlness.

Audi 5000 - Bye.

Sleep. Sex. Spa. Repeat.

2005-05-31T08:17:00.000-07:00

It's the Tuesday after a looooooong weekend. Everyone is fumbling, stumbling around the office and half-heartedly inquiring about how your weekend was. Keep in mind that they don't really care. Keep in mind they're really wondering if that'll leave a mark, or if one can get deported for doing that thing with that one prostitute, keep in mind that they're secretly wishing it was Friday again. Well . . .

It will.

You can.

It's not . . .yet. (T-minus 4 days, kids.)

So I'm going to share my vonderful weekend with you, MySpace, because I can and obviously blogs are, like, my thing. Here goes, hold your breath and dive in:

Those of you that are close to me know that I've been hemming and hawing (do people still do that? hem and haw?) over a certain someone. You've all been very patient with me. You all are wonderful. You all have let me know that

a) he's not good enough for me anyway. . .
Marina says it best "He has no car and lives with his parents" and then there's my godmother who unflinchingly proclaims, "He must be gay. And his name, _______, is certainly not as cool as yours. He's gay, princess."
b) if he treats me like this NOW imagine how it'd be if we were (gasp) together? Not good. . .
c) he's taught me a lesson. You can't meet someone off of the internet because they (we as a collective) are passive-aggressive by nature. As a Scorpio female I need someone who'll grab my by the hair and tell me what to do.
d) he's not good enough for me and he's gay. Did I say that already?*

In the words of the great Dalai Lama, you can't get over a man until you get under another one. Or is that Dolly Parton from 'The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas?' Ah fuck it, who can tell? So I go to Barney's on 3rd St. Friday night. I see a familiar face - an oh-so-good looking blast from my sexual past who's celebrating receiving his brokering license that very day. Yes! Bottled ambition! Yes! Upwardly mobile! Yes! I'm remembering that his equipment is HUGE!

Well, long story short (that's a lie it was long story, longer . . .and thicker . . .and painful. The good hurt.) I'm feeling a hole lot better about the aforementioned situation. Coupled with a slightly out of character Irish Goodbye**, I'm feeling a little more at peace. Nothing like a brain shattering orgasm from a newly minted broker to put things in perspective for you. Ladies, I recommend you find a (insert white collar profession who's only true release is banging the creative type here) and do the same. Obviously my weekend is off to a fantastic start.

Saturday morning I have an appointment at the Burke Williams Spa. I'm scheduled for a full body massage and a mud bath. I'm padding around the lavender-scented space in a bulky white bathrobe, sipping lime flavored ice water, reading Vanity Fair and feeling very worldly and accomplished. On my massage . . .I have NEVER known a stranger's hands to be so on point. The massage felt so good, in fact, that I found myself holding back purrs and moans from the very depths of my soul. I found myself wishing, praying, for him to suggest a happy ending so I could thank him properly. I was near tears, I was near orgasm, I was near Nirvana. I thought I was in love. Naturally, I tipped him $20 and put my clothes back on. . . just like the nuns at Moreau Catholic taught me.

Of course, I slept for the rest of the day a mischievous smile playing on my lips.

Sunday I missed church, but I did make it to Baja Cantina in time to thwart a fight between a friend of mine and Arissa from the Real World Las Vegas. I wasn't able to stop her (said friend) sister from puking on the sidewalk but, I did get tons of compliments on my t-shirt and hair so it all works out.

On Monday I found out, through trial and error, that small dogs are just like children. You have to feed them and make sure they don't run in the street. Also, it's generally frowned upon if you kick them. I did go to a great BBQ though. Then I promptly returned home at 8pm and fell asleep.

Sex. Spa. Sleep. Repeat.

p.s. I REALLY want Dave Chappelle to be okay.
* I've learned that when getting kicked in the ass by actual emotion, it's those you don't see coming that hit you the worst. While I've yet to reach the "fuck you, nigga" mentality about _________ - I working to comprehend that, while his words and actions were wonderful at the time he's "just not that into me." This is difficult because, well, it just is. No amount of brokers, real estate agents, accountants, or lawyers in training can change this. But they DO help. =)

**The Irish Goodbye - Stealthily removing oneself from an intimate situation without the proper goodbye, or any goodbye at all really. Also known as the 'Pump and Dump' or the 'Hump and Dump.' Morally reprehensible and karmically damaging, but sometimes required.

Mexican Diet Pills

2005-05-24T13:41:00.000-07:00

The first step to fighting one's addiction is admitting that you have a problem.

This is certainly not what I'm doing here. Here (right here) is where I describe my first week's experience with Mexican Diet Pills, aka Asenlix, aka 'oh my God I'm so fucked up right now and I'm at WORK and why am I still hungry? These pills suck.'

So I had to travel to Vegas last week for the Academy of Country Music Awards, glamourous I know. It was Vegas. I was tired. I had been wearing a walkie talkie with a very attractive headset 1-800-Dentist style. I had seen WAY to many bolo ties and ten gallon hats.

Day 1 Me: "Man, I'm tired. I could sure use some Red Bull or something. Hey is that Chipotle? There's Chipotle backstage!"
Drug pushing coworker/friend: "Forget Red Bull, try these. Totally keep you awake."
Me: (insert afterschool special "Just Say No" moment) "Awesome! What is it?" I grab hungrily at the green on green pilly.
Drug pushing coworker/friend: "Mexican diet pills. Asenlix. Here's the box."I try to read the box, I am not bilingual. I tell people I am but I'm really not. I also tell people that I skipped sixth and seventh grade because it's fun to lie. Anyway, I can't read the box. I understand it says 'Hecho in Mexico'. Hmm, made in Mexico. This is the same place that churros come from so they can't be all that bad.

Red flag #1:The pills are called Asenlix. There is ASS and LICKS in the title. Hmm . . .
Red flag #2: I cannot read the box.
Red flag #3: I'm stuttering . . .I can't focus on one object or person or thought . . . look at the pretty colors! Is it weird that I can feel myself blink and my eyelids are twitching?Day 2Of course I take more. But I may have already built up a tolerance. I should probably take two this time. With a glass of wine.
Red flag #4: I can't. Feel. My. Tongue. Oh my god, I love Asenlix! I lost a pound! Overnight! The possibilities are endless!

Day 3 I don't remember day three.
Day 4 I don't remember day four. But I think I've gone down a pants size. That's . . .bad?
Day 5 I have to drive home (again) for another soul-sucking wedding. Naturally I need a pick-me-up. I buy a pack of Red Bulls and my good friends Asenlix and Pop Rocks. This is going to be the best four hour drive EVER. And it is!The feeling has returned to my tongue, I know the words to everything on the radio, I'm flying up the 5, I can DRIVE WITH MY EYES CLOSED! I arrive at the wedding. I can't stop sweating.My fingernails seem really bendy. I pop another Asenlix to calm me. Ah, Asenlix.

Red flag #5: Hey, I just realized that I don't remember Day 3 or Day 4. Nothing important probably happened anyway . . .
Day 6 I should really stop taking Asenlix. I should really stop taking Asenlix. Stop beckoning to me from the annals of my fake Prada purse. Die Asenlix! I'm sorry, I love you Asenlix. . .
Day 7 Today I'm writing this blog as a cry for help. Now I'm jittery, thin and beautiful, incredibly self aware (paranoid), I can't remember large portions of last week, and I'll have to cross the border to sustain my habit. What am I going to do?

Where's my damn Asenlix?

Ay Dios Mio, Dios Mio

2005-05-21T03:04:00.000-07:00

It's simultaneously way too late or too early for me to be awake right now. I'm mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. I'm running on empty and coasting to my destination downhill, barely pumpimg the brakes and subtely slicing my hands through the air as my eyelids get heavy. But too wired and tired to sleep. Sleep is for cowards. Those who makes their best decisions unconcious. I want to be awake while my life happens.

How come the night always seems to bring more clarity than the glaring and blaring sun star during the day?

I attended another wedding today and will be hitting the road for Los Angeles tomorrow morning, well actually in a few hours. But I'm thinking - here at "home" I find myself comfortable but anxious - I'm fully aware of the big, bright world outside of my satin-lined padded box and want to get out again. Familiar destinations and faces that used to comfort me now remind me of how far I've come, how far I've yet to journey. It's like my most comfortable pairs of jeans don't fit anymore. It makes me sad, but then I realize I've got a new pair to put on that make my ass look great. I can't wait to strut.

And while home and work and friendships are neatly and brightly packaged, perfect to look at and improve upon, I can't seem to figure out relationships. Damn it, it's always something isn't it? I can't even figure out if I really want one or not. If I'm trying to hard. If anyone is REALLY worth the effort. If I'm pushing away those who I should be with and blindly embracing those that could give a shit. If only I knew how this was supposed to turn out later. If only it was as easy as consulting a Magic 8-Ball.

At the wedding I let the bridal bouquet fall at my stilletos while little girls and women scrambled to retrieve it. I got booed for my non-chalance. I drank too much and danced until sweating. Men and boys flirted shamelessly with the "beautiful black girl" (it's amazing what you can eavesdrop while smoking behind bushes in a wine vineyard) and nothing and no one held my attention long enough for me to care. How am I supposed to figure out someone else for the rest of my life if I haven't figured out me yet? Suck on that, matrimony. Suck on that, 'til death do we part.' You bore me because you're coventional.

Carnally I'm in need, in frustrating and anxious heat, and tonight even masturbation has lost its usual . . . usualness. This is certainly not okay. I'm barefoot and eating a frozen popsicle wondering what he's doing right now and if he even thinks of me anymore. I wonder if he'd come inside me, if that's even a place he wants to be. Can he feel me thinking about him? Does he even care?

In regards to all things Pilaar Aikelah Terry I need to simply keep coasting like this early morning thesis. But I can't seem to stop my hands from gripping the wheel and consulting MapQuest every minute to make sure I'm on the right track. I know I just need to get lost, but I just don't know how.

On Weddings . . .

2005-05-16T12:33:00.000-07:00

I had the opportnity to attend the first wedding of someone who actually mattered to me this weekend. The first wedding ofa girl from my tight knit group of high school friends - signifying the fact that we're definitely growing up - although I couldn't find my panties the morning of and went sans undergarments. I'm not sure if this means I'm really on my way to adulthood now, but it made the reception a LOT more fun. Try salsa dancing when you KNOW your ass needs to be sitting the fuck down. . .

Some things that made me say 'hmmmmm . . .'

1) The wedding was Catholic so the priest, of course, delivered a homily. How he worked in preparing soup, car washes, the staggering divorce rate, the evil of the cell phone, and how flash photography in church would send you STRAIGHT TO HELL in there I'll never know. And, he peppered his speech with a fake accent like Madonna every once in a while, you know, to keep it interesting.

B) Is it wrong to think about sex in church? I kept wondering how awesome my friend's sex was going to be that night now that she was officially married. Plus the priest kept saying quickie ( in reference to the soup and car wash) so I was thinking about quickies. Is that bad? I mean, coupled with the flash photography do I have a one-way ticket to Hades? Can I get a quickie first?

14) The wedding started ON TIME. The invitiation (which I lost months ago) stated 2pm and it started at 2:03. I was counting on the delay in which the congregation would think that someone was about to be jilted or someone couldn't find the rings or the ring bearer was suffering from a mean hangover or some other madcap wedding adventure. But no, the ceremony began and the bride walked down the aisle to the Bette Midler classic . . .

D) 'The Rose.' Vanessa, I love you but damn. I looked around to see if anyone else was holding back ferocious giggles. 'The Rose'? That just shows that anything goes. I'm walkin down the aisle to "You Remind Me of My Jeep."

e) Wedding DJS. Must. Die.

F) Knowing that you're about to get tanked on free booze is perfectly acceptable. Going to Chevy's beforehand and slamming back two HUGE margaritas beforhand is not. You don't pre-party before a wedding reception.

g) I brought a date. We're just friends, although he is very good looking and we'd probably make a nice couple. But, once again, we are just friends. Ladies if you do this be prepared - once your single lady friends find out he's fair game all bets are off. Weddings = high levels of estrogen = everyone wanting to score with your hot ass date.Makes for good blog fodder, but keeping the girls straight at the wedding proves difficult for him. Help him out.

h) NEVER serve barbeque sauce at a wedding unless it's outside. And don't place it next to the lemon-baked chicken. It confuses people.

23) 50 Cent is from da' streets. 50 Cent has been shot almost ten times. I have proof that grandma loves 50 Cent. She was shakin her ass to him on the dance floor while I was trying to get barbecue sauce off of my outfit.(see H)

45) Suppress the urge to scream "whoooooo!" MTV TRL style when the bride walks down the aisle. I almost made this grave mistake . . .of course, it would've been better than "The Rose" but still this is frowned upon.

K) DO NOT freak your dance partner at weddings. DO return to the open bar as much as possible. But, if the bartender points at you and recites your drink of choice you probably have had too many. In this case, send your friend the next time you want to imbibe.

2) I haven't bought a present yet, but I have a year. Suggestions? Maybe I'll get them soup or a car wash coupon - as a souvenir of the ceremony.

z) I think I may have threatened the groom in a alcohol induced haze. Actually, I KNOW I did. Something of the "if you hurt my friend or divorce her I'll kick your ass" variety. Classy, classy, classy.So this wedding was mainly fun-loving Colombians. I have another wedding on Friday that's WHITE people. I'ma have a good time at that one.

Until then, campers . . .

The Cure for At Work Boredom

2005-05-10T17:17:00.000-07:00

Just some things I've been thinking about today . . .

a) I was told recently that I don't act like a real Black woman. Now let's think about this . . . because I date, and sometimes prefer to date out of my race, sprinkle in Nine Inch Nails and Damien Rice with my Dwele and Jill Scott, and don't speak with ghetto flava I'm less of a Black woman? a lower class member of the Black race because I went to private school and don't have a baby daddy?Interesting. Sure.

b) Sallie Mae, please stop calling me. We are not friends anymore. Thanks for the $120,000 you helped me with so I could get my degree. Now supposedly I'm smarter than most. Not really. I'm smart enough to know that street smarts can definitely outweigh book smarts (I know, I ended up testifying in court against a "friend" who liked to commit armed robbery because I lacked skills from the hood. Funny story, I'll tell you later.) and that I certainly don't have an "extra" $1000 every 30 days to send you. Please be patient because when I have it you'll know and then, Sallie Mae, we can hang out again.

c)I hate waiting, for me patience is not a virtue. So how am I supposed to talk to the guy I like without seeming desperate because I don't want to wait because I like him so much and just want to talk to him real bad? See? I couldn't even wait to insert punctuation. Impatient son of a bitch, I am. Hello, asshole! Call me. I'm too cute not to call. Plus I have a huge rack and know how to use really big words in context, what's not to like?

d) I fell in love all over again this weekend with my dope-ass friends. I wish I could see them more than I do. Gas, cash, and time dictate otherwise. But, they're on my mind.

e) I have TWO weddings to attend this month and the younger cats in my family either a) live with their significant others or b) are preparing to propose. Now let's see - I went three months with no sex. I haven't had a boyfriend since an ill-fated LDR almost a year ago. At a crazy bachelorette this weekend the man who was infatuated with me (nay, mesmerized is more like it) was promptly arrested by San Francisco's finest. Face down. In the street. Problem here?

f) Sometimes I think I may like girls. But then again, I really just like boobs. A lot. It's weird though because I can only handle one set at a time. Mine or someone's else's. I lived in Australia for awhile and had a drunken girl-on-girl experience (I swear that little Aussie bitch seduced me and I didn't even see it coming. Why? Because I am lacking in street smarts. See section b) and her boobs were out and my boobs were out. I was confused, I didn't know what to do with them. I just stared. Then she wanted to cuddle. Ugh. Never again.

g) Remember how in high school getting out at 2:35pm seemed sooooooooo long? So far away from the first bell? Try working until 6pm when the sun is still out, you've got food coma, and it's between the 3 - 4pm. Now that is hell on earth. Luckily I've got a sexy ass boss, myspace, CDs, and the enough mischievous spontaneity to take my panties off at my desk. Once I had an orgasm too - fantasizing about my hot boss.

h) I recently had phone sex that had to be cut short by circumstances beyond our control. I used to think that if he couldn't get it up (thanks alcohol!) that that was the worst. But now I've found cellularus coitus interruptus that's "dammit I can't believe I'm getting cut the fuck off in the middle of phone sex" in Greek. Swear.

i) I'm an account executive and I still sit at a CUBE. This sucks. This sucks. This sucks. Not to be nit-picky but I want to be able to close my door when I take off my panties or have an orgasm - simply pretending to be invisible just won't cut it anymore. Plus, people can see that I am obviously not doing any work whatsoever right now. Obviously.

j) Because I work in entertainment people think my job is glamorous and I have tons of movie star friends and make oodles of cash. It's not. And stop asking me who I've met - it bugs me and they're not even as cool as you think they are. The best part of my job is wearing whatever I want to work, however inappropriate. Oh yeah - and watching movies and tv and reading gossip mags as "research."

k) I think I'm actually really clever.Oh my gosh, I'm all the way to K. I better stop. Only one more hour until the bell rings and I can go make out under the bleachers with my PE teacher. Just kidding, I didn't make out with anyone in high school. I was heinous.

I Let My Dentist Feel Me Up

2005-02-28T18:14:00.001-08:00

So my friends know me for having intense attractions to, um, interesting gentlemen. I don't know what it is, it just happens. . .

I'm in a quaint little dentist office in Brentwood and in walks Dr. Ramourian. A tiny Persian man with red hair (I found out later he walks with a limp) he proceeds to tell me how fucked up my mouth this. Believe me, this is shocking news as I'm more prone to hear "Oh my God, your teeth are so white!" rather than "You have deep pockets of bacteria that we'll have to numb your entire mouth to clean, you infectious beast. You aren't even worth the strength it takes to floss baby teeth. Peon."

But I do take the news alarmingly well . . .all because of the gentle touch of Dr. Ramourian. I mean, ladies, this is better than the massage they give you during a mani- pedi-. Dr. Ramourian really knows how to touch a lady. Anyway, the good doctor begins caressing my arm, light cheek grazes, the meaningful glances. I mean seriously, this doctor is into me for real.

Finally he takes it to the next level and actually kisses me on the forehead. This is for real, right? Let's not forget all of the velvety compliments about how beautiful I am and he's so happy to be able to treat me. Flavored with his Farsi accent, I'm completely his. Oh man, I've fallen for a Persian little man with a limp and I couldn't be happier! So as he's cleaning the spit from my face while gazing into my numbed up face, I allow him to grab my ass.

I can't wait to go back to the dentist. There's nothing like staying on top of good oral hygiene. Has anyone else been intensely attracted to one of their medical practitioners? Maybe we should start a support group.

Please, please. Put in away.

2005-01-31T19:19:00.000-08:00

I REALLY don't know what it is - maybe it's just me or maybe it's something about guys in general. I'm almost afraid to bring it up because if I find out that it really is just me I'll be utterly mortified. I'm sure I'll laugh about it later, but I think mortification is certainly in the cards.

Why is it, and help me out here, that if you kiss someone he thinks it's automatically time to get naked? Literally - get naked. Or at least take out the penis. Now I do appreciate kissing as much as the next girl, but this do NOT mean I want to go down on you and/or let you stick it in. Kissing me for 30 seconds does not make it go time and damnit, how do you guys get undressed THAT fast without breaking away from a woman's lips? How DO you do it? I am perplexed.

Years of being myself, along with a very helpful research study on what is found attractive (thanks University of India), I've learned that I unknowingly exude copious amounts of intense sexual energy. (You may beg to differ after reading what I'm looking for - a HOT person - but I don't walk around thinking this all the time. And hey, this isn't the invitation for you to tell me that you're what I'm looking for. Let's focus on the blog here. This isn't about you and me.) Anywho, I don't know how to turn it off, it's not in the way I dress (believe me sweats and oversized t-shirts can't hide this invisible aura that seems to be seeping from my very pores and wafting into the air), and I don't ask for it on a daily basis. But it's there, hanging over my head like a rain cloud in a cartoon. Only, I don't get rained on, I get lots and lots of guys wanting to show me what Mr. Happy looks like.

Please, put it away. I just don't want to see that right now.

Or ever.Is it just me? Ladies, do you too fall victim to Automatically Naked Guy? Doesn't it totally turn you off? How do they respect themselves knowing they've been naked in front of numerous girls and probably only been intimate with less than half? Is it a numbers game - get naked enough and you'll just HAVE to score one time? Is it the law of averages? Somebody help me out.

I have seen way to much penis. Penis, I think we need to take a break. It's not you it's . . . well, yeah, it's definitely you.

One with my chest!

2004-10-24T20:38:00.000-07:00

It took me about 23 years to finally get into this mindset. Okay, well maybe not 23 years but I guess since 3rd grade I've been grappling with the fact that I developed early . . .and kept developing. But now I am finally at one with my chest and the proud owner of a beautiful pair of breasts.

Have you met?

Well, let me introduce you to the ladies . . .
Macy - The quiet one. Macy has always been the intuitive introvert, very smart. She mostly stays in and reads books about smart people things like the economy and the Reagan administration. She watches CNN Headline News, Meet the Press, and Hardball with Chris Matthews. For awhile she wanted to run for public office but finally decided to get her law degree, take the bar, and practice criminal law. She's one tough bitch and let me tell ya' - still waters run deep.

Tracy - Ah, the loud one. She blasts her music, talks through scary movies (any movie for that matter), flirts with boys, gets way too drunk at parties, and writes notes to the bartender. She wanted to go into massage therapy but couldn't seem to get her ass to class at community college so the girl dropped out. She's really fun, don't get me wrong, but the girl needs some fucking focus. And how!Anyway, I put together a list of things I liked about the twins and things I hated.

Here's an abridged version so you guys know where I'm coming from:
Cons
--People stare. Guys, girls (a LOT of girls. And don't think I'm dressed like this because I'm trying to steal your man. And yes, bitch, he's staring too. I'm wearing this shirt because nothing else fits!)
-Quick! What color are my eyes?-Strapless bras? Please.-Going braless? Please.-Running or excercise requires more than one sports bra. This creates sausage chest. Not pretty.
-Can a bitch get some spaghetti straps?-And just because I've got enough up here to feed a family of four doesn't mean that I'm a fatty everywhere else. Here's an idea, let's make a shirt that fits in BOTH the chest and the waist. Genius, fucking genius.

PROS!
-They were free.
-They're fun to accessorize.-No lines, no waiting, and sometimes I get free stuff. Okay, maybe a lot.
-Despite the above average size they're perky. Awesome.
-If touched correctly I go insane. Go ahead, bite them. Perfect.
-Did I mention the free stuff?
-They're pretty! So, so pretty.So, now that I've finally accepted my body and become one with my chest I thought I'd share this newfound pride with the class. Now talk amongst yourselves.

Viva la Sweater Puppies!