21 Questions
Hello, sorry, probably no posting tonight, simply because I am heading to the Anger Management Tour 3 concert at Hi-Fi Buys. I got two free tickets (for myself, and 6 other tickets for others we are going with), courtesy of my Rolling Stone rep (thank you!), and am grabbing my sister and preparing for a night of total fun and mayhem. This is going to be AMAZING - Eminem, 50 Cent, D12, Lil Jon, The Game, and three or four other bands. I'm quite glad that 50 Cent will be there, especially because I have "21 Questions" for him to answer:
1. Will we get shot on our way to the venue?
2. Will we be shot at during the concert?
3. Should I wear a bulletproof vest?
4. Will my sister, my friends, and I be the only white folk there?
5. Why is Eminem still in love with Kim?
6. If a bear shits in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, did it really happen?
7. Why was Brittany Murphy cast in "8 Mile"?
8. Do Hillary Duff and Lindsay Lohan realize they're being made fun of in "Ass Like That"?
9. Does The Game sing anything other than that "Hate It Or Love It" song?
10. Why do I have an earache in my left ear only?
11. Do you think any of the parents chaperoning their kids at the concert will ask when P. Diddy will go on stage?
12. If 50 Cent had a twin named Bill, do you think he'd call himself "Dollar Bill"?
13. Why does Eminem insist on living in Michigan, and would he consider relocating to Atlanta?
14. Why does Lil Jon need to "Get Low" if he's already little?
15. If I get shot at the concert, will they take me to Grady, or a hospital on Pill Hill?
16. Are Rob Thomas and Tom Cruise really lovers, or is that just a rumor?
17. Does 50 love me like a fat kid loves cake, even though I didn't actually pay for a ticket?
18. Will there ever be a Sunday that I don't have to go into work to play catch up?
19. If Detroit really rocks, why does the rest of Michigan suck so badly?
20. Can I be an extra in the next video?
21. Am I going to live to tell about this night?
Full report on this and much more tomorrow.
I Don't Got The Hookup, Holla If You Hear Me
So tonight I get a random instant message from a guy I used to hang out with a few years ago. Always nice, those random IMs.
We're talking, catching up, and he asks if I've been hooking up a lot lately. And it occurs to me ... um, not really. I can't remember the last time I randomly hooked up with someone. And I mean
randomly. Like going home with a guy I really don't know at all for the sake of getting a piece of ass, walking home the next morning, and running straight to the bedpost to carve another notch - and feel great about it, like I just climbed to the top of the Himalayas. Gone are the days when I would hook up for sport. I guess that's the thing about being a big girl grown-up...I am no longer really interested in showing off my skills with someone whose name I don't remember.
That's not to say I am not fulfilled...it's just that I am usually fulfilled by someone I know and am comfortable with. And really, I don't think that's such a bad thing. As I told Charlie (my random ex-friend), there's something to be said for someone who's perfectly happy being on their own, doesn't rely on anyone else for happiness, and doesn't need to scramble at 2 am to find someone to validate their sexual adequacy. And hey, that's not to say that I think I'm better than anyone else, it's just that I really don't want to spend my Saturdays and Sundays trying to remember where I left my underpants. Anyone with me on this one?
Betty vs. Veronica
Nothing about this is comical.
Over the past eight months, I've never once turned against my own gender. Why? Because sisters need to help sisters, at least that's what I say. But when you're "in a mood" as I am tonight, you just want to break out the claws and start scratching. Bitches.
Let's face it - as I said on day one, everyone fits into neat little categories, and I'm here to call them out. And girls? They're no exception.
I remember one summer when I was 12, I went to visit my aunt and uncle and cousins in Edmonton, and I uncovered my older cousin's Archie collection (and Penthouse, but that was one of many defining moments where I definitely knew that another pair of breasts didn't interest me whatsoever), and spent the rest of my vacation reading each and every comic book in the collection.
Well, it seemed to me, even then, that there are two kinds of girls out there - Bettys and Veronicas. Yes, just like the Archie comics.
Bettys are beautiful in their own right - they're smart, and fun, and make the best friends for guys. They're always secretly hoping that one day their Archie is going to turn around and realize how f*cking great they are. And if you asked Archie, he'd probably tell you that Betty was awesome, and funny, and great, but that she was just considered a friend, or a contingency f*ck if things didn't work out with someone more exciting. They'll let Archie do his little f*ck-and-chuck scenario, and come back for more every time. Why? Because they're nice.
But Veronicas are also beautiful. Extremely beautiful. They ooze sex appeal, and they are so unapproachable that Archie's almost frightened to say anything to her. But then, because he has a penis, and because he can't resist, he does. He keeps trying and trying because Veronica is fascinating. She has that je ne cest quoi, and he wants to hit the...well, whatever "quoi" means in French. Some Veronicas can f*ck him over, or act like a psycho, and he'll take it. He'll continue to take it because she's hot and she can get away with it. Bitch.
Bettys and Veronicas can be friends, but more often than not, they are enemies. Particularly when fighting over the same Archie. They'll never truly understand each other, and they will always compete. It's just the way it is.
Perfect example: Brad Pitt (Archie). He has a Betty (Jennifer Aniston), and a Veronica (Angelina Jolie). Wait, I think I just cast yet another movie remake. Anyway, Betty lands a hot guy that looks like Brad Pitt, marries him, and lives happily ever after...until he starts shooting Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Coincidence? I think not.
I have come to the conclusion that I am a Betty, and this disturbs me. Wherever I lurk (not that I do much "lurking", but it seemed like a good word to use), some hotter, more fascinating Veronica lurks. I have never known a situation where I am the Veronica, and if anyone is aware of one, please, feel free to share with me, because this little casting session has left me slightly distrubed and discouraged.
This Stuff Really Only Happens to Me
Okay, so I had a nice weekend. How was yours? Oh, great, glad to hear it.
On Friday, I went to see Pat McGee and Vertical Horizon play at a small local venue with my sister, her friends, and Humpy. Pat McGee is hot."Vertical Horizon? Not so hot. I spent the majority of their set wishing they would play "Everything You Want" so I could go home and pass the f*ck out. (It was Friday, and I had a long week!) Instead, we waited out half the set, and the bald guy, who Humpy pointed out looks suspiciously identical to the lead singer of Live made the crowd sing half the lyrics, mistakenly drew the self-righteous conclusion that people know any lyrics from any of their albums, save for the aforementioned "Everything You Want". I was ultimately disappointed. I didn't pay $20 for a ticket, and $18 for four drinks, to get hammered, try to remember the f*cking lyrics to Vertical Horizon, and sing it back into the Live singer's microphone. If I wanted to do that, I'd pay $7 for a six-pack, turn on the iTunes, take a f*cking beer shower, and sing to my damn self.
Anyway, Saturday, I decided to play it low-key and go to the movies with a small group of friends. As luck would have it (or not have it, in this case), the "small group" ended up consisting of me, my friend (coincidentally my boss), and my other friend (coincidentally someone I like). Yes, a situation so awkward, we should probably just invent a new word for "awkward". I like both of them a lot, but let's face it - the three of us are probably not what the French had in mind when they thought up the "menage a trois" concept.
So the three of us, wanting to eat healthy, headed to a soup and salad restaurant before the movie. A soup and salad restaurant that, as luck would have it, was occupied by 3 other people aside from us, all over the age of 80. Collectively, the three of us brought the average age down by at least three decades. The good news was that we felt really young. The bad news is that the salad bar ran out of soft foods rather quickly. Still, we got a pretty good chuckle out of it. The fact that my friend (coincidentally someone I like) got stuck behind a 90 year old woman in a walker on his way back from the salad bar said it all, really.
After our amusing and very entertaining meal, we headed to a brew-and-view theater to see "Wedding Crashers". We knew it would sell out quickly, so we got there about half an hour early to get tickets. As we approach the box office, my friend (boss), buys her ticket. I buy my ticket. And, in a cruel twist of fate, as soon as my other friend tried to buy a ticket, the cashier said that they had "just sold out" of the showing. Yes, sold out. What the f*ck are the odds of that? Now, if I believed in signs, I might be inclined to think that this was some sort of red flag. But I digress.
After "fooling" the theater personnel into thinking he was going to see "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", we snuck him into the movie and had a good time.
And on Sunday? I did rest. I think it was well-deserved, after the weekend I had. Plus, I needed it. I think I ate too much salad at the salad bar.
Laguna Beach, Season 2
If anyone remembers
this post, you would know that I am incredibly excited for the second season premiere of Laguna Beach tomorrow night on MTV. (And no, I wasn't paid to endorse this show.)
Laguna Beach is like "The O.C.", plus a larger group of friends, minus my perfect man Seth Cohen, plus a
more realistic high school experience, minus, again, my perfect man Seth Cohen. Still, it's so addictive that I can't stop living vicariously through angst-ridden seventeen year olds.
9 pm. Be there, or be...um, cool, I'm guessing.
Robot Chicken...Amazing
The best thing on television
Is anyone else obsessed with Robot Chicken on Adult Swim? This is one of the funniest, most entertaining shows I have seen on television in a long time. I was about to fall asleep tonight when I saw that it was on Adult Swim, and I had to stay up and watch it.
For anyone unfamiliar, it's a Claymation satirical show (only 15 minutes! small doses for anyone with ADD, like myself) that is comprised of a series of short sketches. Seth Green (Dr. Evil's son) is behind it, and each episode he has guest voices on. The guests are totally random - anyone from Jon Heder (aka Napoleon) to Sarah Michelle Gellar.
If you have the opportunity, I highly suggest you check it out. It's so random, it has me laughing hysterically...watching it by myself.
My Ass Has Given Up on Me (And Finding It's Perfect Mate in Jeans)
Well, this is just pathetic. My ass has given out on me at 24 years of age. Have you ever heard of anything so sad?
One of the biggest adjustments to post-collegiate life (which seems farther and farther away, considering that I've now been out of college for
three years) is that as soon as you walk off that campus, shiny new diploma in hand, your body says, "Hey bitch, thanks for abusing me for four years. I let you get away with it, but payback sucks. Good luck trying to do any of the following: get less than 8 hours of sleep a night, drink for longer than 4 hours at a time, engage in foreplay for longer than 20 minutes, go out more than two nights in a row, or doing any sort of squat or lunge in the hopes of toning, firming, and shrinking fat cells. Peace out."
I've had a long week, and all I've wanted to do all weekend was go shopping. I've earned it. I deserve to come home with a hefty shopping bag, chock full of shit I don't need and may never wear, to fill up my closet and make me feel good, right? Apparently wrong.
This evening, in the hopes of regaining any semblance of energy after a long week, my sister and I went denim shopping. If there's ever any one thing about women that sticks with a man, it should be the accepted knowledge that every girl spends her entire lifetime looking for two things: the perfect lipgloss, and the perfect pair of jeans. Those two items are like the Holy f*cking Grail as far as women are concerned. If I ever find the perfect pair or the best color of lipgloss, I will die a happy person...so happy, that I will insist that it be mentioned in my eulogy, or at least put on my headstone - "KA, b. 1980, lived fulfilled life thanks to Rock & Republic denim and MAC Lipglass."
So we went to Heaven, aka the Nordstrom's Saavy section. If heaven exists, I am convinced that one can eat at Fogo de Chao on an already-paid-for college meal plan and still fit into a pair of size 27 Citizens of Humanity jeans. Yes, this is what my heaven looks like.
Much to our dismay, the fitting rooms in the store were all sorts of shady - from the 12-angle mirrors right down to the horrendous flourescent lighting. I saw pockets and dimples and jiggles that I have never seen before on my body. I felt tears stinging my eyes, emotions wild, like a desperate housewife who has just discovered that her husband is f*cking the maid. How could my body betray me like this? Why are these pants giving me camel toe? Why is everything so low-rise? At what point did it become cool to display my bikini line along with my tank top and flip flops?
We left the store jaded and depressed, but oddly even more driven to continue the quest for the perfect pair of jeans. I will not let Nordstrom discourage me. I will soldier on until I find my match.
So we're going again tomorrow, because I will not let my ass win this one.
I Don't Think You're Ready...For This Jelly
Newsflash! In continuing the Crappy Music Tour 2005, today I agreed to see Destiny's Child in concert this Friday with my friend, who is coincidentally my boss. I agreed to this musical adventure for two reasons, and two reasons only: 1. I like hanging out with my boss, and 2. I want to see just how big Beyonce's ass is in real life.
Okay, okay, let's back up the truck. Destiny's Child really isn't bad; in fact, they are kind of an exciting act. There's a lot of ass-shaking and some good beats, and I particularly enjoy the mixed messages of their songs. As anyone following pop culture may recall, sometime back in 1999, they recorded a song called, "Bills Bills Bills", the lyrics of which asked, "Can you pay my bills/Can you pay my telephone bills/Can you pay my automo"bills"?" The very next year they recorded "Independent Women", the lyrics of which stated, "If I wanted the watch you're wearing (I'll buy it)/The house I live in (I bought it)/The car I'm driving (I bought it)/'Cause I depend on me." I ask you, does it get more confusing than that? I mean, shit, when it comes to women's lib, are they in or are they out? I don't get it. If I was Beyonce, I'd sock all of my dough into my savings account and let Jay Z bling me until the cows came home.
So, as a means for building excitement for this concert, I am asking a favor of you, dear readers. I am asking you to guess the circumference of Beyonce's ass, measured in centimeters. Please post your guess in the comments section. The winner will be determined as soon as I have had the chance to see the aforementioned ass, and the prize is to be determined (although I think that the promise of a bona-fide Destiny's Child t-shirt or visor will probably be enough incentive for any of you...after all, who can turn down a shot at a Destiny's Child visor?)
I'm going to sign off of this post with a little conventional wisdom, courtesy of our very own Beyonce Knowles. I think I can speak for us all when I say, "I don't think you're ready for this jelly. I don't think you're ready for this jelly. I don't think you're ready for me 'cause my body too bootylicious for you, baby."
In lieu of posting tonight (I'm tired of writing, and I'm sure you're tired of reading), enjoy the pictures.
Leaving Vortex and en route to causing trouble
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil
One might think there was a little something going on between Mario and I, but he was just itching his face on me, and I was just enjoying it.
Happy Humpy, sad times for me
Schwartz sandwich (I have no idea what the hell I'm doing in the background.) Schwartz, I hope you're not mad that I'm putting you up here, but you're just too cute not to show off.
I'm All For Separation of Church and (Drunken) State
Busted!
Okay, now
this is the best thing I have seen to pass through the firewalled networks of working folk in the form of email attachments and forwards in a long time. I had so much fun with this today that I made various signs for anyone and everyone I could think of. (Jeff's sign, "Jesus Loves Lobsters." - okay, inside joke. Humpy's sign, "You're going to hell for this." Matt's sign, "Matt, you were drunk this weekend. Jesus hates drunks.") I could go on and on.
As most of you know, I am a pretty secular person. Jews, Catholics, Christians - it's all good, as long as I can still eat my hummus. If, for no other reason, I haven't been banished to hell yet, I am definitely headed there after this. Sorry, Jesus.
You Gots to Check 'Em
Okay, here's the deal - I am sick of people's shit. Over it, done. After a rough weekend, which involved many little situations escalating until I threatened to punch some guy in the face at a party last night (which was totally warranted, but I digress), I have two choices: I can either write a long, ranting post about it, or I should consider some anger management school. I'm not exactly rolling in dough these days, so I've opted for the former.
Carrie Bradshaw once said, "Isn't delayed gratification the definition of maturity?" Well, maybe. But what I think defines maturity in relationships is the ability to determine what you want and what you don't want. And if you're stuck in a friendship, relationship, any situation, where someone isn't treating you the way that you think you should be treated, the definition of maturity is being able to see that, and to kick them to the f*cking curb.
There's a great wise saying in Hebrew (my second tongue) that translates to, "If I am not for me, who will be for me? And if not now, when?" If I don't think that I'm a hot catch who deserves to have someone treat me like a gem, who else is going to think that for me? That's step one. But here's the thing - it's easy to have that mentality, but the hard part is enforcing it. Too often I see my girlfriends stuck in relationships and situations where the guy is a total dick. And a girl has only a few choices: she can make excuse after excuse for the guy, she can get sick of the bullshit and walk away or trade up, or she can live miserably for the rest of her life knowing that her boyfriend is a piece of crap. As I like to say, you gotta call a spade a spade, or a douchebag and douchebag, and hope that there's something better out there.
Anyone who knows me really well can attest to the sort of embarrassing fact that "Two Can Play That Game" is one of my favorite movies. (If you haven't seen it, you might want to check it out.) And one of the best parts of the movie is when Vivica Fox says, "When your man starts acting up, check 'em. You gots to check 'em." That said, I have decided to start checking people that are really pissing me off. And by checking them, I mean kicking them to the curb.
The guy that you've been waiting for that won't ask you out? Check 'em. The guy who likes to mindf*ck you with every opportunity he gets? Check 'em. It's really not that hard. The most powerful reaction is usually silence. Use it to your advantage.
And with that, I'm going to get back to checking people, and get back to looking for a good guy that's going to act like a real man. Hallelujah.
What Willis Was Talkin' About
For anyone who's up for a good recommendation, I added a new blog link to my sidebar. The blog is called
What Willis Was Talkin' About and it's smart and funny. It is coincidentally (?) written by my friend Peter, who I have a fake crush on, so please stop by and say hello. Enjoy.
Flutter Boys, Not To Be Confused With Fluffers
There is a special breed of boy that comes into a girl's life once or twice in her lifetime (or a good handful of times if she is either a) easily stimulated, or b) has low standards). It's a guy that makes you weak in the knees when you see him, makes you want to pass out if you come within 5 feet of him, and will, by virtue of standing, stand literally in the way of your life until you are safely able to remove him from your line of vision. This, my friends, is the flutter boy.
When I was sixteen, I was a camp counselor, and there was a little sixth grade kid that was in love with my ass. He would ask me to dance with him at the camp dances, write me love letters made in Arts & Crafts, and he even told my boyfriend at the time that should things not work out, he'd be happy to step in. He called me his "Flutter Girl", because I made his heart flutter when he saw me. It was adorable and endearing -- not in that incestuous way, but in a way that comforts everyone, because you never know to whom you are a Flutter person, really.
I have had the same Flutter boy for a while. No matter what's going on in my life, no matter how far I think I come, every time I see this guy, my heart falls through my stomach and my nervous system goes crazy. I can't explain how or why this happens, but it does, and it is always - and only - with this one person. Weird how this shit happens.
For better or for worse, I'm a pretty confident person. If you don't like me, go f*ck yourself. I am quite alright with that mentality. But I saw my Flutter boy not too long ago, and that confidence shot right out of my body and through the window I was sitting next to, and that happens every time. Not because I am an insecure person, but because I was this particular Flutter person to like me so much that a freak out (or as my mom would say, "frick out") is inevitable. Sometimes I wonder if my Flutter has any idea, but considering I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve (or on my blog, I guess), I'm sure he's picked up on this by now.
Perhaps the worst part about the Flutter is the weird things you will do for him/her. You will drive, or fly, or sail, to see them if they are far away. You will call, with the dumbest excuse you can imagine, to talk to them. And you will break every resolution you have ever made about the Flutter, if it means another shot at being with them.
I think Flutters make life incredibly interesting, but it really sucks when they f*ck you up.
Let Freedom (Include A Diamond) Ring
Wow, Fourth of July. Where the f*ck have the past four months gone? Hope everyone had a safe, happy holiday, and eating a lot of hot dogs, because they are one of the greatest foods ever invented using processed meat.
I was in Ohio this past weekend, because like most people on any fine holiday, I spent time with my family. But unlike most people on this holiday, instead of grilling out, laying out, and putting out, I sifted through boxes and boxes of shit, because my parents have sold our house and are moving in exactly two months.
Let me tell you...sorting through childhood memories, clothes, and miscellaneous crap is a lot like what I imagine hiring a hooker is like: you know you paid for it, you know you can do whatever you want with it, but you're not exactly sure where to begin, and after a while, you just want it to go away. Same thing here. I had piles upon piles of birthday cards, emails, keepsakes, sorority shit, pictures, yearbooks, and the occasional angst-ridden love letter. I wanted to keep all of it. But I don't think that even my 900 sq. ft. apartment (with a fireplace! for those cold Atlanta nights) is big enough to hold everything.
(By the way, if you're ever interested in a good laugh, I highly suggest reviewing your high school yearbook. If you notice, most everyone that was good-looking in high school is now disgusting, and those who had a rough couple of years are probably slangin' dick all over town. I am sort of glad I didn't peak in high school for that very reason.)
Anyway, so I was wondering if anyone knows where my husband is...while looking through my elementary school yearbook (Brookville Elementary in Brookville, PA), I found a message in 1988 from Mike McEntire that was signed, "your husband". Looking back, I remember the day he came over to my house, we were married in front of the Nintendo by my friend Ashley, and we kissed and played with our "kids", aka my dolls. What a pussy.
He did give me a beautiful "diamond" ring from one of those 25-cent vending machines. I wore it until the day I moved away. But oddly enough, I remember feeling very free the day that I threw it in my Caboodles jewelry box on the first day of fourth grade, knowing that I was independent, and free to play Red Rover with whoever I wished at my new school. I am almost certain that this little f*cker Mike McEntire gave me some commitment issues.
Sorry, that was mainly unrelated to this post. The point of the post is that I got to love my family, drink some drinks, and hang out with some of the people most important to me. It couldn't have gotten any better than that.
