Tuesday, April 28, 2009

See, and this is why I am not always a fashion plate...

Thought that just popped into my head: You know what would totally make my whole outfit? A really nifty WWII aviator hat, ala Amelia Earhart. Preferably with goggles. (Please take note that what I am currently wearing is my Newport Jazz Fest t-shirt that used to be my mom's, an army green mini-skirt, leggings, wellies and a navy Little Lord Fauntleroy looking blazer.) In fact, my mind is dancing with visions of aviator hats and how cool I would look in one. Although I would probably leave it unbuttoned.

(Sadly, this one is for people with small heads.)

I am totally going to find one on ebay, and it will be all sorts of glorious, and everyone will be jealous.

Oh, and of course, as suggested by Amanda, I would look just like this in my hat.

I intend to add this to my list of things Katherine Hepburn and I have in common.

It's funny 'cause it's true

I totally have a new girlcrush, thanks to Britni- the ladyduo of Garfunkel and Oates.

This particular song, "My Self Esteem's Not Low Enough To Date You" struck a chord with me, primarily because... I think I've actually said that before- and meant it completely earnestly. If not that, then definitely things along those lines.

This one is also glorious.

The weirdest thing ever is that pregnant women come into my store simply to point at articles of clothing and tell me that they can't wear such things anymore, you know, because they're pregnant. I try to show them jewelry, but to no avail. Actually, what's funny is that I just had my first experience ever with a friend telling me she was pregnant and it being a good thing. It was totally weird because my first reaction, usually, is "Oh my god! What are you going to do?"- but like, my friend is in her 30's, married to a nice guy, financially stable and not irresponsible and selfish like me and most of my other friends. Crazy!

Monday, April 27, 2009

Varied and Sundry...

  • I ran out of my apartment a few minutes ago to grab cigarettes, and I threw on my dress from last night to do so, because I'm lazy, and now I think the guy at Rio Balsas thinks I'm a hooker, because he asked me if I was going to work or coming home from it, and then suggested I keep on doing what I'm doing, while winking at me.
  • SNSS was awesome. We had a touching tribute to Ms. Bea Arthur. We even got the cops called on us. Or rather, Nicole got the cops called on us by standing in the middle of the street in a leotard and fishnets and waving at a firetruck...
  • Also, just because I host The Sunday Night Sex Show, it does not mean that you can expect me to go home with you, dude I just met ten seconds ago. I am dates only these days, and require at least three days advance notice.
  • You know who sucks at life? People who walk into a store right before close, look at the time and cutely announce that they got there "just in time" and then proceed to stay for an extra half hour to mess up racks and purchase a ring that costs $19. I hate those people.
  • Question: Do guys think that we have not seen every teen movie on earth where the cool person tells the geeky dude who has trouble with the ladies to tell them that their eyes are like two limpid pools? Seriously, the eye complimenting has to go. Compliment me on my legs. Thank you.

Friday, April 24, 2009

Why I am Just In Love With Love

This is an article, written a long time ago for Bust Magazine by Courtney Love in which she is right about everything. The first time I read it, it was like something popped in my head in this "Oh my god, I totally get myself now!" kind of way. This isn't the whole article- just what I was able to find online a long time ago- I lent out my original copy of it to someone who needed it and never got it back. It's something I like to read now and then, sorta like I do with the Dorothy Parker poems, I guess to remind me why it's so fucking awesome being me :).

Bad Like Me

By Courtney Love

I was born bad. My biological dad is a bad man, so mama simply thought, "Ooh, she's got that bad blood seed in her." At heart, home, hearth and boyfriend, I am a full-on good girl prude-but don't tell anyone.

When you're a bad girl, people are terrified of you. You don't get mugged or raped because you don't have any victim energy (I'm sure it has happened, just not as often). It's bad if you're a famous one, though, because the boys all wanna fuck you, but then you get all girl-gooey and they go, "Oooh," because they thought you were gonna spank them. Duh, asshole.

When you're a bad girl, everyone does what you want. You have room to grow. Bad girls are kinder than good girls and they are better to other girls, mostly, unless said other girls are boy-pleasin' users who want a little bad girl spice rubbed off on 'em like so much perfume. Bad girls are also more spiritual and less prone to drug addiction, or, if they have it, when they quit they quit.

Bad girls know genius before the other dumb good girls do. They get the hot guys first 'cause they aren't looking for that big stamp of popularity approval. In Amadeus, Soliari says Mozart is ugly; the Soprano (a naughty bad girl) replies, "A woman of taste only thinks of genius." Bad girls love boy flesh that has an astronomical IQ.

Most bad girls are not as libidinous as good girls. Sex is intrigue, not looks; it's build-up and mind-warping.

Bad girls love like lions and kill those who fuck with their kin.

Good girls steal bad girls' boys. Bad girls fuck your boyfriends, yeah, but we feel shitty about it, sort of. You're there to take care of the dog, to have the BBQs. We're there to fly in to New York or L.A. or Paris and lock up in a four-star for three days while your boyfriend and us do things you'll never know about and he'd never dare do to you. We feel a little guilty.

Bad girls are "femmenistes;" we like our dark Nars lipstick and LaPerla panties, but we hate sexism, even if we do fuck your husbands/boyfriends. We understand men, we love them, us hetero/bi bad girls. We are not psycho bad girls; those are evil and in a class of their own. Maybe BUST will do an "evil girl" issue and then we can out them all. They are usually considered good girls by the community (e.g. Mary Lou Lord in her high quaky voice and "widdle gurl" act. How could she be capable of severing the head of a kitty and putting it on your front porch with a syringe in it's cornea? No, not that widdle good gurl!).

Bad girls will get obsessed if you dump us nasty, but instead of resorting to evil good girl tactics we will do things like: make your band open for us someday; send all your mail to a Der Wienerschnitzel in Watts; get a guitar for revenge; do genius comics and be a genius such as my favorite NYC bad girl, Dame Darcy, goddess supreme. We met on the one day I'd uttered her name in a foreign country. She is a bad girl; she's friends with Lisa Suckdog who has that great zine Rollerderby. Lisa tries to be a bad girl, crawlin' around nekkid and stuff, but I think she wasn't born with it. Hey, I could be totally wrong. Darby from Ben is Dead is a bad girl. She makes fun of me but bad girls do that to each other, unfortunately. Shouldn't we all be piling up on Juliana or something?

Cristina Martinez of Boss Hogg is a hot babe bad girl-some day she'll lose that Spencer guy and come into her own fabulousness. She's got a swinging bad girl Puerto Rican booty. Man, you don't wanna get on the wrong end of her rattail comb. See, bad girls get fucked up, like me or Cristina or Inger Lorre-she's a natural star and the baddest girl of us all. We just cannot cross the line from bad girl to evil girl, leave that for the...no point in naming names.

Alanis Morrisette just won a bunch of Grammys and she went to the Grammys. No bad girl would go to the Grammys.

Don't dump a bad girl 'cause one day you'll have to come back and grovel for something; watch it, man-hell hath no fury like a bad girl dumped ill.

Bad girls can deal with a little infidelity; good girls will leave you on "principle." Bad girls can be as classy as Jackie O., who was a bad girl, she just didn't think it was our business to know that. My sister Ms. Barrymore is a way bad girl. We are going to wear acid-wash to the Academy Awards. Of course bad girls go to the Academy Award parties-only if you get nominated are you busy.

Good girls live in a state of sulking or gloating, 'cause they are getting their butts kissed or having to kiss butt. But my friend-who's a good boy outside, but a very bad boy inside-told me that there's a middle state wherein, like if you go to the Academy Awards you are going out of your way to get your butt kissed, that's lame. We can be total media whores, but we can also be completely mysterious.

All bad girls in the NYC and LA areas have slept with other girls just because. Bad girls love like no one else. Bad girls swallow-it is sooo rude to spit, but don't do it the first time. I don't know why I think that, I just think the good girl part of the bad girl says they know you give good head, so make the worms wait.

If you're a single girl on the make, I suggest power. You have to work hard to acquire it, and no one will help you. You will gain many girl enemies. That's 'cause you eventually wind up playing the wife of a huge publisher-who is alive and happens to like you-in some big movie and all the lame-o's that work at his magazines you could have chopped but you won't 'cause BAD GIRLS DO NOT EVER ABUSE POWER once they have acquired it, except occasionally for sexual purposes only.

Bad girls do not fake orgasms, or they betray only themselves. Bad girls have bad boy boyfriends but mostly good boy boyfriends 'cause the sweet-faced angelboy is really horrid and Mr. Gnarly is a big wimp who wants to know what sweater to wear onstage tonight; blechhh!

Bad girls sometimes wimp out and call, though that's separating the wheat from the chaff; the men from the wimps. If you can't be friends with him forget it. If he doesn't know how to actually get you to shut the fuck up, it's not worth that much. Fuck the phone game; other games are way funner. I'm a loser at the phone game. If you want to be a femme fatale, go for it and never call back, tally up, etc. The good ones do not even get the phone game. It's hard to believe but true. Cat and mouse is for Elizabethans and Victorians.

Bad girls will always give you the shirt off their backs. Bad girls are vulgar, but we have the potential for total class. The rest is my business, not the NY Post's.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Dueling Blogs: Robyn + Jill Wear Their Easter Sunday Best and Totally Blog About It

If my bruised knees and scuffed up palms are any clue, you should know that yesterday was FANTASTIC. So fantastic, in fact, that Jill (whom some of you may know as Blowjoy) and I have decided to blog about it in chorus.

Let me tell you- the day did not start out so swell. My lint brush was magically gone from it's proper place in the powder room and I was forced to run to Dominick's and procure one, since Joan Holloway Dress had apparently mated with Mr. Catface in my closet since coming back from the dry cleaners. Still, I got my Sunday Best together in time to meet Jill at Cleo's at 12. We had a delicious matching brunch! Coffee, Mimosas, and French toast. Is French supposed to be capitalized in the case of fries and toast? I feel like it is, so I'm just going to go with it. Anyway, it was totally romantic, and Jill looked super hot in her bunny ears.

After our delicious brunch, we popped in the car and headed off downtown to go to see the matinee showing of Rent- which of course, was the crux upon which our day of fabulousness was built. Oh, but we had to stop back at her place beforehand because she could not locate the theatre (or downtown) without putting the address into her GPS. So I was all like "It's by Loehmann's!" and she was all "What's Loehmann's?" and I was all "Oh my god, we will go after the show and you will die." So yeah, anyway, we go to the theatre, and spend about an hour trying to find free parking which did not happen. (My body's talkin' to me, it says time for danger. Danger like walking into traffic. Which we did. Several times.)

Once there, I freaked Jill the fuck out with my in-depth knowledge of Rent and everything Broadway. By the way, you should know that this was my second time seeing it this week- god knows how many times total. It's a lot. I squealed often, and we cried a bunch- which was ok because she was all sorts of prepared with the Kleenex, and also I gave a five year old the finger for turning back and giving me the stink-eye when I squealed. Whatevs. I don't go and try and ruin her good time at Mary Poppins, do I? If one is old enough to see a show with a line like "There will always be women in rubber flirting with me!" (and ain't it the truth?), then one is old enough to get the finger for being a little snot.

(You down with OBC? Yeah you know me. Yes, I just wrote that, and I am lame times a thousand. This is Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal who originated the roles of Mark and Roger. I made the sexy eyes at Adam Pascal from the audience during the final bow, which I firmly believe he saw. He is probably in love with me now. I will invite you to the wedding.)

Then it was off to Loehmann's, but not before going to a Bank of America so's I could cash a check or three ("When you're at Bank of Amer-i-ca, standing in line for the ATM" was the song we sang and it was pretty special).

If you, like Miss Jill, have never been to Loehmann's, you have not yet lived. We tried on lots of dresses, and it was a lot like one of those makeover montages in the movies, except there was not as much fun, inspirational dance music and more "I feel like this dress makes me look like I might be Aunt Marilla" and unnecessary voiceovers about the store closing in an hour. Jill, I will not make fun of that seafoam green number again- I've put you through enough already.

Eventually, I purchased some hot ass blue grey shoes that sort of verge on stripper/drag queen, but that I think I can pull off, three pairs of ruffly bloomer-type underwear that will not look good under any sort of outerwear--- but they had PEARS on them, and also polka dots, and purple zebra print. How could I not? I love pears. In fact, I am going to go eat one now. Oh, and two bras, which amazingly were in my weird ass size and cost only 25 bucks. This never happens.

Oh! We also totally almost bought matching Ed Hardy Wellies so we could look like the Rock of Love girls, but in the rain. Ok, no we didn't. But we saw them, and they are things that exist.

We realized upon getting to the counter, that we if we were like, walking gay male stereotypes, we would have had the best date on EARTH, and would probably be in love by now.

(Gah! I know I'm forgetting things. It was all such a whirlwind.)

Then we decided that we should probably eat hamburgers and reflect on our awesome day, and that we should probably do so at a terrible place... like BOUNDARY. On Division. Because, as a rule, terrible places have better hamburgers than most of the places that we go to. On the way there I explained half the plot of Gone With the Wind, and why Melanie sucked at life. The hamburgers were delicious (and, like the brunch, were matching. Fiesta Burgers per deux! Jill totally ordered for me. She's such a gentleman.), and the dude in the camoflauge hoodie did not spoil my appetite like I thought he would.

I told Jill the charming story of the two dudes who collectively broke my other, way more expensive bra (on separate occasions, mind you), and she told me a charming story about mucous plugs and monkeys. There are apparently monkeys that. when they mate, the male shoots a mucous plug into the lady monkey after he ejaculates in her, which falls out after a couple days. And her friend had a job running about the jungle picking up said mucous plugs. And I complain about retail! Mucous plugs are on my list of reasons that I refuse to ever have a baby. That and the belly button popping out and the ladyjunk turning black. And the whole baby eating predigested food inside of me thing. And the pain. And my boobs getting even more out of control. And the fact that I flip off five year olds.

So, anyway, as we were walking out of the restaurant, she starts going on about "Stuff White People Like" and pointing out those things around us: "Scarves! Fancy Sandwiches! Expensive baby furniture!" and as we're walking to her car, I see the fancy baby furniture store, with a fancy baby chair, and I totally lose my shit giggling and going into a mind fog about the image in my head of a baby in a chair, smoking a pipe and asking someone to fetch his slippers... and I end up in a faceplant on the sidewalk. Because that's just how I roll.

Easter Sunday Best Indeed!

Monday, April 6, 2009

Confessional: The Fellas

I started working on this list the other day whilst on break at work. If nothing else, I find it entertaining and cathartic. It's basically a list of confessions regarding various dudes over the span of my life. I am sometimes an asshole, especially since many of these things apply to several instances.

  • It's not that I wanted to "wait" because I thought you were special. I just didn't want to sleep with you because your eyes were kind of yellowy and I thought you might have the hepetitis. It was either that or you were perhaps an albino. I was entirely unsure.
  • I'm sorry I told my girlfriends your shit was deformed, but really, you should not have gone around bragging.
  • I did not really have to go to church. In fact, I am an athiest.
  • I only dated you because you were so enthusiastic about me
  • I mostly dated you to spite a girl who hated me and had a crush on you- primarily because she told you to stay away from me because I'd like, crush your soul with my badness.
  • I'm sorry I acted like you were stupid.
  • I actually liked your friend.
  • I thought your writing was painfully cheesy. Like, nails on a chalkboard, total ladybonerkiller cheesy.
  • I didn't forgive you for something stupid because it was a good excuse to stop seeing you.
  • I thought your tattoo was absolutely moronic.
  • I went for the jugular because I needed a clean break.
  • The primary reason I was hanging out with you is because I was feeling lazy, and I was so out of your league that I didn't feel like I had to bother with make-up and such.
  • You used to be my "the one that got away," but now I am yours and I'm rather smug about it.
  • I did not invite you upstairs after our date because another dude was coming over.
  • Even though I still wake up every morning with your name on my lips, it's only force of habit now and doesn't mean anything.
  • I did not think you were all that funny.
  • I used to put the phone down while you were talking, make coffee, and then come back and pretend I was listening.
  • I am reasonably sure that you are still in love with me.
  • If I had not been a good friend to a bad friend, things might have been different
  • My mom said you looked like an unhealthy goat.
  • I met your girlfriend in the bathroom at a bar, and now understand why you are always grabbing at my ass. She was thoroughly unpleasant.
  • I did not go out with you again because you sent me a myspace message full of spelling errors and internet abbreviations, and I just couldn't find you attractive anymore after that.
  • It annoyed the crap out of me that you pretended to be like, totally hip to that whole feminist thing I got goin' on, when in fact you understood it less than any carfone I could name.
  • I only went out with you because I was pretty sure it would be a good story later.
  • I sincerely think you are the biggest coward I've ever met in my life.
  • I was not half as impressed with you as you imagined I was.
  • I tried so hard not to be shallow, but I failed. I'm sorry.
  • I told my friends that if I were to continue dating you, I'd have to convince you to dye your hair.
  • You were way too old for that shit.
  • I really, really liked you- you wore neat jackets and you memorized and recited my favorite poem to me in the original French, which was maybe the most amazing thing ever, but I couldn't date you because my friend liked you first and had asked me to help hook her up with you. I am probably a putz.
  • I partially started dating you because while I thought you were super dishy, I didn't think you were smart enough for me to get attached to or to figure out how to hurt me. I was wrong on all accounts.
  • I wasn't there that night. Not physically anyway. I didn't have the balls at the time, but my brain walked out in a huff for me.
  • It totally wasn't going to happen.
  • I guess the thing I was most offended by was your lack of taste. Because in case you didn't notice, I am awesome and hilarious and generally rather attractive, whereas whatsherface clearly sucked at life and had no style and brought nothing to the table except maybe being more of a mealy mouthed wimp and looking more like she had fetal alcohol syndrome than I do, if you think of that as a good thing. In what world, seriously? (Not that I'm bitter.)
  • I never expected any more from you than I would from my friends. Unfortunately for you, my friends are awesomely bad ass.
  • I wasn't Catholic, I wasn't a virgin, and I wasn't going to stay home and make you gravy all day. I don't know what made you think that, other than my ethnic make-up.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Happy 101st Birthday Bette Davis!

The waitress leaned over the table- "And what will you be having today, little girl?" I popped my eyes as wide as I could, announcing loudly "I think... I will have a large order of PROGNOSIS NEGATIVE!"

My mother rolled her eyes and said that, no, actually, I would be happy with the Little Red Riding Hood Spaghetti. I was probably about 7 when I started thinking this would be a fantastic thing to say every time my family took me out to dinner. It's something Bette Davis said in "Dark Victory," and I thought I was a terribly clever little girl, and I also thought that it was not long before I would be a glamorous movie star in my own right, hailed by all of America as the second coming of Ms. Davis.

In reality, I was a very strange, very friendless little girl. But, truth be told, I was so firmly convinced that everything that I was going through socially at school and such was "paying my dues" for my soon-to-be fame, that it never bothered me. The kids on the bus called me "Miss Hollywood." Swear to god.

Hers was the first death I cried over.

I idolized Bette Davis- my image of myself in my mind was not of a young, 7,8,9 year old girl, but of a sassy, sharp-toungued, tough-as-nails broad. For christmas one year I wanted a floor length white fur (which I would need when I walked the red carpet in winter). I swanned around the house in a long fake fur robe, pretending a plastic straw from McDonalds was a cigarette in a long holder. I focused on Davis not just because she was probably the greatest film actress ever, but because she was so tough, you know? She was someone who couldn't be fucked with.

I wanted desperately, viciously, passionately to be an actress. I wanted it more than anything in the world- and I probably would have managed to get in a lot more trouble were I not firmly convinced that people would come back later in my life and report all that trouble in tell-alls to the tabloids. This was back when that was a bad thing. I worked towards that goal, and nothing else in life, until I was 19 and suddenly realized that I'd lost all that drive to claw my way to top, to starve in waitressing jobs and schlep to auditions every day for a dream that just might not happen. And it didn't break my heart the way I thought it might. I was totally ok with it. I stopped acting and decided to find something else to do.

The fact was, I lost my passion for it because I didn't need it to get me through the day anymore. Theatre, and acting, and the thought of someday being Bette Davis were the things that got me through the most craptastic parts of my life unscathed- but by the time I was 19... I was ok. I didn't need to focus so hard on the future because the present wasn't all that bad. In fact it was pretty swell. The only problem was that I was horribly, terribly lost- because I'd never considered any other future at all. So, as we all know, I was completely lost and totally floundered for a number of years, went through 87,000 majors and plans and schemes, until I finally settled on writing. It's tough because I still haven't felt as insane, and unwaveringly sure about anything as I did when I was younger about the acting- but on the other hand, I'm glad I don't have to be.

I still like to get inordinately dressed up and watch Bette Davis movies by myself. I've seen every single one of them, and I've read all of her autobiographies multiple times. And sometimes I do still need to be tough as nails, and when I do, I channel her. It works for me.

Remember last night when I had an alligator on my head?

And it was supposed to be a grasshopper, but the I left the grasshopper I made out of construction paper in a cab on the way home from work, and I bought construction paper to make another one, but then I found an awesome squishy alligator at Walgreens, and I put that on my hat instead? Because I went to my friend's birthday party dressed as Helen Hunt in "Girls Just Want to Have Fun?" And then I went there, and there was another girl dressed as Janie (SJP), and we both totally had the most accurate costumes ever? I had leggings, and a tank top, and a ginormous yellow shirt with a hole cut in the back, and a beret with an alligator on top, fishnet gauntlets, my stripper boots, two different earrings, and let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that I was a motherfucking VISION.

And I'm still quite drunk. Also, I bit my toungue whilst doing a split and it still totally hurts.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Some quick things, varied and sundry. About Last Night edition

  • Had a lovely dinner last night with Jill, during which I had a delicious sandwich, and decided upon the three primary reasons for my being so keen on being single:
  1. I have no interest in telling people what to do. I cannot do it. Despite my gift for dispensing sage advice.
  2. I do not react well to anyone telling *me* what to do. In fact, it makes my face burn, and I will be compelled to do the opposite, even if it is a bad idea.
  3. I am terrified of being stalked again. Terrified. It's the worst feeling, and I don't want to go through that again. I feel like I bring out the Glenn Close in people, because they think I'm so strange that I must "understand" them. Which I don't.
  • On the way to the Burlington, I explained my distrust of and distaste for dudes raised in the Midwest. A) They've never been as good of a time compared to east coast and west coast fellas. B) They're too conflicted, ie: "You're awesome and smart and hilarious and the best time ever... but I feel like A BAD PERSON for liking you, because I should really be dating a NICE girl. Jill thinks I've just been around too many douchey midwestern dudes, and is convinced she can change my mind. I am not so sure.
  • Lessons passed on: Spencer [Pratt]-face is a clear sign of douchebaggery. Beware.
  • Oh, also, some dude at Schuba's said that I am "a girl who takes the most pride in being sarcastic." I informed him that I in fact take the most pride in my ability to walk a tightrope without a net.
  • Lessons learned: If I don't tell someone off who deserves it, and just let it be, my stomach shrivels up the next morning and I wake up with a bad, bad case of esprit d'escalier. It eats at my soul.

Ok, I'm already late for work. Going to the party tonight and have yet to assemble my entire Helen Hunt costume. Although am taking excessive pride in the fact that I am probably the first person to ever, ever dress up as Helen Hunt for any reason whatsoever. SCORE.