Tits or Terrorism?

Looks like New Year's might be spent watching "Der Baader Meinhof Komplex." Nothing like ringing in the New Year with a prestige cuvée and a little 1970s terrorism, while glamorous people elsewhere in the world fete with new boob jobs and Lady Gaga. A Plastic Surgeon in NYC is offering a $100,000 dollar Special, which features three tables for New Years Eve for concerts by Ms. Gaga and two barf heads (John Mayer and some other crooner). The package also includes round-trip first-class tickets from New York to Miami, a choice of Penthouses at 5-star hotels in South Beach for a month and new tits for the new year. Wow, the things one can achieve with new tits!

Will Trade Slag for Skirt

I gave myself until Jan 1 to be, what my good friend K. has so appropriately called a "slag." Then I have to undo the damage of doing too many sudoku on the couch while having the flu, imbibing eggnog with Brandy and moving my limbs only to change the occasional diaper. After all, a whole new decade of fashion beckons to be worn and I don't want to miss out on the new Versace skirt!

Nouveau Hipsters

As I sipped my latte at Chango's today, I felt glad that I'm no longer a hipster. The new generation of hipsters, if you can even call them that, just doesn't have it. In fact, they seem forced and retarded and really don't know how to dress, having grown up with too many Old Navy commercials. In fact, even Chango's isn't the same with its new paint job and selling coconut water. And the stupid-ass fixed gear bikes parked out front.

Brilliant Weight Loss Idea!

My Dad today had the following, never-before-heard-of, weight-loss suggestion: you simply eat fewer calories than your body needs. So, basically, you eat fewer calories every day than what your caloric needs are. And you can also eat foods with fewer calories. Wow! Amazing! Armed with this brilliant piece of advice, nothing stands between me and a Posh Spice body!

My Pretty

I finally gave in to my suspicion and flat out asked my parents if they have been treating me differently, or like me less, since I gained weight. My Dad said he had to put the tiramisu into the refrigerator and my Mom said: We still like you. It's just that you're less pretty now.

Blogs, Schmogs

I should have known better than to apply as a guest blogger for a mom site that writes about puppies and basketball and DRY Sodas, which came out like 4 years ago. Go on, stick with your mediocre shit. Your loss, not mine!

New Study: Moths Favor Burberry!

Speaking of Burberry. And not speaking of the so-called thing called Burberry that you see around the necks of Asian women of a certain age hiking in Griffith Park. I mean, real cute Burberry. Moths ate it. It's one thing to eat my H&M tops. But at Burberry I draw the line!

The Chocolate Truffle Disappears - alas not for good...

When I sauntered into work today, dressed up in red lipstick and a Burberry scarf, in anticipation of meeting ascot-sporting higher ups who had flown in from Paris, the chocolate truffle was not sitting at his desk. Instead, it was his colleague, the nice Mexican man with the moustache. Oh what relief not to have to avert my eyes and pretend I'm checking my stocks on the overhead projector TV thingie. But at 5pm, as I excited the elevator into the lobby, there sat Jabba the African Hutt with a wide grin on his toady face. I almost tripped. Then I simply walked on, fat and all.

Chill Out

You gotta chill out, says my Mom. You really are on edge. You're horrible to be around! Yeah, well, maybe it's because you're calling Milan's award-winning daycare "an old dump" and are furtively feeding him gummi bears before breakfast. I mean, I know that's what "normal" grandmas are supposed to do, feeding candy and shit, but we were brought up on sparkling mineral water, butter lettuce and sautéed liver! Come on!

Hot Toddy?

I'm not good at being sick, which I think I mentioned before. How can you write when every single hair on your head is crying out in pain? I almost passed out on top of M. when changing his diaper. Hence, his diaper tends to be pretty full this week. Need loads of Xanax to slow down the thoughts in my murky mind, which all whisper: swine flu. Bah-humbug. Just a little virus, which my good friend K. said a hot toddy would cure. Better, indeed, than M' hot teddy, which I've been clutching in fevered delirium.

Gag Reflex - Withheld

I'm a hypocrite. When the cute drummer sweetly said I still look sexy, even fat, and that he played on the album of Pete Yorn (who, by the way, was not kicked out of Footsies; that was yours truly) and Scarlett Jo., I didn't say: Really? Gag me with a spoon! I said: Oh, wow, that's cool.

Little House and the Hash Pipe

Laura Ingalls Wilder smoked hash according to a new bio. Or maybe she made hash? Or hash she imbibed mushrrrroooms from the prairie? So what.

Chinless?

You would think that you need a chin to become famous. A chin to be a man eater. A chin just to "chin-chin" with a Champagne cocktail. Not so with my latest obsession, Lady Idina Sackville. Come to think, did Zelda have a chin? Anaiis Nin?

Winking

I think I winked at someone at work yesterday. It was a total involuntary reflex. The weird thing is, I have never ever winked at anyone in my entire life before. I must have been possessed by Bettie Page. Or Dolly Parton. This is the same guy who just started wearing his wedding ring due to a bet. What the heck? But the winking incident and the fact that I did not think about the feckin chocolate truffle all week, is a good sign. The chocolate truffle has become the Invisible Man. But he's so dumb, he wouldn't know about black nationalism, Marxism, and the racial policies of Booker T. Washington.

Swingers

At the Wild Boar this week, X. said: remember we were here 3 years ago when it was the Chalet and your friends Y and Z wanted to "swing" with us? Oh, yes, I remember, I said. And Z owed me $500 for a Vegas trip. Still does. But the point is, X said, if you wanted to swing with "someone in a band," it would have to be Mick Jagger. Totally.

Secret Agent Top 10

I miss Svetlana. Doll, this is for you:

1. pomegranate seeds
2. the new Flaming Lips album
3. the fat flush
4. Lady Idina Sackville, also known as the "Bolter"
5. Edwardian decadence
6. Mad Men
7. anything Christmas
8. mom and dad
9. Milan's new Jimi T
10. Russian nutcrackers (not Russian dads with a fat fetish who have since moved back to the UK and their wife and kids and are finally out of my life!)

Jeggings

Things I won't wear this season: jeggings, 90s blazers, boyfriend anything, 6-inch heels, hairbands. Things I will wear: military jackets, cowl scarves, 80s gloves, anything purple.

Mantra: Say No to Jeggings if You Weigh > 140 lbs

Traffic School

Traffic School sucks. But at least I can blog in a blankie sipping espresso instead of sitting in a popcorn-ceilinged office swishing stale coffee in a styrofoam cup, aging ten years and listening to bad jokes. But it does suck, and I wonder if I've used up my good cop karma.

Lets Make Sexy?

Three people called me sexy this week. Unreal! Calling the pink elephant sexy! But they did: my husband, a guy at work I'm sure would love to see my Victoria's Secrets and a very cute drummer in a band. What gives, peeps?

Bon Mots

Certain words I'm just not 100 percent clear on, such as extradition, hemorrhoids, irony, people saying should of, bouchon and crepuscular. Does the latter really describe animals that are mostly active during twilight? Like most of LA's commuters? Or does it refer to a crusty old man with ingrown toe nails?

Happy Fucking What Holidays?

Season's Greetings, motherfuckers. Happy motherfucking holidays. What holidays? Christmas is a nono, being white supremacist voodoo. Kwanza then? A phony holiday made up in the 60s to make negroes feel integrated? Or Hanukkah, a real, deeply religious true celebration of the rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem? Then why oh why do we continue to decorate store windows with christmas wreaths and Santas and ho-ho-hos? But pretend the word Christmas doesn't exist, cause it might offend somebody. So seasons greetings to all your morons!

Holidays Owls

Every hipster Christmas tree needs owl ornaments. Really. The easiest way to show you're "with it." I just got some at Target. But better: http://www.inhabitots.com/2009/11/21/invite-stewart-the-owl-home-for-the-holidays/

Really Simple Syndication

It's easy to get left behind as a techno-dinosaur, being a thirty-something-something-something web editor. I'm still not clear on a .png and someone today asked me for an RSS or Really Simple Syndication. Yikes. I feel like my 85-year-old grandma trying to send an email.

Sexting

Sexting feels weird. Pornographic. And I am not a prude. But I cannot get myself to type "oh, baby, I want to stitch your sock. I want you to foam me so hard. Cower all over my pots."

Stalled Behaviour

I wonder if all people automatically head for the same bathroom stall at work, every time they need to pee. And I wonder if that stall, being the most visited, has the most cooties.

Trees Don't Poop

Best quote of the month. A. to M. this morning: Trees don't poop!

Hey! I'm Grateful, too!

A. and S. are ATHEISTS and therefore won't be eating the BODY of christ or drink his sacred BLOOD. Nor will they ask JESUS to save them and forgive them all of their sins. They will however, stand around a shrine of the Virgin de Guadelupe and do TEQUILA shots, and eat TAMALES and look earnest.

This Is Your Brain on Baked Goods

A. baked something not for general consumption yesterday. At one point he ate a chunk and reported he felt nothing, saying it's probably safe for me to have a little corner piece. Next thing I know I'm awake in an acid trip, my body turning into coils, which turn into maggots, which turn into snakes that I fold into a bouquet and beg my mom to kill by sticking them, head first, into a pot of boiling oil, searing their eyes. Then I swirled and twirled and almost became my bed until I had the will power to rise, surrounded by blind white eyes and the furtive steps of ghosts, to wake Abe and tell him to either call 911 or feed me a Xanax, stroke my back and not stop talking for a second, about beautiful things and love and peace. I fell asleep and today I'm walking on the egg shells of my self.

Holiday Artists

Nothing like getting out of a less-then-good-Thanksgiving slump than chatting over wine and the setting sun with David Hockney's best friends and artists and people married to or dating artists in general. Tis the season to be merry after all!

Hair

I got my hair cut today. And cut. And cut. And cut. At one point she said long hair is just pointless, because it just hangs there. Personally, she said, she really likes bobbed or short hair. And really, I would look much better, "fresher", with my hair, say, "to here." But "hair," I said "hair is a celebration of life, a love letter to freedom, and a passionate cry for hope and change!" Just kidding.

Fat on TV?

Butterball-size numbers on the scale require drastic measures such as applying for a reality TV show boot-camp make-over. Wish me luck, fellow size Ls! I Googled the host and she has a reputation. Good. Show no mercy. The inner pig will eat up the abuse while the toity leftie princess will quaff and quote human rights.

Fat Again

Sorry to say, I cannot keep the fat entries at bay. They just keep coming. Like last night at the show, when I split into two people: The one enjoying the band, hanging with good friends who like me despite being fat and seeing A. rock out. And the person who worried the whole time that certain persons in attendance were furiously whispering about how fat A's wife had gotten, soooo fat indeed that at first glance they stared at her with incomprehension, just a nanosecond, just long enough to make her realize what was going on.

Cashew

When the bouncer (I'm exaggerating; just a fat man in a baseball hat) asked us if we were on the guest list last night, I said, of course. I'm the singer's wife. Nah, he said. I only got Karma and Cashew. Excuse me? Enlightenment and Almond? Nah, just Karma and Cashew. Then he gave us a free stamp anyway.

Happiness is a Butter Dish

As I happily reported to Dr. S today, I woke up feeling happy. After seven days of almost total anhedonia, I feel like a normal human being ready to do stuff, such as exercise, by an onion and leeks, get shit done (see adventure in Glendale below) and not want to stab myself in the eye. Total figure of speech. Totally. Dr. S, also happily, in his South Indian accent, agreed that I seemed less "bummed out." I was startled by the colloquialism from this elegant, erudite and eloquent man, but I let it slip. Then he quoted in Hindi a yogi, who recommends not wasting your heart on the many, i.e. shallow, meaningless exchanges with lots of acquaintances, but lavishing your love on the few. Like the yellow butter dish from www.anthropologie.com. Alas, the yellow one is already sold out.

An App That Cures Idiocy!

Helpless, PPD-addled moms, your SOS has been heard. iPhone has a new app called The Cry Translator, which will interpret your baby’s wailing, i.e. interpreting whether the wee one is hungry, sleepy, stressed, annoyed or bored. Infants, of course, are so blasé and bogged down by the ennui of pooping, eating, sleeping and gurgling, that boredom is likely to come up a lot. And for the hungry child, the app has amazing suggestions such as “feed it!” How could I have managed without one?

The above image was "borrowed" from the amazing http://www.idiomsbykids.com/.

Don't Examine Your Tits

The feckin American "we drop you when you get sick" stealth-care system recommends postponing mammograms until your effin 50? And says self-exams are ineffective? What kind of backward, capitalist brainwash bullshit is this? But in the meantime, they lobby for the swine flu vaccine like the master drug pushers they are. Seriously, on Sid, the Science Kid, a PBS kid TV show I loathe beyond words, they devoted a whole segment on the frigging H1/N1. But mama's tits. That's another story.

I Heart My Child, and His Teacher Does, Too

When I picked up M. from daycare yesterday, and looked for the sheet in the folder about how his day went and how often he pooped, I noticed that there was a little heart on the 'i' in his name. That made me happy. And really, not everyone has an 'i' in his/her name for a little heart.

Deliverance, in Glendale

I like Glendale. I like it, because its scowling Armenians remind me of the folks back at home. And because you see real-life old people, unlike in W. Hollywood, Silver Lake, Echo Park and Mt. Washington, where everyone is either on a reality TV show, trying to get on a reality TV show, or an aging hipster couple with a two-year-old. But today, in the middle of Glendale, I walked into a scene from "Deliverance." Well, not quite. But the white couple running the store was definitely missing a few light bulbs, teeth and senior high school classes. It was awesome. The walls were covered with tacky award plaques for things like winning the sissy race. The only thing missing was a singing fish!

Le Pauvre

As I passed the chocolate truffle eating a huge sandwich this morning, and regaling him with my smuggest smile, I felt sorry for him. After all, in his insipid way, he was only trying to make small talk. The fact that the small talk had to be about my body weight, however, and this repeatedly, cannot be forgiven. Once the furies have been unleashed, there's no reining them in.

Requiem for a Dream

I briefly considered ordering Sensa, but A. gave me a crazy finger-wagging lecture about ephedrine. Shit. He said we might end up with a clean house, though.

Mom and Pop

Gwen Stefani said having kids is the hardest thing she's ever done. And that with all the baby nurses and nannies and personal chefs and work-out trainers and whatever it takes to run the show called "having and rearing a child". And I always thought that money would make things so much easier. But it cannot buy you a guilt-free mind, a clear conscience and a Zen-like approach to impending dangers. You will always worry about flu shots and autism and horrible accidents, even if you're a multimillionairess.

Gandhi's Pen

I love fountain pens. And I've always wanted a Montblanc Pen. They've always been too expensive and I forget to request one for my birthday. Now, for the 140th anniversary of the birth of Mahatma Gandhi, Montblanc has released the Mahatma Gandhi Limited Edition 241 pen, which is 18K gold and shows Gandhi on the salt march of July 1930. It costs $23,000. That puts things in perspective again. A lot of things actually.

1. consumering is disgusting and Gandhi would be horrified
2. my wanting of things is the symptom of emptiness
3. if I had that pen I could finish a Pulitzer winning novel

Gandhi himself wrote with pencils, wearing them down to a stub to illustrate that everything should be used to its fullest extent.

Baby Needs New Shoes; Mama, Too!

Luxe shoe designer du jour Christian Louboutin, in collaboration with champagne house Piper-Heidsieck, has released Le Rituel Crystal Shoe Flute. It celebrates the gallant French custom of gentlemen callers drinking from a woman’s shoe, the ultimate declaration of aristocratic love. Who needs a 5 ½ inch Slovenian crystal stiletto for drinking champagne? Foot fetishists of course! And speaking of Christians, there was a doomed day earlier this year, when I almost bought a pair of Christian Audigier shoes at Nordstrom. Barf. Gag. What came over me? Thankfully, the beastly urge was averted in favor of flower-print Wellies.

Who's Gonna S(h)ave Me?

When I was going for walk with my good friend "..." this morning, I noticed that her legs were shaved. You might think, duh, of course. Well, the thing is, on any given morning, this mama bear's legs might not be shaved. Sorry, I know this falls under TMI.

The People for the People. Not.

Forty percent of the members of Congress are millionaires, according to a new study. And we're not talking a million or two, but like 250 million. I'm so glad we, the people, are represented so well by folks who know all about comparing the prices for organic milk, postponing getting the brakes on one's car fixed and buying paper towels in bulk at Costco. Not even to mention people without health care, a job or a roof over their head.

What Wall?

Today, on November 9, we are all Berliners as celebrations take place around the world to commemorate the historic anniversary of the falling of the Berlin Wall. Except for me. And most Germans. I guess I'm one of the peeps an NPR correspondent referred to this morning when he said other countries seem to care more than Germany itself. And the event spokesperson said, well, yeah, Germans have moved on with their lives.

White Picket Fence

I just realized that our house has a white picket fence. Uh-oh. Unconsciously I knew, of course, but just now, after a tall nonfat latte, the ramifications hit me.

According to Wikipedia: a "picket fence, ideally white, is seen by some as a symbol of the ideal middle-class suburban life, with a family, children, large house and peaceful living. This stems from the fact that houses in quiet, middle-class neighborhoods often have a picket fence around the garden.[1] In recent years, some people have associated picket fences with what they regard as the more negative aspects of this lifestyle. For example, the director David Lynch uses ironic images of the picket fence in his 1986 film Blue Velvet."

Boyrettes

Nope, they are not a horrible new boy band but the cutest little Barrettes for boys with skulls, dinosaurs and spiders. Of course, they only work if your little man doesn't have the so LA au courant Mexican buzz cut. Oops. Was that inappropriate profiling? http://boyrettes.com/

Pixie Envy

Facebook sucks. Because there you can see which if your friends attended the LA Pixies concert, which you did not.

Damn Internet

Googled myself again because my Mom Googled me and, almost in tears, read about my "fatalistic death wish" in wikimedia and I tried to delete the damn thing. F$%^#ing Google. I will kill you till you die from it!

Bouchon

Me hates it that I got invited to the opening of Bouchon, "The French Laundry" of Beverly Hills, to rub elbows with my favorite chef and mingle with the creme de la creme of LA, but you know, I gotta pick up M. from daycare and stuff.