Hate It in a Non-Hate-y Kind of Way

I haaaaate Lucky magazine in a non-hatey, kind-of-lovey kind of way: business suitiness. Need we say more? It's at once incredibly playful and at the same time utterly stupid in a Lucky magazine-y kind-y way.

Merry at the Marriott

Palm Springs is for desert foxes, golfers and gay bikers. Not for this mamasita. Especially when holed up at the JW Marriott in 108 degrees without a mojito or an air conditioned suite to escape to. Yes, the enire "city" (collections of resorts, a Ralphs and a Starbucks) was without electricity during half of our stay, which is a REALLY LONG TIME. Complete claustrophobia. Nothing like being stuck in the desert without espresso. And sparkling water. And an A/C. Other hotel guests (said desert foxes) seemed unfaced, concerned as they were showing off their perfectly sculpted and starved bodies in the "drunks pool" and at the bar, where you could still get a Corona---only if you showed ID when looking under the age of 38! Unreal. Strict Marriott policy, which is idiotic because the day before they did not care and did not ask for IDs, so they are being inconsistent motherfuckers. And may I add "inconsiderate," being that it's feckin 100 plus in the shade and my toenails are curling themselves to a crispy frie.

Intern X. Strikes Again

J: do you have blood on your hands?
Me: I didn't cut very deep.
J: ouch
Me: What is your problem with me having a problem with the fact that X. (let's call him Forest) is utterly incompetent? His hearing aid is not affecting his brain!
J: maybe he's a genius?
Me: like Stephen feckin Hawking? (editor's note: whom I adore)
J: no handicap jokes!

We agree to disagree.

Killing an Intern

Standing at the door with a gun in my hand, staring at his ear, staring at the... crapped out page, which intern X. ruined. Problem is, intern X. has a hearing aid and thus I am not allowed to fire him, because that would be against the disability act or whatever. So we have conversations like:

Me: This is an image; therefore it cannot be an h1.
He: uh-huh.
Five minutes later.
He: this strikes me as an image!
Me: choking sounds

we try again.

Me: Can you give me three book covers 400 pixels wide?
He: J. Sylvie wants me to give her three book covers. How many pixels wide?
J: ask Sylvie
He: how many pixels wide?
Me: still 400
he: uh. ok

I get three book covers that are 400 pixels tall.

So?

Ah shit. I started a blog with the word "so." So it has begun. So, the decline. So, Lord shed thy grace on me. So, now what?

Plastic Posse

I haven't cared about anything enough to want to write about it in two months. And then I see SJP and her pussy posse on buses and billboards around town, airbrushed to look like tweens. How offensive? Is this what it takes to get 30- and 40-something women to see a shite, guaranteed-straight-to-DVD, fluff-and-fold movie? Touching up those three hags (plus cool Samantha) beyond recognition with plastic faces and plastic-smooth limbs and not even a 19-something fine line in sight? I'm deeply offended as a woman that in this country we are not allowed to age. Not even a bit. Even vintage Barbies look older!

Logan Aqua Freedom Brush

This must be SPAM, given that the press release was not only written in ALL CAPS but also in bold, two major no-no's in PR writing 101. But here it goes: Lindsey Logan's Mom has released a toothbrush, the so-called LOHAN FREEDOM BRUSH. The person who wrote this SPAM is a genius, because I actually clicked on the mail piece and opened it, probably downloading oodles of destructive viruses. But I couldn't resist the siren call of the train wreck called La Lohan.

Chanel for Sheneneh

There's really no point in looking me up and down witha sneer in the elevator when you carry a huge screamingly fake Chanel bag and have ginormous acrylic nails with black tips and giant white Chanel logos. It doesn't say you're money, well-traveled and sophisticated. It says you grew up poor, that you really really like Chanel but can't afford it. And likely have a smallish brain. Coco would have turned in her grave. So who's the sad bitch, white girl? Heidi Montag fan or something? Truth is, I'm oddly jealous. I think I need to go vomit.

Gay-Out

My wonderful workplace is a website called XYZ$%#. Don't want to get them in trouble.

Quote of the week: "I'm a raging homo and I've never heard if it."


Uhm...

That sure means a lot to us.

I shot...

Hi, my name is Kim.
Hi, Tammy, nice to meet you!
No, Kim!

What's your name?
Royce Hall.
Really? Hahah.

Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Akshad.
Hi, like Akshad?
No, like that song: I shot the sheriff.
Oh, like Ashat.
No, A-s-h-a-f!!!
Oh, sorry.

The other night at Haute.

Naked Lunch

I don't kerr if you donnt vant soda vith yourrr lunch. It meks no diffrrrenz to me. So you vant it or naht? Says the Middle Eastern (or Armenian?) lady in the diner downstairs who thinks I lost my baby. One day I will strangle her. But as they asked of Abdul Mutallab who recently wanted to blow up a plane: are these merely jihad-style fantasies or actual plans?

The Gap

Once upon a time, there was Lauren Hutton of the gap. Now it's 2010 and every model in every major campaign in Vogue has a gap between her front teeth. Now, I need to preface this by saying that by own teeth are far from perfect. But what gives? It makes them look even younger and actually dumber in a Russian mail order bride kind of way.

Girl, You're So Beautiful...

Anonymous girl in the office building: You have to be really careful when you have really yellow hair and a really bad fake-and-bake tan and on top of it a squeaky Minnie Mouse voice. People might think you're a genius or something! Or a Ritz cracker.

Penis Pants

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves (or so we've heard), while others wear their cocks on their pants and thus wear out their welcome at my party. Who is this Isabel Mastache designer anyway, and why can't she design a nice pair of Dockers?

The Face of America

nuff said

In short(s): I live in an ivory tower, bitch!

I don't know what to make of this. Dr. S. is retired and only seeing select patients on Tuesdays, which means he's seeing like 16 people max. And he always led me to believe, or so he said, that not only do we have a special, mutually fulfilling relationship, but that he was fascinated by my particular case in particular, it being a rare semi-psychotic yet totally mundane phenomenon. In short: he made me feel like I belonged to a small elite of super patients, worthy of his Punjabi wisdom, cultivated by not just Yale but many a stay in an ashram (over the past ten years he's regularly escape back to India). I hate to say "in shorts" twice, but yes, in shorts: Dr. S is my guru. So, imagine my horror, when I saw two of his other patients this past Tuesday, two fellow tribesmen of the fellowship of the SSRI. Patient A. trots out of his office, barely lifting his feet off the ground, tattooed from head to toe and wearing a jean jacket that could use some severe laundering. Then bursts in Patient 2, slamming the door and answering her cell: 'Why You Callin' Talkin' Stupid?' Hangs up. Phone rings again: 'Yo, don't be fuckin callin me like that, fool.' I'm just living in my ivory tower (ivory towers are a little racist, I know, but Patient A is white, and obviously, Dr. S is brown and my husband is heavily tattooed, so eat that!), but I really feel kinda weird now.

Sword Play

The doped-up Spanish lawyer hit my car. The security guy saw it, though. But what really sucks that I'm going to have to visit him in his office with his torero swords and bullfighting posters and actually try to talk to him. He who spends his days in the parking lot smoking and hitting on all the pretty editorial assistants. He, who on top of his natural lisp now slurs his words. All three of us tried to sniff alcohol on him on Friday, when he barged into a meeting and anounced: "I hit your car." But it's probably pain killers.

Do You Live Under a Rock?

The editors (if you can call them that) of Yelp.com are jealous dweebs. Their latest newsletter starts with "Unless you've been hiding under a rock (or in Eagle Rock), you've probably heard the buzz that..." I don't live in Eagle Rock but pretty close to it, and while it has a certain mainstream blandness, it's still better than the fascist hell hole Silver Lake has become and the hipper-than-thou Echo Park, with its million dollars home, large homeless population and nouveau riche hipsters. The editors of Yelp.com probably live in Silver Lake, get their coffee at Intelligentsia and read Perez. Or worse, they live in Hollywood and watch "The Hills." As everyone knows, Mt. Washington is where the new and old artist elite and true intelligentsia are residing. There, or in Highland Park. Both are pretty close to Eagle Rock.

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!

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/.