sorry doesn't cut it

I've been avoiding even looking at le blog, chuntress. I feel guilty. I've even begun to avoid checking my email. I'm ashamed.

I was once so good at responding to email and blogging...what's happening to me? I haven't even posted a dlisted quote. Times are hards, kids. Ok not really. I've just been busy. And before I go any further, I hate when people tell me they're too busy. I think it's rude. On one level I can understand it, but on the other hand it's a bit offensive when someone brushes you off with the "I'm busy." You all can hate me. I hate me today.

So I had date #2 with Nick. I still like him. I appreciate his attitude--it's refreshing. I told him I was reading and like a considerate fellow he brought a book over for himself in the event that I wanted to continue reading. Uh before you go and label him a sap (because I know how you readers work), I must tell you that he makes decisions and commits to them. In fact, he makes executive decisions. If he's not up for something, he's very forthcoming with his opinions. Ahhh my kind of guy. None of this crazy banker maddness. We had dinner at EOS and shared a wonderful dessert. Need I say more?

In other exciting news, work is still great and I have a cocktail get together with a former leg model. I'm interested to see how this goes. Speed dating is this Wednesday and like the sorry liar that I'm turning into, I'm not going. Stop judging me! I have someone coming to look at my apartment. Yes the day is almost upon us....you know what I'm talking about.

This is a stream of consciousness post and I'm really over it. I'm not into things lacking structure or having a focus. So expect more posts soon, but thank me for allowing you to taste a morsel of ridiculosity.

six minute man

A few months back, le chuntress signed up for speed dating, but once I saw what it would cost me I gave it the finger and vowed to never talk about such garbage again. Well, I'm a liar. Sort of. I received an update email from the speed dating service and with minor hesitation, I opened it. Shame. Times must be rough because I'm actually entertaining the idea of speed dating again. As a disclaimer, however, I'm not doing it to find Mr. Right, Mr. Right Now, Mr. Wright, Mr. Come Sleep in my bed and I'll see if I like you tomorrow, I'm doing it for the pure joy that is blogging. I would definitely consider my adventures in speed dating to be blog-worthy! Don't you?

So "Cupid" dating events (as they are called) begin next month and I'm going to sign up. They pair patrons by age group and each date lasts for 6 minutes (perfect). My group--Professional Women ages 25-29 will be paired with Professional Men ages 30-36 (or something like that). My kind of date. I love oldies!!! So begins a really exciting series of blogs. I'll be sure to keep you posted. But I want your feedback...this may be my craziest venture yet.

sunday psychosis

It's an odd Sunday. I have undoubtly spent my Sunday engaging in what some might label as odd behavior. It is now 2:10pm and I am still in my pajamas. I have cleaned my bathroom, washed every (all 4) dish in the sink, polished my bedroom floor, dusted the entire apartment, swept the hallway and living room and tended to went laundry. I have also successfully read half of the May issue of Vogue, drank two cups of coffee, arranged my underwear drawer (by color and style), and posted one complete (and fairly lenghty) blog entry. I attribute all of my cleaning and organization (there is always more to be done) to my wanting to feel in control. I believe I've touched on this issue in the past. By cleaning, arranging, colorizing, organizing and completing things I feel in control.

I spent the first two hours of the morning looking out of the bay window in the living room (with my coffee & Vogue) and listening to Edith Piaf on le pod. During those moments when I wasn't sipping or reading I was romanticizing thoughts of living somewhere else or just being somewhere else at that moment. I've been doing that a lot lately. Perhaps it's because I have no job so I'm left with a lot of time to entertain potentially lethal thoughts. This is probaby indicative of some sort of change heading my way. A lot of people told me not to expect some great moment where everything comes to me. I consider myself a realist for the most part and I'm not one to wait for "the next big thing." But I guess I can argue that something feels different here. And I think some big thought is brewing in my brain (I just don't know what it is yet). I only wonder when this does happen will I have to tear down my apartment building then rebuild it in order to gain control of all the change?

worthy investment (banker)...

I'm on a roll. And this could be in conjunction with the fact that I will (as of Friday) be unemployed and I have to do something to pass the time. So blog number three today. It's all about a new "character." His name, "the Banker*." He's new on the scene. Actually that's a lie (I'm good at telling those). I met him back in February during a night of self-procured cocktails (red bull vodka)...ouch.

So we've had four date nights. Some friends have been candid about letting me know that the Banker and I are "dating." I say we've been on dates. This is not to say that I am opposed to dating, I just don't think we are officially dating yet because we haven't done either of the following:

a) had a Friday or Saturday night sleepover which turns into Saturday or Sunday morning paper/Vogue/coffee outing
b) run an errand together, i.e. grocery shop together, car wash, pick-up dry cleaning

Basically when we get coffee together we're an item. HA! I should be careful about what I say in the event that he either, someday reads this (because we fall madly in love and I divulge my guilty passion for blogging) or does a background search and finds that I have a meaningless blog that entertains those who don't talk to me about my life's craziness everyday.

So all that to say this...he seems interested...very interested. And I'm really beginning to take to it. I called him last night...HE HAS YET TO RETURN MY CALL. I fear the usual, he's lost interest (or he's on a business trip).

*I'm obsessed with the fact that he's an investment banker as I've been dying to date one since I was 18.

canoodling?

Ok it's no secret that I am an avid reading of some p.o.s blog called, dlisted. Puh-lease who am I kidding, dlisted is number one of my list! That said Michael K. is always so good about posting celeb happenings, more specifically their love lives. Whenever I read a post about a new couple I get grossed out and annoyed. Why do I continue to read that which makes me sick? Because a "source" always describes a new couple as "canoodling."

WTF? What is a "canoodle?" It makes me think of Annie's Bunny Pasta. The Chedder flavor. Yum. But really how many times have a read, "a source says the two were seen 'canoodling' at the club. They were holding hands, locking lips, and everything. They certainly weren't shy about whatever is going on between them." WHAT? Canoodle...chickencanoodle soup...canoodles with red sauce. I think I hate, no, I know I hate this word. If I'm not thinking of dish of carbs and simple sugar, I imagine two idiots in the back of some club rubbing noses. EW.

Do you have any thoughts on the "canoodle?" It's making me sick. I'm going to play a game for the remainder of the week and count how many times I see a gossip post which uses the forbidden word...gasp!

closet confidential

HA...

It's no secret that I like to fill up my closet with items that I'll wear once or just never wear at all (this sounds more pretentious than it really is...everyone does it). So I will go and shop to my heart's content, bring home new purchases only to admire them or save them for special ocassions that never come to pass. All of my obsession with new clothing got me to thinking about "going out tops."

Let me start by saying, I loathe that terminology. Hmmm..."go-ing-out-tops." I hear this so much when I'm out shopping. Ladies vere off on their own mission then return to their shopping buddy, who is on the same mission, and engage in a conversation that sounds somewhat like this:

shopper a: Oh my god...isn't this cute? Oh my god, it's not even that expensive. So worth it. You know, you can never have enough GOING OUT TOPS!
shopper b: Totally..
shopper a: Because, seriously, I get so tired of spending a lot of money on GOING OUT TOPS. I just want like enough to last me for awhile.
shopper b: I know exactly what you mean...I go through the same thing alllll theeee tiiiime
shopper a: I just need like one GOING OUT TOP for tonight--something really cute and sexy, but not slutty, you know?

These conversations can last forever it sometimes seems. I mindlessly thumb through racks--not paying attention to what I'm picking up--and listen to these sort of girls. After a while I begin to make faces, roll my eyes, mumble under my breath and think "why...why...why must this broad keep saying GOING OUT TOPS?" I try desperately not to let this crap pharse slip from my lips. It just sounds so ridiculous. And really, what is a going out top? I usually think of some in a visually offensive color--bright green, hot pink, colbat blue, gold. But sometimes they are black. And often, a GOING OUT TOP is adorned with some cheap garb meant to boost the calibur of the top and make it seem much more exciting than it is--things like: glitter, rhinestones, metallic threading, beads, fancy ties. And you'll find a GOING OUT TOP in the as a halter cut, tube top (ugh), deep-v tank top, off-the-shoulder top and --my favorite--the neckline that plunges down to the belly button (sick).

I will not lie, I have "evening tops," but none of the above and I don't go out with friends shopping for GOING OUT TOPS--which I am beginning to believe is code for "I'm looking for a cheaply made top, perhaps something that will make my breasts look bigger, in a bright color. Something that will attract a sleeze ball, get me a few free drinks and radiate on my myspace page when I post my new photos on Sunday." oh GOING OUT TOP...

dlisted quote of yesterday

"Honestly, I'd rather stick a curling iron up my ass, turn it on, and open it than hit that."

--Michael K

Yeah, it's sick, but scathlingly hilarious.

a girl with her head cut off

This is the second Monday that I have managed to have lunch with the illustrious Laura of "blaurasblog." I like her. I have blogged about her in the past which makes her somewhat of a celebrity in my mini blog world--she will be mentioned again this week. So we had a lunch of leftovers (we also shared dinner last night w/ her fiance, David) and managed to get in some important conversation. All girls love to talk about their weight, right? Not really, but we managed to get on that topic after talking about baby weight. I told Laura that from here on out, I will be calculating my weight minus my head. The human head can weight ten pounds or more, so why figure it into your total number? It's not like it's fat or muscle...I say don't count it. Thanks to Laura I now have a new answer when people ask my weight:

"Well, without my head I weigh 115 pounds."

pump it...louda!

Ewww I was lying in the bed this morning and I could hear my heartbeat...it really freaked me out, because it was so loud.

I hate age.

I'm going to address my issue with age later, but for now I'm trying to figure out how to get my heart to stop beating (hee hee).

the hardest person on your list

I haven't blogged for some time now, and the last time I did blog, it wasn't happy.

I also haven't done one ounce of Christmas shopping. My list isn't long,
so I'm not worried. But I got to thinking--some people have very long
lists, other's have lists that include pets, and then there are those
who put their drug dealer on their "to buy for" list. Now there's a
question you don't hear everyday, "what should I get my drug dealer for
Christmas?"

I've really been thinking about this--not because I
have a dealer--but because I'm obsessed with what type of gift one
would give the guy who makes you happiest all year round. What would a drug dealer like to see under their Christmas tree? Maybe a new pair of socks? I bet they get cold feet from nervous transactions. How about nice scarf? Maybe you could get him a magazine subscription, although I doubt that would work as I'm sure he doesn't live in one place for too long. Do you think drug dealers wear pajamas? Isn't this perplexing? My vote is yes. It's not like you can give this guy an 8 ball, 8 ounces of pot, or 8 tabs of e...sheesh. These are a mobile group of people, household items would never do. I bet we'd be surprised to find out that dealers would love to haveporcelain tea cups, a nice bottle of wine, or a book (they read a lot from what i hear).

So I don't think it's people with bratty children who want PS3's, Bratz Dollz, or legos that have it hard. It's people who have drug dealers that have the hardest time shopping! What are you getting your dealer? I think just letting you know you appreciate him would be more than enough. He doesn't hear that often!!!

get on your knees and get to work

I'm thinking about getting a cleaning lady. Ralph told me to "Go find a Mexican," to which I responded with uncontroable laughter. I think having a cleaning lady will make me feel rich and more in control.

If you don't already know it, I have serious control issues. I'm like the Barbie (in black, of course) who comes complete with territorial issues, a voicebox that complains when you pull my string (or just say something I don't like), caffiene dependency, opposable thumbs, and a bag full of accessories.

Cleaning ladies are good. I think any way. I once had someone say to me that they weren't comfortable with getting a pedi because they felt like it was weird and some superiority issues could come into play That makes me wonder how some people feel about having a cleaning lady. Sure, cleaning is a task you can do yourself, but why not have someone else do it. If she's making money than clearly it isn't that much of a burden. Because we all know there are a lot of ways to make money and cleaning house doesn't have to be one of them. I don't care what anyone else thinks...I want my baseboards cleaned and I don't want to do it. After five days of commuting and working, the last thing I want to do is pull out soap and water to start scrubbing the walls in my dust ridden apartment (we get dust from the street--I live on a busy one). A clean house means I'm in control of something and I love being in control because when I'm not in control of things, I begin behaving strangely. Well more accuratley I get bitchy. And I hate being a bitch.

world peace: one fucking email at a time

Forwarded emails generally make their way to my "trash" without even a glimpse. You'll never catch me responding to a chain letter and you can pretty much forget about me adding my name to a "Save the (fill in the blank)" campaign.

Since last Saturday I have discovered a few of those listless emails in my gmail box. UGH. A friend has sent emails on the following:

-clubbing of baby seals
-stopping AIDS via email
-subscribing to a poverty site

Obviously, the sender isn't practicing cognizant behavior because most individuals with a computer or access to email have seen such web material and realize that it is pointless. These things crowd one's inbox, annoy, and result in nothing but cyber space clutter. I really don't think AIDS will be eradicated through msn, Myspace isn't going to be the sole savior of brutalized baby seals, and a blogspot will have no effect on the homeless. Most of us (or at least I hope) realize that the only way to begin to create change is by implementing programs and being active participant's--not enjoying palatial lifestyles with infused vodka cocktails hitting a send button from our laptops.

The web is a passive tool. It allows us to feel in touch with reality, but we aren't. The Internet distorts truths, it is indirect, and allows us say what we want without having to deal with real repercussions in real time. I think it's a great tool for research, artwork, shopping, expression, etc., but it's also harmful. We get further and further away from true life when closer to the web.

I can guarantee that we're not bring out world peace one email at a time. Instead we're pissing more people off, which seems to me, counterproductive. Active behavior resonates much more than passiveness--ya'll.

feelings, nothing more than...

I feel like pudding.

No, I do not wish to eat pudding, but rather I am likening my being to that of pudding.

Today, I'm suffering from a mild case of insanity.

i want to be more famous than the internet--jessica simpson

Not sure if you had a chance to check out Jessica Simpson's new (very lame) video for her new (very lame) song, Public Affair. Ok I'm kind of into the song, but not the video *click here to view*.
The only thing wise in the video was Jessica flashing Eva Longoria a toothy grin, pushing out her pouty red lips and saying, "I want to be more famous than the internet."

I've decided that I can not only agree that that is a fine desire, but an attainable one as well. I'm sure it is much easier for J. Simp. to become more famous than the net, but I'm still going to give it a try. Many people say that fame doesn't bring happiness, and I'm sure they're accurate in saying so, but it sure does have it's advantages. One day you're an average person driving to work, the next day you're not so average and you're not driving to work, but being driven to Chateau Marmont for your Vanity Fair interview (which will take place in the garden as you swig Riesling). I still haven't figured out how I'm going to get famous. But I will make it happen somehow. I don't need to match up to J. Simp, Hohan, Shitney (in her heyday), or J.Lo's celebrity, I just need a slight dose of fame where only those in the know will know me. I'm certainly not interested in being photographed and finding that photo on Perezhilton or even worse defamed on Dlisted, but I'm interested in having a name people remember and contributing to a cause that people remember. I'm interested in goodie bags from big events, I'm interested in afternoon lunches followed by pool lounging, I'm interested in a mail box overflowing with invites, weekend trips to resorts, and I'm interested in all of the freebees.

I'm sure fame must be exhausting and frustrating at times. But like anything it comes with a pricetag. Do think they (fame makers) take Mastercard?

that's my robe

In honor of Friday, it's only right that I grace you with a trip into this crazy head of mine. I babysat last night and once I had the girls down I called Amanda. Suddenly I was stricken by the thought of wearing someone else's bathroom. I burst into giggles as I said, "Wouldn't it be weird if Sara came home and I was sitting on the couch wearing her bathrobe?" Amanda, who was in a saucy mood, tried to ignore me, but responded with a very unaffected, "uhh yeah." I could tell she didn't want to talk, so we hung up.

But once I tip-toed into our quiet apartment around 10:45, I saw the soft beige light streaming from the cracks of Amanda's door. I decided to revisit this topic of bathrobe. Sadly, however, I erupted into an almost uncontrollable stream of laughter (I had tears ya'll) once I begin speaking. I envisioned the face of the bathrobe owner. Just think, you get home from dinner and you find the individual you left to watch your children sitting on your couch, casually donned in your bathrobe. How weird is that? And then when that person leaves, what do they do, say, "hang on, I need to put my clothes back on"? So, is the person who owns the robe supposed to act like nothing is wrong with this picture? This freak-o was sitting in your house pretty much naked. No wait, naked under your bathrobe... Weird, weird, weird, but insanely funny.

Now I must tell you, as funny and as unrealistic as this sounds, I've seen it happen. During my psychotic NYE weekend, my partner in crime (who will go unnamed to protect his pristine reputation), another crime partner, and myself spent some time indulging at W's den. We were all shocked when Partner A emerged from W's bathroom, wearing W's BATHROBE (and I have no doubt that he was naked underneath)! It was so awkward, that we just began laughing.
I was mortified, because I was really into W at the time. And in retrospect I'd say my mortification was warranted, as wearing someone's bathrobe is getting awful close to wearing someone's skivvies, in my book.

I feel like the bathrobe is very personal. The only time it isn't is in a hotel, but even then you can still obtain that intense feeling of ownership. At least I do. But that could be because I want to own everything and in turn rule the world.

then who's robin?

Today I've decided to touch on something that I haven't addressed for some time now--sexual encounters.

Imagine you are hoping to seduce this (who you think at the time) hot guy. You've both had a long day at work, followed by dinner, some decent conversation, and a few glasses of wine. And while you know you shouldn't, you invite him into your apartment. You chat a bit more trying to remain cool and collected, when inside you just want this fool to stop talking and take off his clothes. Then it happens that odd moment where you want to kiss him, and he wants to kiss you, but you don't want to seem like a tramp by making the first move. And almost to perfection, you simultaneously move in for the kill (kiss). It begins with innocence, but soon turns into the opposite. Before you know it you're straddling this "hot" guy, he's grabbing you in places that aren't for random grabbing, and you're saying things that you hope no one ever hears. Everyone is really into this by now, so you remove your top and your pants standing sheepishly in your skivvies. Then he fixes his vision, runs his tongues across his bottome lip, flashes you and intense grin and says, "Holy woo-ly Batman."

At the time you ignore this and engage in some of the best sex you will EVER have. However, it becomes routine to pre-coital activity. You continue to ignore it. Yet, six months later (now that the stint is very much over), a close friend brings it up (constantly) and you begin to think, "Holy woo-ly Batman"? What the hell is that? Who says that before sex, who says that during seduction..."Holy woo-ly Batman?" Who says that period?

Maybe he was into role play, and was hoping you wouldn't mind donning a cape and some sexy black boots? Or maybe the sex was so great that you didn't mind letting Batman, Robin, or even the Joker join in? You decide.

eurf-quakes & oatmeal

At 5:24am I was gently rocked awake by a 4.7 earthquake. I get nervous at night and often feeling like I am falling in my sleep, however that wasn't the case today. After realizing what had just occurred, two thoughts clouded my brain--oatmeal and the fact that I had no desire to drive on the Bay Bridge today. I pondered other methods for getting to work which included: driving north and taking the Golden Gate (because only voluntary death happens there), then somehow managing to get east (which would entail my taking the Vallejo plank-of-a-bridge). Or I could go south and take the San Mateo bridge. I decided this was poposterous and there was no way to avoid taking a bridge.

I got back to those thoughts of oatmeal. I didn't have time for breakfast today because was more concerned with scrubbing last night's dishes. So, I arrived to work very hungry for flaxseed oatmeal. Still no avail--I think I should make this my dinner so in the event of another earthquake I'll have full stomach...not that that matters. Don't they always say oatmeal sticks to your stomach. Well that's just gross, although reassuring. Perhaps I was going through some psychological thing where I rationalized eating oatmeal during earthquakes help bridges to stay in tact. Just think if everyone on the bridge had a stomach full of oatmeal, the bridge would stay up because out of shock of being on the BB during a 7.5 would cause people to vomit their oatmeal and then the bridge would remain from all of the stick.

I'm hysterically laughing right now...

...this is bat country

I'm really not loaded with things to say today. Although it seems bleak weather is in my future. I'm sure my desert soiree will still go over well, but without as much sunshine (vitamin C) as I would have liked. I know that I will at least have the chance to play "paparazzi" for two days, go out for a Vogue-like black & white photo shoot and get all of my stress carefully kneaded out of my shoulders!

Now, I'm sure you are wondering about this "paparazzi" thing. Well it's quite fun...I once asked Arty if she had played. To my dismay she said no, but seemed intrigued by it's potential joys. Paparazzi is a game that I and "the peanut gallery" (R &S) like to play. It involves dressing like your favorite celeb, running from the camera's demon flash, holding up your hand to the lens, imitating celeb poses and giving the beloved pouty lip. Yes, I'm probably too old to be doing things like this, but somehow my girlishness (or just down right ridiculouness) take over my body when I'm with "the peanut gallery."

S has managed to pack her entire closet. She gave me the run down last night via AIM: a few pairs of shorts, a few pairs of pants, a skirt, 2 dresses, a couple of tops, 2 swimsuits, a tunic, a juicy suit, scarves, headbands, cosmetics, jewelry, capri cargos, p.j's, panties, 1 sweatshirt, 1 coat, some hats and 6 pairs of shoes. Yes...I thought the same thing. Is she moving to Palm Springs? Whatever the case, it only adds to my exciting tale of our desert adventure. I'm hoping to come back with some great photos of old people and a tacky sweatshirt that I can turn into a haute mess!

I have a plane to catch.

P.S. I LOVE YOU!