I knew that if I wished hard enough this day would come. Britney Spears is finally on the right track, bidding K-Federjerk "popozao," a slvete figure, and donning a sassy new cut she is back to her old ways. I think everyone is going to forget about her whitetrash ways in about 3 months. Everyone will love her again. And Ralph & I will be spending our last pennies to see her perform in Vegas--this you can count on. How long must we wait for the full circle of our #2 Pop Icon???
(did i really just blog about this...as Amanda would say, "you [candace] are very lame")
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Showing posts with label ralph. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ralph. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, September 25, 2006
16 drinks, 2 port-a-potties & 1 naked leatherfest later
It's Monday. I've begun many-an-entry such as that, but mostly out of detest. Today it's out of exhaustion. I filled my weekend with goodies--the kind that come in bottles, glasses, flutes, and cans.
Errrgg I'm really tired today....
So on Friday Ralph came up, which is always fun, but unlike past visits where we spent our days rifling through the racks of H&M, movie going, or skipping through Union Square until we have shopping headaches, we took in the weekend's festivities and drank ourselves silly. Friday was dinner at Medjool with Arty followed by a round of shots and about 5 additional drinks (per person) at Elbo Room. I'm really glad I've stopped drinking fru fru drinks (for the most part anyway), it's so much easier to order Campari--everyone has it and you can't screw it up! We had such fun. I was even asked if I wanted to go motorcycle riding sometime this week. The guy--cute, but he was about 5'2 and that doesn't work with me. Then he confessed to be an "LD" (yeah I didn't know what that meant either). Well it means "learning disabled" and when I offered up my number, I also I had to task of entering my name into his phone. I never have a dull moment at Elbo Room. So for three crazy kids who didn't want the evening to end, last call was more upsetting than usual, so back to Arty's for champs--the result? Vomitfest '06. I'm such a hard parting rock star (hee hee).
Saturday came and after waking up in Arty's flat at 2:00pm we decided to make the day happen , but take it easy. Shopping was the plan. Little did Ralph know, shopping on Saturday in Union Square is severely frustrating. We caught the first bus available and met a "friend" of mine at Civic Center for the Love Parade. It was my first time hanging out with this guy (the friend) and my first Love Parade--what fun it was. After 4 beers, 8 techno beat buses, a hash brownie, and ganja cake I couldn't stop feelin the party. We met up with the the friend (who is now dubbed "Southern Hottie") after dinner (more beer please) and partied until 3am. I managed to make out with Southern Hottie on the corner of Pacific and Van Ness--this one's a keeper...
Sunday was nothing but bare butts at Folsom. I didn't want to go but Ralph made me. Luckily I ran into one of my favorite groups of people--Jenny, Aaron and Tim (i just love them). This made Folsom a lot easier to ingest (in addition to those two really good margaritas). It felt unsanitary and I know someone caught ringworm. I saw enough penis to last me a lifetime (who am I kidding), enough ugly boobs to realize that maybe plastic surgery isn't as bad as I thought, and enough hairy butts, backs and balls to consider stock in Nads home waxing kit.
All in all I had a great weekend. I'm tired now, but I partied, I boozed, I had a few nice meals, I finally met Southern Hottie and made-out with him, and I used two port-a-potties in one weekend. Happy Autumn!!!
Errrgg I'm really tired today....
So on Friday Ralph came up, which is always fun, but unlike past visits where we spent our days rifling through the racks of H&M, movie going, or skipping through Union Square until we have shopping headaches, we took in the weekend's festivities and drank ourselves silly. Friday was dinner at Medjool with Arty followed by a round of shots and about 5 additional drinks (per person) at Elbo Room. I'm really glad I've stopped drinking fru fru drinks (for the most part anyway), it's so much easier to order Campari--everyone has it and you can't screw it up! We had such fun. I was even asked if I wanted to go motorcycle riding sometime this week. The guy--cute, but he was about 5'2 and that doesn't work with me. Then he confessed to be an "LD" (yeah I didn't know what that meant either). Well it means "learning disabled" and when I offered up my number, I also I had to task of entering my name into his phone. I never have a dull moment at Elbo Room. So for three crazy kids who didn't want the evening to end, last call was more upsetting than usual, so back to Arty's for champs--the result? Vomitfest '06. I'm such a hard parting rock star (hee hee).
Saturday came and after waking up in Arty's flat at 2:00pm we decided to make the day happen , but take it easy. Shopping was the plan. Little did Ralph know, shopping on Saturday in Union Square is severely frustrating. We caught the first bus available and met a "friend" of mine at Civic Center for the Love Parade. It was my first time hanging out with this guy (the friend) and my first Love Parade--what fun it was. After 4 beers, 8 techno beat buses, a hash brownie, and ganja cake I couldn't stop feelin the party. We met up with the the friend (who is now dubbed "Southern Hottie") after dinner (more beer please) and partied until 3am. I managed to make out with Southern Hottie on the corner of Pacific and Van Ness--this one's a keeper...
Sunday was nothing but bare butts at Folsom. I didn't want to go but Ralph made me. Luckily I ran into one of my favorite groups of people--Jenny, Aaron and Tim (i just love them). This made Folsom a lot easier to ingest (in addition to those two really good margaritas). It felt unsanitary and I know someone caught ringworm. I saw enough penis to last me a lifetime (who am I kidding), enough ugly boobs to realize that maybe plastic surgery isn't as bad as I thought, and enough hairy butts, backs and balls to consider stock in Nads home waxing kit.
All in all I had a great weekend. I'm tired now, but I partied, I boozed, I had a few nice meals, I finally met Southern Hottie and made-out with him, and I used two port-a-potties in one weekend. Happy Autumn!!!
Friday, July 14, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, May 26, 2006
vadge, the queen of slop
Well it's been over a month (and I thought I was treating my blog bad last time). I've decided to get back to basics and ressurect le blog.
Things are going well. I've officially recognized that I am resistant to growing up, I want my afternoons back so I can do young starlet things--drink from "The Bean," morph into a girl who gags (ladies who lunch), shop uncontrolably, and go see new releases at 2:30--and I've realized that I should lay off the sauce (old men).
I'm at work physically (new job going well), but mentally I'm in my closet, because my dream of dancing with Madonna in a leotard may come true tomorrow. While I've been pinching pennies for the last two weeks (it's so bad that I can't even afford toilet paper) to pay for a $250 floor seat at the MGM Grand to see Madge drop it like it's hot (and at her age it's a wonder if she can bring it back up) I think it might, might be worth it.
I'm horribly annoyed by her L.A. show reviews. Apparently she up to her old tricks--hanging from crosses (so done, so Like A Prayer), whipping some sassy gay ass in S&M riding gear, and requesting no air conditioning in the venue. I'm so annoyed by her person. I just feel like her attempts to shock don't work anymore. I think she shocked us all when she put on that fug dress and starting hawking that p.o.s book about roses (wth that accent of course). She's nuts. I've also heard that she is steady pushing her political agenda, flashing photos of George W. and Hitler during "I love New York." Hmmm she's charges $250 for a seat to watch her perform and then has the audacity to be political? Hypocrisy at its best, I say. Stephanie asked if I'm so annoyed why am I going? I responded, "She still kicks balls, it's Madonna--Vadge, the Queen of Slop"
Things are going well. I've officially recognized that I am resistant to growing up, I want my afternoons back so I can do young starlet things--drink from "The Bean," morph into a girl who gags (ladies who lunch), shop uncontrolably, and go see new releases at 2:30--and I've realized that I should lay off the sauce (old men).
I'm at work physically (new job going well), but mentally I'm in my closet, because my dream of dancing with Madonna in a leotard may come true tomorrow. While I've been pinching pennies for the last two weeks (it's so bad that I can't even afford toilet paper) to pay for a $250 floor seat at the MGM Grand to see Madge drop it like it's hot (and at her age it's a wonder if she can bring it back up) I think it might, might be worth it.
I'm horribly annoyed by her L.A. show reviews. Apparently she up to her old tricks--hanging from crosses (so done, so Like A Prayer), whipping some sassy gay ass in S&M riding gear, and requesting no air conditioning in the venue. I'm so annoyed by her person. I just feel like her attempts to shock don't work anymore. I think she shocked us all when she put on that fug dress and starting hawking that p.o.s book about roses (wth that accent of course). She's nuts. I've also heard that she is steady pushing her political agenda, flashing photos of George W. and Hitler during "I love New York." Hmmm she's charges $250 for a seat to watch her perform and then has the audacity to be political? Hypocrisy at its best, I say. Stephanie asked if I'm so annoyed why am I going? I responded, "She still kicks balls, it's Madonna--Vadge, the Queen of Slop"
Thursday, March 30, 2006
...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!
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!
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