in search of

I took at trip to the SF MoMa yesterday evening. Not long after moving to San Francisco, I realized it was one of my favorite things to do. While I am an artist by no means, the MoMA is still a very inspirational place for me. It's personal, calming, and everything I need to feel grounded again.

I was accompanied by Nicholas. I usually don't like going to museums with people, because it can spoil the sacredness of the experience, but this was quite different. Nicholas really knows his stuff. And I found it freshened the visit having someone actually explain the purpose or school thought behind some of those more abstract pieces. Nicholas also introduced me to Joseph Cornell---who is my new favorite. I'm thoroughly intrigued by his boxes. "Pink Castle," captivated. I also managed to rekindle my fondness for Yves Klein. I love "International Klein Blue."

I'm thinking about spending more time learning about modern art. I initially didn't have much of a liking for it. I thought it too abstract and lacking artisticness, because oftentimes modern art is subtle or seems simplisctic (like I could do that at home, simplistic), but when one understands the madness behind it, it really adds a layer to it's intricateness. I want to go back to the MoMA soon. Jill has suggested that if I like art I ought to go to NY--I agree. She's suggessted that I go to New York and devote the weekend to "museum hoping." It sounds splendid!

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?

bring on the red and white stripes, waldo

By way of Amanda's blog I discovered this really fun quiz. Though I'm generally not a fan of this sort of thing, I couldn't resist sealing my fate. Bonne idee, oui!

You Belong in Paris

Stylish and a little sassy, you were meant for Paris. The art, the fashion, the wine, the men! Whether you're enjoying the cafe life or a beautiful park... You'll love living in the most chic place on earth.

What City Do You Belong In?

plugged into the disconnect: Lebanon today

It's been brought to my attention that my blog is oftentimes repetitve, so in light of that comment/judgement, I'm taking a different route today.

The gossip has been awfully weak as of late. My guess is that I read it so much that it's losing its potency. So today I made my way over to the BBC news page. I usually don't read much news (although I should); however de temps un temps I'll pick up a copy of the Economist or spend my lunch browsing the New York Times, but it hardly stems past that. I had an infectious yearning for real news on this "toxic tuesday," and this is what I found:

Lebanon condemns Israel 'madness' (click here)

Lebanon evacuation gathers pace (click here)

I knew things were going on the other side of the world. But today I actually began to think about it, and try to place myself in that situation. The thought of living in constant fear and chaos was alarming. I've never experienced things like that (bombings, shootings, panic) and I'm sure you haven't either. We live a very sheltered and calm life for the most part.

I saw a photo on the cover of the Times (about 5 individuals were gathered against a stone wall screaming and crying) that left me feeling guilty. I sit in front of my computer everyday gawking over what LaLohan wears, who's dating whom, what's hot and what's not. And while I have no intention to give up the gossip (it's fun and light-hearted, but I will read it less), I think I need to keep reminding myself that in the grand scheme of things someone carrying last season's Balenciaga bag doesn't amount to much when people are uprooted from their homes, leave behind their families, go to work and wonder whether their bus will be bombed today is a real issue.

Sometimes watching the news doesn't make war real. Sometimes reading the paper doesn't make it real. Even photos of explosions don't always convey the realism of terror and uproar. But I've found that the stories and faces of the people in the midst of the situation makes it more real than I could ever imagine. It also makes my own selffish come to the fore front in a way that I'm not prepared to deal with. So, as I sit here plugged into my computer, with my lunch from Whole Foods and my cell phone buzzing Michael Jackson and my ipod (whose battery is slowing dying) plugged into my ears, I'm still feeling horribly disconnected.

bringing sexy back....

in the form of dessert.

So in the past month or so, I realized why my love life isn't flourishing--I don't care enough about it. I'm busy right now learning French, mastering my tennis game, liking my work, drinking Campari, wearing skinny jeans, and figuring out how life will materalize once Amanda is gone (sniff sniff). I'm only interested in giving hot guys my number, prentending they'll call, and then being completely over it 2 hours later. Also, I've realized that if a girl really wants to bring sexy back, she's needs to find her solace in the spoonful.

Now, I'm not condoning over eating or over indulging, that is so 2001 (when metabolisms were slower and lipo/personal trainers were cheaper). But what am in condoning is falling in love with your dessert. Here are a few reasons why creme brulee, chocolate mousse, & even jello pudding will bring your sexy back much better and quicker than a shirtless, hairy-chest guy ever could:

1. dessert doesn't judge
2. dessert is loyal, faithful, honest, and true
3. dessert listens
4. dessert will love you when no one else does

So with dessert in moderation, a drawer full of lacy panties, Johnny Depp movies, and a box of q-tips (Amanda and I have decided there is a sex organ in the ear) you'll get your sexy back so quick you won't be able to find your sexy front (translation fake sexy).

*eww that was so bad that I'm cringing
**inspiration from this blog hails from Amanda's genuis during an gmail chat conversation. The list of reasons why dessert is better than a man come from her.

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.

It's a Monday. I feel those three words speak volumes to my mood this morning. It seems not amount of coffee is working, I'm not stimulated by the gossip, and I'm having incessant thoughts of crawling into my bed--and staying there until tomorrow. If anyone could see my face right now, they would notice me suffering for a case of "wonky eye." Sad, but true. I'm exhausted.

The following would probably help my cause:

a) an amusing phone call
b) an eight hour break
c) another day off
d) disco
e) le pod
f) Lindsay Lohan walking through the door
g) an all expense paid trip to Paris
h) someone calling and telling me that I had to move to la la land right now
i) a new haircut
j) Amanda telling me she's not going to move out
k) if it were pre-fourth of july weekend again
l) a call from that HAUTE bartender I met on friday
m) 5:00pm
n) being a work in my jammies


OMG, ok I"m being ridiculous. I need to get to work. If you have any ideas on how I can wake up please post. Happy Monday!

happy potato salad of july

Sadly, I haven't been keeping a documented diary of my trip like I had hoped, but that would probably bore the pants off of you anyway. Althought, I am here to give updates. I didn't purchase Bitter is the New Black, instead I opted for Capote's Summer Crossings (his first novel). Also, on Sunday I made my way north to the Santa Monica shore and spent a day with Chris. We hung out at the beach, enjoyed lunch, and an evening of t.v. movies. I had lots of fun (despite his odd disposition I think Chris did too) and almost cried when I returned to Riverside on Monday afternoon.

In other news, it's the fourth of July!!! This is my favorite holiday--I love the food, the weather, the ambiance, everything. However, it's 12:03 and I still don't have solid plans. Oh well, as long as I'm sufficed with a hot dog, potato salad, and a evening of glittering sky I'm happy.

Today is also my brother's birthday. He's 13 today. I can't believe that ten years ago my mom and I welcomed a new memeber to our duet. And while I didn't actually meet him until July 5th, I predicted his "independence day" birth. I remember him a good sized baby 8lbs, 1 oz. with a head full of dark hair and large goofy eyes. The doctors thought perhaps he was cross eyed, but it turns out he had more skin on his left eye (he's fine now). Whatever the case, he was such a treat. When he would cry in his play pen I would dutifully bring him popsicles, crank up radio, put on one of my dance costumes, and entertain him with sisterly delight. Now he's thirteen and before I know it he'll be eighteen. It almost brings a tear to my eye (which I'm always good for) to think about that. He's not a sweet as he was ten years ago. In fact, he's moody, gets tense easily, and his body doesn't respond well to hot cheetos, but he'll grow out of this I'm sure. I look forward to our finally coming together and creating a bond. It's difficult with ten years in between us, and in all honesty, I don't believe that we'll create that bond for at least another five years. I can deal with that. So for now, Happy Birthday Joseph--may your new Xbox be everything you hoped for and may your potato salad be lumpy!

day 1, june 30 (all present tense narrative)

[sitting in Oakland airport, waiting to follow the Southwest herd]
I'm kind of sad that I packed everything but my book (She Comes to Stay). Well, I guess I can begin something new. I think I want a read so light that I have to hold it with all my might in order to keep it from floating off into the distance.

Bitter is the New Black-- could be the winner. I found this title while perusing Amazon at work this week (yes, it was work related). However, I'm sure I'll arrive at the bookseller only to wind up seduced by something more literary, more esteemed, and written avec precaution de plume, but I kind of hope that doesn't happen. Since plunging into the world of publishing, I feel allowed to read anything. In a way, promiscuous reading is necessary. Besides light reads are best when judgement free!

[4:00pm sitting at Ontario airport, wating to be picked up]
Clearly, my flight has landed, my baggage has been claimed, and now the weekend shall commence.

The air is considerably dry, despite rampant reports of humidity. This makes me even more eager to get to the poolside & sip a frozen cocktail. In 30 minutes I expect my phone to begin the incesant ringing sequence. But again, I have little interest in telephone communication. Whatever weekend plans are made over the course of the next 2 hours surely won't compare to my favorite activity--sauntering through the airport in celebrity fashion--the thrill is over

tag, i'm it

I've been tagged by Amanda to, "name 10 of life's simple pleasures that you enjoy the most." So, here goes:

1. an evening at the ballet
2. clean sheets
3. learning French
4. morning coffee chats that spill into the afternoon
5. a good book
6. day light savings
7. citizen cake for cheering up
8. the smell of gardenias and honeysuckle
9. pebble beaches
10. sunday brunch

*I really wanted to mention how much I love adding to my card collection, but the number was 10 not 11.

Now as instructed, I must pick ten people (or less to do the same).

I tag: Nicholas, Paul, Hannah, Artemis, Christina & Ralph...(and anyone else reading this)

baggage claim

I've just finished packing for my weekend "get away." It's not much of a get away, but another one of my listless trips down south. It seems that lately I have had some trouble with packing. What was once my favorite part of trip preparation, I now dread.

I've packed the essentials: bras, panties, p.j.'s, tolietries--shorts, a few tops, and some dresses, and sandals. I've also packed an option for going out, accessories, heels, jeans. And despite what I see in the mirror, I mustered up the courage to pick a swimsuit and my big floppy hat. When I placed those two items in my bag, I sort of wished that's all I was bringing. I would have loved to fill a carry-on canvas bag with tunics, swimsuits, sunscreen, a dress, the essentials, a floppy hat, my journal and two good books.

It's not news that whats in your bag sort of determines where you are headed. But I think if my bag included the latter (and just that), I'd be in for a much more relaxed weekend. I guess this isn't much about what's in my bag, but my hopes that my weekend is not an on-going party, or 4 days of get togethers. I really hate that. Then I come back just as I left, tense. So here's hoping that by startegically placing the swimsuit, tunic, and floppy hat into my bag, I've won favor with the get away gods and I can enjoy a few days at their altar of nothingness.

how to begin a sentence

I did a little self-exploration today. I've noticed a few things about myself that are a little strange.

1. I begin more than half of my sentences with "I hate..."
2. I excessivly use the phrase "Oh My God..."
3. I'm not a people person--I get pissed easily

My goal is to tally how many times in one day I think or verbalize my hatred for someone or something. Today, I'm going to guess that I began at least (very least) 20 sentences with "I hate..." (I hate the I.E., I hate him (Byran Boy, Perez, Tom Cruise, W), I hate her I hate traffic, I hate when...the list goes on). Most of the time this expression of my hatred doesn't really capture my feelings toward that person, thing, or situation. Instead it's a convenient word and until something better comes along I figure I should use it to convey frustration and/or dislike. I don't think I really hate the things I claim to hate. I just like saying, "I hate..." Hey, I'm honoest.

removing me--belly button saga

There comes a time in a girl's life where she must bid farewell to her old ways--whatever they may be. In light of nearing my mid-twenties, I have given up making dates and not following through, driving fast, staying up late, over compensation, and as of Sunday, I gave up my belly button ring.

This was a notable accomplishment. I've been wanting to pluck that piece of metal from my body for about a year, but clung tight to it's symbolisms of freedom, rebelion, sexual liberation/prowess and the fact that it enlongated my belly button, which, in turn made me feel thinner. I was pierced on my 18th birthday with Ralph by my side muttering some nonesense about soroities and how when I went off to college, I should join one. In an instant and a painful breaking of my skin I stood up to find a barbell curved in what was eighteen years prior my lifeline.

I was proud for having gone through with the whole experience. I paraded around campus the following day eager to show off my new jewlery (as well as my flat stomach). I managed to only get infected once and rarely did my ring catch on clothes. However, at twenty-three I feel like I need to let go. That ring no longer symbolizes freedom, rebelion, or sexual liberation at all. Rather it represents that last year of high school, rebelion that I'm not longer interested in, a show, being eighteen and all the things that I no longer am. I certainly grappled with letting go. But I'm learning that's central to my character. I have a hard time letting go of things that make up my former person.

I took out the ring and now it sits on my dresser in two pieces. I wonder if the aligned holes in my stomach will close. Perhaps they won't, which is fine. It can symbolize personal growth and moving on. There are better things when you remove the garbage from the past...you may find that you simply have a belly button.

je m'appelle est bon vendredi

Yeah, Yeah, so my name isn't good Friday, but that's what it's turning out to be. I had no earthquake to wake me, but I did have the soothing taste of Peets to permeate on mine palate, I was a little early to work, the gossip was good and the Senior VP came up to me personally to thank me for doing such a great job. He says he's only heard good things. Which is great to know because I was afraid my ass was grass from all of my blog reading.

My French class is spectacular. I love saying the number 15, it sounds like Caaaaannnnzzz. Now I see why the French feel superior to Americans, their langue (language) is much more sexy as are their dishes, their designers, their history, their landmarks, their coffee, but not their men. French men still creep me out. They're comical but so not sexy. I still haven't decided which men I love best--oh wait I did really like that French Candian, but they aren't REALLY French.

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...

not a chameleon

Whenever I finish a book I get this sad feeling. Over the weekend I completed a book of short stories, Capote's Music for Chameleons. It was fantastic...the man is truly a literary genius. I furiously turned the pages anxious to see what sort of adroitness lie on the subsequent page. As of late, I've had a difficult time completing books--Amanda puts me up to a book finishing challenge everytime I begin something new. I'm a little dissappointed in my inability to read the way I once did, but I guess that comes with life changes.

I was down to four pages, but I couldn't finish the book due to a burning desire to go through and mark all of his ingenuity. My favorite line, "...she sounded the way bananas taste." I don't know why, but that line resonated within. Granted anyone could say it, however the attempt to wrap my mind around the juxtaposition of sound and taste was great. Two completely different senses, made to be synonomus shows just how fabulous Truman really was. Also, he addresses the issue of conversation, and how one can question the whole notion of whether conversation truly exists in a stunning dialouge with himself (or his alter ego). He discusses his dealings with Marilyn Monoroe (whom I don't have much affection for) with the same charm and affection he disscusses an inmate at San Quentin (participant in the Manson Family).

I've now begun Simone de Beauvoir's She's Comes To Stay.