Oxymorons & Hangovers

Celebrating, writing & complaining

  The texts & calls, champagne & egg sandwich breakfast, time with fam and cards in the mail added up to a super Mother's Day. It rocked and my frenz&fam rock for making me feel special.

Me Ma’s super secret surprise was awesome field level seats at the Dodger game on Sunday. We took my little sister and my Babycake McSugarbritches and saw thirteen innings that eventually led to a loss, but it was a damn good game. I yelled myself hoarse when in the extra innings, the Giants scored and Casey Blake came back with the sole homerun of the game to re-tie. ‘Twas very exciting, indeed.

The pic is me and my gorgeous baby sis.

I haven’t been expelling as much drivel at O & H lately because in my free time I started writing fiction again. I am not programmed to do this, as I cannot see a plot to its end unless of course, its end is a crappy, untimely death, and then I will definitely see it through and cry all the damn way. The one thing I did finish in recent years was such shit that had an overall after-school special vibe that I loathed. I still shared it with some folks, hoping for some encouragement or the kind of constructive criticism that doesn’t sting and the only thing that I honestly remember was when, by word of mouth, someone who got off on making me feel like a talent-less shrew told me that their friend said it made him sick. He’s an asshole anyway, but I still refrained from trying for a while.

Though I doubt I’ll finish, the fact that over two weeks has passed and I’m still working out characters and sub plots excitedly makes me really happy. Not like accomplished-happy. Just like, if I’m going to tell people my only passion is the written word, then maybe I should live up to it, even if it is in the privacy of my own PC and all that. Also, eighteen pages and 54,000 word count, BOOYAH.

Kiddo and I went to the beach for a bit on Saturday morning. We had a quick picnic on our towels and when Kiddo tried to narrate our doings, she said, “We’re having a bitch pic—“ and then looked at me like the earth was about to open and swallow her whole, a la Land Before Time, at my command. I said, “Beach picnic. Yep, we are.” Her relief could be felt in middle America.

I sent this little convo to her dad via text, and later, when she was hit by a wave and yelled at the ocean, “What is the meaning of this?!” I sent him that too. He said, “And then she told the Pacific to ‘stop being a picnic. I mean, a bitch.’”

At some point during our tide battling, my septum ring fell out and washed out to sea, I assume. I decided I’m okay with this and will leave it out since it seems my friends and family disagree with my choice in that specific facial piercing anyway, and all I ever hear is that I should get rid of it and re-pierce the side. Majority wins and I am defeated.

Saturday night saw Ree and I at a very small venue not far from our house, taking Captain Morgan shots and waiting for a group of friends to arrive. We met up and got our tickets to go inside. My friend Becky was friends with an opener that night, who was surprisingly good, but it was still totally awkward for me, as this was a rap/hip hop show and Method Man was headlining. I tried to compare the frenzy and excitement the two hundred people or so had to see him with how I would feel about a band/musician I loved but the vibe was lost entirely on me. I try not to be the one to write off a genre, having opened up a lot to underground hip hop and even some catchy, crappy pop (but if the words ‘poker face’ are uttered in my presence ONE MORE TIME I will use deadly force to apprehend the utterer) but I am just not much of a rap fan and never will be. This doesn’t change the fact that the night was a lot of fun but the crowd and overall feel of the place was not for me.

Plus I couldn’t catch a buzz to save my life. I probably would have become a persuaded woman under the influence but there was no such luck.

Oh my god, textsfromlastnight.com is fucking hilarious. (805): she lunged for my junk like it was the cure for swine flu.
Thank you, Jamie!

-Pretty Lush

PS. Art sale over at ShanaLogic. Cute overload, my god.

Non-personal personal

I stopped for coffee last weekend with Ree. I think every person should have her exact reaction to everything they sip from. Just as soon as she tasted her caramel Frappacino, she said with much conviction, ‘OH FUCK YEAH.’ How could hearing that NOT make your day better?

After much back and forth, Coachella did eventually come to light, if only for Saturday. I was sad to miss The Cure and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs on Sunday, but I took what I could get and embraced the best fucking part of the year. Unfortunately most of the day was spent waiting in line. Waiting to check in to our tiny Palm Springs Motel 6, waiting longer to get into the Empire Polo Fields with thousands of our closest friends, waiting in bouncy anticipation for each band to start, waiting over two hours to get out of the parking lot, waiting over forty-five minutes in the only open drive-thru at three a.m. for a greasy taco dinner, where we met a very interesting individual on a curly fry quest. Somehow it was all still incredible, with the help of a fucking incredible set by Travis Barker and DJ AM, where we danced and gathered the sweat of the dozens around us, and MIA who performed a surprisingly entertaining set (not surprising that she’s entertaining – surprising that I enjoyed it so thoroughly when I would have sworn I wouldn’t be interested in her sound), and Atmosphere, who simply tickled me into a blushing, gleeful child. Aside from excitement and eagerness for hearing one of my favorite groups, I was so HAPPY to see them. Crowded among all the kids sneaking marijuana and smoking cigarettes too close to my mouth, nothing could have possibly interfered with my mood. And that is a rare event, when no matter what happens nothing has the ability to curb my overwhelming bliss.

I originally started writing Oxymorons & Hangovers because I was a fiend to write regularly but fiction completely eludes my plot-lacking brain and the only poetry I can conjure is that of an emo child. While I do style the side bangs sometimes, I don’t wear them across my eyes completely and thus would never fit in with that crowd. At least as far as poetry goes. I think I have the doom and gloom down pat. But as I would loathe seeing any of my characteristics or flaws or shenanigans detailed by someone else’s hand for anyone with an internet connection to see and judge, I assume my friends and relationships prefer discretion as well. I don’t recap dates unless it’s for a totally anonymous anecdote that cannot go without mentioning. Something so funny or strange that I would probably be arrested or water tortured if I didn’t share it with the world. Otherwise, it’s all personal. I don’t drag the gory entrails of relationships failed throughout the pages here. And I never will.

That being said, to preface the goings-on of right now in my personal life, one could be warned via Groundhog’s Day quote, and be told, it’s a doozy. I’m clinging desperately to the fraying heart strings of distancing friends and trying too hard. I’m patching holes in relationships that require tarps to cover. I’m spreading myself pretty fucking thin right now and of course the goal makes the effort worth it, assuming anything goes right. And then off in the distance, I see the things I’m not giving enough attention to, the people and relationships that I am disregarding too much, too often. Trying to balance this out and still come off a sane individual is trying on my sanity but I’m doing my best. Unfortunately my best is not good enough for me. And that is the only thing I’ve said in this paragraph that makes any sense to anyone.

-Pretty Lush

A few of my favorite things

Ultra-conservative (synonymous with: bigots, close-minded a-holes, discriminators, etc) are fighting for another Prop 8 situation in Iowa. The homosexual population has had six days of marriage equality and a lot of morons are up in fuckin’ arms about it and using prayer demonstrations as part of their plot to overturn the law. When your right is being heavily and powerfully fought against, you do not have equality. The real shit is a long time coming and there are no words to express my feelings toward that. Thinking about how this country can simultaneously be in a forward moving fast lane, and yet at a complete stop at the same time. I do not want my daughter growing up under that shit.

I lost my ass in a poker game over the weekend, but it was okay because I knocked a massive, full, freshly poured screwdriver into my own lap with my grand gestures, and it made me feel all better about it.

Yesterday I took a day off and went to Dodgers’ opening day with Ree and her parents. My die hard, long time Angel fan friend donned a blue and white jersey for me and I was so grateful. Don’t tell her friends. We got there early and sat on field level, which I’ve only been lucky enough to do once before. I all but cupped my squeals back, coming back to the stadium after so many months. The weather was perfect, the ceremony was fucking awesome (my first), and I cried my cold but sentimental little bitch heart out. And then the Dodgers took it by TEN runs, showing off for their hometown and promising a fucking incredible season.

I got many, many things from my old boyfriend who turned me on to baseball, but this is what I am most grateful for. I fuckin’ love this shit. Even if it leaves me sun burned.

Coachella is this weekend and the thought of it has been a whirlwind of emotions. I was lucky to attend 2003-04 and 2006-07 with the same person, three out of four trips in the same hotel, pretty much doing the same things every year. And the weekend has always, always been the zenith of my entire year. A lot of people talk about how three days in the desert is not for them, and oh god, it is not for me either. I am not a fun-in the-sun type. I don’t fancy blistering days and tanning and pool-lazing. There’s just something about Coachella that I can’t put into words, but I think the documentary captured what I’m going for here and that’s why it’s really overwhelming to watch. Last year would have been different than all of the previous years. I wasn’t in the same relationship and wasn’t going with the same person I’d always gone with. I could only wonder if I changed my own scenario, would it change my experience. (God, like Coachella is a tab I put on my tongue and then sit back in front of my lava lamp.) It didn’t pan out last year, financially and otherwise, and that was just about to be the case this year as well. It’s looking to be more expensive than I thought and I had to dispute the transaction with the person I bought some tickets from (*shakes fist at private sellers*) but somehow, as of this morning, it is carefully falling back into place, with much depending on my Coachella partner from all my previous trips, but it really looks like we’re going to be able to pull it off and at least attend Saturday and Sunday. Friday’s line up didn’t quite sell me anyway, so I will not complain about missing it.

Here’s hoping, with all my might…

-Pretty Lush

Of the many things I always say (after the fact)

Why wait 'til you're in private to make an ass of yourself, when there's a crowded dance floor and lots of spectators to do it in front of?

If I could wipe one feeling off the face of the earth, it wouldn't be unrequited love, it'd be drinker's remorse.

The Captain was parading around GirlBar on Friday night. I almost stuck my tongue down his throat.

 

I'm sick of my brain's hooch-generated major malfunctions and the constant morning after questions of what really went down because I'm still under the Captain and don't remember a thing. I vowed to a witness that I'm gonna cool it.

You're welcome, liver. Don't say I never gave you anything.

I got a text from my lady friend Taylor today. She was reminiscing with some old mix CDs that I'd made her in high school that she promised to copy and send to me so I can wallow in sixteen-year-old flavored nostalgia too. What could be better?

My co-worker is opening and closing a Hoops & Yoyo card and their little voices are the highlight of my day.

Um, please send more highlights.

-Pretty Lush

(PS. I'm sorry, Ninja. I love you.)

Little deals

My unclaimed inheritance spam e-mail says I have money waiting for me from a dead relative! He spells his last name similar to mine… but it’s certainly not correct. Maybe his lawyer just doesn’t pay much attention to legal documents. That must be it… off to click that link!

Ugh. I guess I’d take inheritance spam over any type of ‘enlargement’ spam any day, though.

I’m finally getting back on track with Weeds. I own the first season and when I rented the second one about a year ago, I never finished it. Not because I don’t like the show, I just failed miserably. So a season two DVD showed up in my mailbox and now I’m whipping through the first season with Ree so I can attach her to the show. This should hold us off since the only things we have to follow now are the interrogation tapes of the L Word cast.

This isn’t the first time I mentioned bawling over the music on Weeds but there is a part at the end of one episode where Nancy (Mary Louise Parker) is watching some softcore home video of her and her late husband and Leona Naess’ Ballerina starts playing and there is no stopping me – I cry like an uncontrollable little bitch. Almost as hard as when Lenny dies in Of Mice and Men and I will have you know that part of that movie and me seeing it when I was like nine is the reason I am on medication to this day. Shit fucked me up for good.

After the bank’s little temper tantrum over the weekend, I got a call from the caterer I used for my parents’ anniversary party. They accidentally refunded all of money at some point and I have since (unknowingly) spent it and can they charge me again? So the money I couldn’t use over the weekend is now gone anyway.

For shit.

So my broke ass will host Wii marathons and movie nights! Also I will be accepting sugar mama applications for the remainder of the week, kthx.

(The money thing is so not A Big Deal but three months ago it would have been the end of the world, but for sure. MAH PROGRESS LET ME SHOW U IT.)

-Pretty Lush

PS. Are you wearing green? No?

Bank of NOTHING

I’d be lying if I continued to say I’m not worried about my job. For the first time, I’m not so sure about my security. And that makes bad things happen in my stomach.

Last Friday a couple of us went for happy hour at the fancy Japanese place by my work. We killed a lot of sake before Ree and I took off to dance in Long Beach. A couple drinks at the club caused my bank to raise its eyebrows at this ‘suspicious’ activity and they froze my account, causing panic in Target the next day. Let’s break this down. I’ve had this checking account for many years and since I was of legal drinking age, this card has been scanned some four hundred bajillion times in bars or clubs, and even recently, used in that same club I was at on Friday. And now, a couple beers worth of money on it makes them suspicious?! I DON’T FOLLOW YOUR LOGIC, BANK.

Bless my mama for allowing me to use her monies for brunch and groceries until the sitch was ironed out. Because I could go longer without my precious make up removing wipes and tortilla soup.

On Saturday afternoon I carted a well-behaved Lucy to the vet again for her boosters and additional blood work to find out whether or not she’d already been spayed. The doctor declared triumphantly that her uterus was ‘in tact’ and I died a little on the inside. I have to put her through the surgery; however minor or not (I’ve never done this) I am still going to be a bawling mess if she’s in pain. As it is though, she’s a champ with the needles so here’s hoping the same for stitches. Or I could continue letting her have the silent heats and just hope my parents’ male Jack Russell doesn’t impregnate her when they play together and UM NO.

Lucy and Rylie were bathed last night; caused them to rub any and all surfaces they could get their body against in frenzy. Lucy lays her head against the floor and walks blindly in an effort to dry or scratch her neck and Kiddo decided to imitate this after her own bath, delighting me to no end.

This morning, high on cereal, Kiddo’s jaw fell off from overuse as she excruciatingly detailed all of her dreams for a solid thirty minutes. Apparently she dreamt of catching a frog, putting a light inside him so he could glow, and gluing wings to him so he could fly. She’s so thoughtful. Then she took him in for sharing at school.

-Pretty Lush

PS. I am listening to Tegan & Sara's The Con in annoying loops, over and over, because I love it that much. I want to put whip cream on it and eat it for breakfast.

Instead of skanking...

From the Mouth of a Six-Year-Old:

“Mom, when Rheanna killed that spider last night, I was feeling apprehensive.”

This has been From the Mouth of a Six-Year-Old.

 

Kiddo would sustain on whup cream alone if I let her.

I forgot to mention the fact that for about fifteen minutes, I was in front of my speech class with my group trying to re-orchestrate our parts around the fact that one girl didn’t show up. One of the guys turned and whispered furiously, “She’d better be having a baby.” It was strangely calm – I remember my stomach turning when I had to present anything in school. I had to do a ten minute speech on an entrepreneur of my choice (Richard Branson) during sophomore year in high school and it was the first speech I ever gave that I didn’t completely fucking panic about. Figure that was about nine years ago (oh my gah) and it’s only gotten easier. I was shocked.

Next up: demonstrative speech. Followed by: Persuasive speech. I’m getting all gay marriage rights on those cats for the latter.

Kiddo and Ree and I played Wii last night. There is a dancing challenge on the Raving Rabbids game where you use the remote and the Nunchuck to follow the dance moves on screen. My neighbor took video of us waving our hands in the air and thrusting around. I nearly nail Kiddo in the head with my remote. It’s quite the hilarious work out.

I’ve been watching Trust Me. I’ve been nostalgic for Love Monkey for too long, so when I saw the trailer for a show with Tom Cavanagh in the work place, I figured, close enough. And it’s actually quite good.

While on a quick break from the Vonnegut stack I got in the mail from my friend Kevin, I picked up Odd Thomas, by Dean Koontz, because it's been on my shelf for over a year. Koontz is great for story telling and convincing the reader of the impossible  through very intelligent prose. There was a period of time that I couldn't get enough of him - then I see sentences like, "The bumps on my skin indicated that I should have feathers and a beak..." instead of, I HAZ GOOSEBUMPS, and I remember why I can only do one or two of his novels a year. (Believe it or not, I went through this insatiable stage with Danielle Steel too.) Which isn't to say I have a leg to stand on but for some reason that sentence really pissed me off.

Yeah, I think it's hilarious too, that I of all people, just criticized a well known, very talented writer. BA HA. HA.

The Specials are playing on my work computer and I’m yawning. There should be no yawning in ska.

-Pretty Lush

Fuck count: 7

The holidays have not yet jaded me. I’m very much anticipating whatever exclamation it may be that Kiddo produces when she opens the pink DS her dad bought. This kid lives and breathes for the moment that a DS comes into her life. For a kid who is not monetarily spoiled by any means, this little extravagance will go a long way. By no means has she been subtle about this desire for a little hand held game. Drawing is an everyday activity and countless DS drawings have sprung up around the house. She adds those two letters to my grocery list, to the caption of every picture she draws and to all seven Christmas lists she made, although the final draft on fancy themed paper included only two things: DS & cupcake maker.

I need to reiterate that being five-years-old is the coolest thing a child can achieve. Kiddo is so fucking funny and smart and entertaining and fun that I often give serious consideration to doing this all over again, at a time when it makes sense.
And then I laugh maniacally and take another long pull from the hooch.

Over the weekend my mom hosted an annual holiday party with her high school girlfriends and I offered my help in cleaning up the house. I was not aware that she would advocate slave labor all up on my poor, selfless ass. When she asked me to hang a tarp over a very tall canopy with the assistance of only two not-so-tall thirteen-year-old girls, the daunting task seemed almost too much and I seriously considered what the status of our relationship would be like if I just snuck the fuck out.
Eventually the tarp was hung, the house was clean, and about a dozen forty-something women showed up. They were brash, loud and fucking hilarious. I was mildly intimidated but also very envious that this group even associates two decades after high school and I can count on one hand the number of people I still talk to from any of my schools. (Although I did just add a friend from seventh grade on MySpace. Score one more for me.)

I finally got the oil change that my car was on its knees for. The tech not only complimented how my septum piercing ‘looks nice’ but also the color of ‘blue and green’ eyes. The way he lingered after the usual air filter explanation, I almost thought he was considering making a move. While I was by no means interested, it made me smile. Because I’m easy like that. There is a small part of every woman that does enjoy feeling pretty. I think it was the scarf.

My co-workers are so goddamned nice. I’ve been given a lot of presents and treats by these cool cats and I have nothing to give in return because I didn’t anticipate being so spoiled. One of the gifts was a white scarf that was all too appropriate since I'd recently decided I would wear a scarf every day, ever. It only took me twenty-three years of winter to realize they're my very favorite and I dream of argyle scarves and chenille scarves and striped scarves... the possibilities! So I donned the new white scarf very enthusiastically and I think I radiated sexy in it. Sexy enough to get hit on by a mechanic anyway. And I'll be the one to determine that that is plenty sexy.

My sister did most of my wrapping already. There's a few straggling gifts in the mail, one I'm almost positive is not coming at all and that seller will suffer the wrath of NEGATIVE FEEDBACK. I do not fuck around with feedback. You don't just throw caution to the wind, not with feedback. That is some serious stuff. And if I don't get my hard to find, super rare and very awesome blankity blank (who knows if the receiver stalks O & H) I will probably sue Amazon and for all that they're worth. Not to mention the FEEDBACK. Fuck, I will be so pissed. Really, guys. Like, uber-mad. My eyebrows will furrow like no one's business.

Okay, I got carried away. I can be pretty ruthless, I know.

The season three Dexter marathon went swimmingly and five of us cozed into the couches and my dog bothered everyone because she's a little retard child that needs attention and! Rita got knocked up! And I pissed! Because that is nuts!

I cannot WAIT for baseball season.

I watched Gross Point Blank over the weekend because I'm the only one that hasn't seen it. Best soundtrack EVER.

I have a quick rant. I am VERY anti-racism. I will play into the stereotypes in good fun. (I'm not gonna point any fingers but some ethnicities have startling statistics behind the wheel. I'm just sayin'.) But I am not opposed to the various cultures and races abundant in California. EXCEPT. Here's my rant. When, in a predominantly English speaking state, when my very decent English cannot be understood and someone makes ME out to be the rude one because we can't communicate. This morning I said 'excuse me?' at least four times and my breakfast order was still wrong and the gal at the drive-thru was really fucking rude. I AM SO NICE AND PATIENT, WHAT WENT WRONG. I almost asked. But she wouldn't understand. But I need the world, starting with my blog readers, to know that: I know I'm weird and unapproachable and all of that (I'm told) but sometimes it's not me. IT'S YOU.

And while we're at it, it's SUPPOSEDLY. Supposably is not a word in any language, ever, so KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF.

Much love, holiday cheer and proper grammar,
-Pretty Lush

Counting down...

Kiddo is coming home singing Christmas songs but I haven't heard a word about a kindergarten pageant, thank the baby Jesus. But there is the class party, the Polar Express party and the gift exchange, all of which require my effort in pitching in. Kindergarten is hard work. Today is pajama day. She's sporting Jasmine PJs and zebra slippers.

Dexter is finally coming around in the middle of season two with that Lila chick. I have no idea if she's sexy or not but I definitely need to decide. Although crushing on her kinda makes me feel like I'd be attracted to a horse. Something about her mouth. Maybe I'll stick with Deb even though she CAN'T ACT HER WAY OUT OF PAPER BAG whatever the Christ that even means. She needs to get her mouth under control as well.

Went to visit my friend Jermaine's new place over the weekend. Anything past Dodger stadium is too damn far into LA for a broad residing in OC. Highlights: Schism on Guitar Hero, long green leather jacket, Sailor Jerry's, nice digs to covet until my place spruces up which could very well be never.

I finished all of the books on my shelf except Rip It Up & Start Again, Postpunk 1978-1984. I was pretty overwhelmed thinking I'd never get through them and have an oppurtunity to buy new ones. Now I'm panicking that I don't have enough. The most recent Bitch magazine was devoured on my lunch break. I decided to become a sustainer (monthly donator) to it. As one of my lovely coworkers mentioned when he commented on the title, 'it's important to keep that shit alive.' Amen.

My heroic and generous roomie took Kiddo and I to sushi the other day. While I fumbled with my chopsticks, Kiddo actually showed a gung-ho interest in learning to use them and finishing her meal with them. The chef took a picture with her because she's a gorgeous future starlet.

Suddenly I find red wine to be very, very delicious. People have served it to me all week unexpectedly (house warming, friend's house, home) and I sipped it to avoid being rude and realized to my shock that it's actually very good. So good, I accidentally finished a bottle last night. I can't imagine how bad my doctor would ream me if he knew I used it to swallow my antidepressants.. upper meets downer in a soothing red finish. Speaking of, I was listening to Rilo Kiley's The Execution of All Things all week and got stuck like I always do on the lines: sometimes when you're on/you're really fucking on/& your friends they sing along & they love you/but the lows are so extreme/that the good seems fuckin' cheap. And this led me to realizing that - ladies and gentlemen, we have a medium. I am so much fucking better now than I was a month or two ago when veering off a cliff sounded like a pretty rational solution to this mess of adulthood.

In a frustrated wrapping frenzy, Ree declared: Christmas is not about Jesus! It's about the devil! She's going to hell in so many circles. Where there is an abundance of dark chocolate and cheesecake.

This morning Lucy and Rylie went apeshit at the front door. When I took a peek out the window there was a gorgeous, full Christmas tree standing on our porch with a bow on it. And I couldn't figure out why my (awesome) neighbor Bonnie had text Merry early Christmas! late the previous night. It's probably the coolest, sweetest thing anyone has done in a long time and made my entire week. Hugging a pine tree to drag it over the threshold was something I hadn't anticipated that morning but was glad to do. Kiddo almost peed from glee.

I am determined to use today's paycheck wisely to finish my shopping before Monday. (Repeat mantra thrice.) And also get all the wrapping done, clean my house, get an oil change and finish season two of Dexter so my cousin and I can have a season three marathon on Sunday. It could happen. Stranger things have.

I love you.
-Pretty Lush

Downpour

Naturally, last Friday, when there were only a few hours allotted for real work before the holiday party, I found myself buried in the minutiae of office furniture. I loosely tied ends with all of the numerous outstanding projects and hightailed it out in time to arrive at Angel stadium by 11:30. The drinks were outrageously priced and there’s only so long two drink tickets will last a lush, so after the buffet and hilarious holiday short film starring a few co-workers, I went home. (This job continues to show up my other job at every chance especially with the fanciness of the annual parties.) It was nice to relax in the middle of the day while the rest of the world was still at the office. Eventually though, I landed back at the bar my coworkers had settled in because I can never resist an opportunity for socializing with those cool cats. I even learned of one who grew up around the corner from me and attended all the same schools. If that’s not a reason for cheers, what is? After a while I left with a friend for another dive and at some point, stumbled home and to bed. In the morning I had no pants. I’m certain there was no physical activity that evening but it stands that my pants are still missing, three days later.

I found myself home alone with Lucy all weekend as Kiddo was with her dad and roomie was stumbling up and down State St. in Santa Barbara. It astounds me often I talk to my dog. At one point, I laughed myself to tears over something she was doing. This is just depressing and I added ‘meet new people’ to my to-do list.

Ms. Bones celebrated a birthday with sushi and karaoke on Saturday and I attended with all too appropriate California roll earrings from ShanaLogic.com. I’m not one for the microphone but I’m a fabulous spectator.

I don’t know how or why, as I swear I’d never heard of it, but Spike Lee’s Do The Right Thing showed on my Blockbuster queue and therefore in my mailbox. I watched it one lazy morning and loved it. I appreciate the corny dialogue of a good eighties flick as much as the clothing and hair. The dude with the Malcom X and Martin Luther King Jr. pictures for sale and the close up during the ending credits of the image furthers the concept that those two bonded at some point, when in fact that picture was taken in the only few minutes they ever spent in each other’s company and they never saw each other again. I don’t know why I know that, but it’s true. Write it down.

Last night I almost broke every wind chime in the city as the weather put a fucking beat down on the city, like, ‘Hi, I’m December. Sorry I’m late.’ The 55 freeway was all up in arms over STORMWATCH 2008 and I was subsequently thirty effin’ minutes late. The streets were flooded up to the curbs with rain water and a co-worker commented on how weather like this humbles us. Of course, she’s from Michigan. I’m used to being spoiled. I want to keep being spoiled by SoCal’s non-weather. Like how wealthy ex-husbands pay alimony for weekly hair appointments, I am ENTITLED.

Tonight is comfy clothes, slippers, blankets, hot chocolate and DVR. You’re welcome to join at the cost of a foot massage.

EYEBROW, BITCHES! I'll be crossing that off the to-do-in-life list, thank you very much.

My brother insisted I put this band Lovage on my Ipod. I'm thanking the baby Jesus that they exist.

-Pretty Lush