Today Is the Worst Day of the Rest of Your Life!

Things that happened to me yesterday:


1. I never like to talk about my job but let's say this...I got substatial 'tude over the phone, which I feel like is more degrading than 'tude in person. It's like I'm not even important enough to get a good talking to behind closed office doors. Boo.

2. Went out for happy hour, got buzzed (due to lack of food), went back to office to find cell phone under a pile of envelopes. Saw office phone voicemail was on. Made the biggest mistake ever by checking said voicemails. Was sent on impossible intern-like mission.

3. Caught in giant deluge of rain. My pants became secnd skin. I felt like I would absorb them through some sort of wet clothing osmosis. My sandals starting sliding off, so if you saw a girl walking around 8th Ave. like a crackhead, she wasn't high (buzzed, maybe), she was just wet and trying to walk in heels under a crappy $1.99 Old Navy umbrella. Looked wild and uncontrollable a la Bertha in Jane Eyre or Halle Berry in Jungle Fever. Seriously, like mascara down the face and everything. I felt like someone, might confuse me for a random Natasha Lyonne sighting. So far, nothing on Gawker.

Daniel Powter has nothing on Bertha and me.

4. Cell Phone rings. VIP calling about aforementioned mission. I answer the phone in an unprofessional snotty way. Heard career goals being washed away with the rain pellets in the gutter.

5. Changed to go on mission. Went in and out of apartment six times before I had all of my necessary belongings (i.e. purse, keys, umbrella, phone, wallet, proper footwear and a digital camera to capture the experience).

6. Made a million phone calls to friends angrily explaining what I was doing. I love Gotittogether and Spanish for listening. They help me realized that I should keep my job and do my mission with a smile, if only to stay off the pole.

7. Failed my mission. I hate the blond bitches at American Apparel who explain that some of their items are online exclusives. How can an EFFING T-SHIRT BE AN ONLINE EXCLUSIVE??????? Whores. All of them.

8. Had dentist appointment. First visit to a new dentist (I've had the same one since I was 3). THe bitch who cleaned my teeth really just wanted to gauge my gums. She spent the entire time discussing how she had lost her glasses and gottena ticket te day before. I think she must have felt the need to take it out on my poor defenseless gums. Then she tells me I need another appointment for X-Rays and a check-up. Umm, in what world do they not do that all in one shot????? My former dentist (who is only my former because he doesn't take my insurance) always did everything at once. Then I looked on the wall. Faith Evans and Jamie Lynn Sigler (DiScala) are among his celebrity patients. Apparently I'm not deserving of a full check up. Just a maiming, I mean cleaning. Whore.
Nobody's looking at her teeth.

9. Watched as my favortie couple on So You Think You Can Dance? had to dance for their lives because America is too dumb to appreciate the graceful wonder that is Jessica and Jaymz. Yes, he spells it with a "z." And It's hot. Thank you Nigel, for saving them one more time.

10. Found out the cute guy I gave my card to on Wed. night at a press event was "In A Relationship" or at least that's what myspace told me after I stalked him. I'm so bad.


In short, yesterday may have been the worst day of my life. But today ain't looking so great either. And people wonder why I drink.

The Bell Jar: How my once favorite tv show is slowly ruining my faith in humanity.

Like many people my age, I grew up in an era of fun and fancy free Saturday mornings curled up on my couch watching the antics of the crazy kids at Bayside High. Yes, Saved By The Bell was my life. So much so, that I would play Saved by The Bell trivia with friends at school. I would love that Channel 11 and TBS both showed episodes after school (TBS would air them on their :05, :35 schedule, because they were weird, but it made it perfect to check out the Channel 11 epi, and then change to TBS without mnissing a beat if you had already seen that one recently).

My senior year of high school, a bunch of my friends dressed up as the chracters up to and including Screech's one-time girlfriend, Violet Bickerstaff, who was played by none other than Tori Spelling. Luckily, they were smart enough to leave out Tori, who for a brief stint in the final season mysteriously replaced both Jesse and Kelly. Those episodes may be some of the worst, but not the absolute worst, because the one where Kelly dumbs Zack for Jeff while Kelly and A.C. Slater sing "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?" takes that crown. But don't worry, she got hers when she caught him cheating on her at The Attic.

Lately I have been reading many a disturbing thing about our old friend at Bayside. It started about 2 or 3 years ago when I heard about Mario Lopez and Ali Landry geting a divorce after just a month of marriage. Turned out he cheated on her in Mexico during his bachelor party. A.C.? Cheat? On the Doritos Girl? No way Preppy.

Then I got an email from my friend (the Hamptons connection one). A friend from high school (the one who was Violet) knew the girl he cheated with. Attached was a photo. A.C. Slater is slime.

Then I heard about Screech a.k.a Dustin Diamond losing his house. Yea, his residuals from the show aren't really helping. So he's selling t-shirts. Online. The saddest part? He can't even use the name Screech on them. He had to insert and extra "e" for copyright reasons!!!!!!!! Zoinks!



Yesterday, I was reading evidiot.blogspot.com, some dude's blog that is really funny, until I ran into this:

Anyone who doesn't see what is wrong here needs to look closely...

Why do I have the feeling that the Dorito's girl had something to do with this????

Anyway. After watching Name Your Adventure I think dear old Mario deserves a little humiliation.

Maybe he should have to do a ballet dance for Jesse one more time. It was their anniversary after all.

Lastly, today I was reading The Best Week Ever blog which sent me to stereogum.com (who got the pics from College Humor). This is the most disturbing SBTB truth out of all of them, well that and Tiffani Thiessen's boob job. Apparently, the dude who played Mr. Belding, the bumbling principal who always fell victim to Zack's (and eventually the"new class") pranks and misbehavior, likes to party at college dive bars and hit on young chicks.

Exhibit A:


It's ok to shudder in your chair. I know I did. THE HORROR! THE HORROR!!!!!


For more:

http://www.stereogum.com/archives/000891.html


I want to make it clear that NONE of these things were on the E! True Hollywood Story. Is it just me? Or is seing Jesse Spano's boobs in Showgirls seeming a little bit less like a big deal now?


At least Mark Paul Gosselar is ok. Sure he want through a chubby phase during "The College Years" but he made it to NYPD Blue and was pretty funny in "Dead Man on Campus" (although watching a brunette Zack smoke from a bong did make me upset, didn't he remember the PSA he shot after Johnny Dakota left his joint in the hallway?)

But I guess it's just a matter of time before he gets arrested for doing a "Time Out"
or something.

Requiem for a Hotlantic City Weekend.

Do you remember how Sesame Street used to put together montages to help kids learn numbers? And sometimes they would have this pastry chef with a bunch of cakes or pies (usually the number of pies was equivalent to the number that was sponsoring the show that day)? I used to laugh at that guy. I laugh no more.

This weekend I sojourned to AC for BFF's Bachelorette Party. As the Maid of Honor, I had to run the show, which I decided to keep fairly classy. Well, sort of, this is ME we're talking about.

To prepare, about a mnth ago I went to Ricky's, an NYC institution known for selling hair care products and becoming Halloween headquarters. This past year, Jonsey bought her costume there.


And yes, I looked damn good. So needless to say, when it came to chessy penis decorations for a bachelorette party I knew where to go.

Cut to Jonesy, in her cute corporate attire wandering behind a beaded curtain. Besides being bombarded by a selction of crazy vibrators galore I found was I was looking for, (penis straws) and more!

I purchased a cake topper, that like a peanuts can with a springy snake, held a spring fake weiner which popped out of the cake. I became obsessed with bringing a cake to the damn party.

One cake carrier, hearts shaped pan and some sprinkles later, I had created my masterpiece. BFF loved it and although no one ate it right away (I made it my big "reveal" moment after dinner, from which everyone was way to stuffed to eat anymore) all thought it was cute.

I knew it was delicious, after all, I made it with love, hence making it white girl soul food. SO I returned it to it's carrier and decided to take it home. Seemed easy enough. Until I decided to hold the carrier by the top. WHICH IT SAYS YOU CAN DO.

Hungover...check. 4 hours sleep...check. Still in shirt from night before...check. Cake flying uncontrollable from hand in the middle of an Atlantic City casino , penis candles flying everywhere, while I almost cried and people just stared at me and laughed...check, check, check, check and check.

Yes, it was eventually funny, and we had a great time and BFF was very appy with the night overall, BUT really, I'm still pissed about this effing cake.

Every drop you take, every cake you make, I'll be missing you....
My penis cake
Beloved Party Accessory
6.23.06 - 6.25.06
RIP

My dog gets more action than I do

My mom has a dog. Well, it was my sister's dog but when she got hitched last summer, the dog took permamnent residence at my mom's house. He is a big fat yellow lab who I like to call Lord G, because everyone treats him like a damn person. But not just any person, like say one's daughter, no, Lord G is effing royalty in my house. He decided he liked to sit in my favorite spot over the floor radiator when I was away at college one year. When I returned home for winter break, what was once "Jonesy's Spot" was now reserved for Lord G. Lord G has outfits, more leashes than I do shoes, and has had a different Halloween costume for the past 6 years. The family talks to him like he's a real human being. Yes, sometimes I really hate him.

This past weekend I spent the day at my mother's house, and until then I never really got the whole treating a dog as a person thing. I understood that the dog had feelings, as I would note everytime we left the house becaus ehe would pull the cushion off what had become "his chair" and leave it on the floor for us to pickup, a warning if you will, of what happens when his owners leave the house. At least it's a step up from him eating all of my bras and underwear a few years back. That dog still owes me $100 in unmentionables.

My mom was going out to dinner and Spanish and Gotittogether were both mia doing adult type things. I figured I should come back to the city and find something to do for the night. I put in a call to who I will call BFF, for the simple fact that she has been my friend since I was 3, and I asked her to take me to the train station. We started chatting and as I tend to do, I started wondering the house while talking on the phone. I left the kitchen and walkedinto my living room only to scream in horror at what I saw.

The chair cushion that I thought was so innocently being strewn to the floor was being raped or shoudl I saw in the more Shakespearean manner, ravaged, by Lord G. Mind you, this damn dog had his balls snipped shortly after he became a part of our family (as most men do because we are a strictly estrogen household). He should not be in heat. And he wasn't just rubbing against it, he had ripped a hole inside and was enjoying the feeling of the stuffing, while his tongue hung out of the side of his mouth. Little perv.

Doggie, Doggie where's your bone?

I screamed and ran away. He proceeded to shrink off in shame and lie on the floor panting for the next hour. Thank God he has no balls, because they would have been blue.

I ran pstairs, felt embarassed and a little dirty. Then it hit me, he was a dog, why did I care? it wasn't like I had walked in on a person having sex. It was nature, part of the animal kingdom, instinct. He doesn't have the cabability to reason. But he was my family dog, the puppy that over the past six years had grown on me and really become one in the family. He's like the little brother I never had (well, unless you count the two years I had that Russian little brother and sister from my Dad's second marriage, or the step-brother I have now that I haven't seen since 2004 from his third). And animal or not, watching him "do it" may have been the grossest thing I've ever seen.

I see London, She sees France...

London came back from France on Monday. Poor thing has barely been able to keep her eyes open since she got back. Jet lag is a bitch, especially when you are coming from an extended stay somewhere. It's one thing to go to Europe and come back a week later. You barely have tme to adjust ot the time limit. But London was gone for two weeks. And her fight to stay awake and get back on a regular sleep schedule reminded me of my own plight last summer when I came back from London (the city, not the roommate).

After my six weeks of wrangling college kids (which lead to drinking excesive amounts of drinking) I had to prep myself for my sister's wedding, which was a week after I returned home. My sister decided to have her rehearsal dinner a week before the wedding instead of a few days (don't ask). She decided to have her rehearsal the day I was supposed to return. I explanied to her that I would be flying internationally that day and the odds were I wouldn't make it. Since I was already missing her bachelorette party she gave me a bit of a guilt trip. About halfway through my summer, I realized that it would be cool if I could switch my flight to a 9 am, getting me into JFK around 2 pm and just in time for the 4 pm rehearsal.

Of course I was exhausted when I got off the plane (4 hours sleep before I left plus none on the plane plus jetlag makes Jonesy a cranky lady). When I showed up at my mom's house I changed quickly and hid in my room to unveil myself as the big surprise to my sister, I had made it afterall, and she would be ever so grateful. Then I heard the doorbell ring. I relaized I had left my luggage in the foyer. Surprise ruined. I heard her bound up the stairs, and I fully expected her to run into my room at any time. But she didn't. Oh well, maybe she was too busy to notice my 2 huge suitcases, I thought to myself.

Scene 2: the chapel. I was sitting in a pew when she walks in. Ready for my big hug I waved to her to let her know that I was there and had saved the day by taking a super early flight. Nothing. She did nothing. Nunca. Nada. Zero. About 10 minutes after seeing me she came to say hello, acknowledge my presence. My other sister and I looked at her in disbelief, as I received not a single thank you for hauling my butt back home from ENGLAND and making it to her rehearsal that she had been guilting me about.

But what about me?????

As I stood on the altar, half watching the mock ceremony and half falling asleep, I knew deep down that she was most likely overwhelmed and was happy I was there. But I also knew deep down that I hadn't come home to make her happy. I was there because I wanted to be, watching her get ready to get married, the first of the three sisters. And that night I did get back some energy, after 9 diet sodas at dinner I got some energy and came back to my apartment here in the city. I even made it out that night. Jonesy, a jetsetting party girl with a heart of gold? Maybe a little bit. My family and friend who have known me since I was a kid don't really get it. I'm never happy in once place for too long. It's like geographical ADD. New York is the only place that I've been able to call home for more than a year since I was in high school (I don't think college counts considering you sort of have to stay there). Even here I tend to get really bored, which leads to me trekking into the burbs for the weekend, geting bored again, and realizing how good I have it.

My best friend is getting married exactly one month from today. She recently gave me a letter which made me a little sad, as she said that life doesn't turn out the way you think it will and she always thought I would have lived back in Westchester until I got married and that I would stay there forever. And she's right. Growing up, I thought the two of us would get married and be neighbors. But my dreams have changed and I'm sure hers have too. I still know we will always be friends, and that when we have kids we will take them shopping on Sundays, and that we'll have holidays and Christenings, Communions and Weddings. And that when we are realy old, we'll be like the old ladies that you always see walking down the street hand in hand together or at the diner talking really loud. She'll be the Dorothy to my Blanche. Even if my dreams are different and even if I go to a hundred places, I'll always come home, and put my jetsetting aside for at least for a little while. Just to check in the my my family and best friends. And to get over the jet lag of life.

And Golden Girls we shall be!

They call it a loop, but why is it a double-edged sword?

Every Monday since Memorial Day I find myself asking the same question to a friend of mine. She is the kind of friend that you can count on for adventure (like the time a self-proclaimed female religion teacher dropped trou in a bathroom of a bar in front of me, or the time we decided to drive a local bar owner home and close his place for him), the kind that gives me a compliment when I really dig for one, and the kind that loves to analyze boys (more so now that she has recently reintroduced herself to the dating pool). The answer she gives me is never the same, but by the end of our dialogue I am usually filled with some degree of jealousy.

The conversation usually goes down as something like this:

Moi: "How was you weekend?"

Her: "I don't want to tell you."

Moi: "Why?"

Her: "You'll get mad at me and yell at me."

Moi: "Why?" (at this point I'm suspicious that she did something really bad)

Her answer usually includes one of the following points: "I was in the Hamptons partying with tons of fun people that you know and I met a cute boy and he myspaced messaged meand we're going on a date and we had a dance party and it was the best weekend ever."

Moi: "I'm sooooooooooooooooooooooooo jealous." Sigh.

I'm happy for her, really I am. She deserves to have all the fun she is having. But so do I. And I need it.

This all started last summer, when I found out that a lot of people would be hanging out in The Hamptons. Now, I can't complain too much, I was on a free ride in London for six weeks...BUT...I learned what it was like to be really and truly out of the loop. It sucks. It didn't help that I was going through some sort of "Who am I?" exestential crisis and terrorists were bombing my main mode of transport, but to hear that fun people were partying beachside without me, that just hurt.

At least last year I had an excuse, I was across an ocean dealing with college kids, terrorists and lots of touchy feely guys. This year my excuse is much more humbling and in truth, kind of pathetic. I'm. broke.

As I have said time and time again, my best friend in the whole world and my sister are both getting married this year. I am the maid of honor in both weddings. I am so happy for them and I love being a big part of such a memorable occasion in their lives but let me tell you, I am now effing broke.

Not only am I broke, I find myself occupied almost every weekend until August. Between dress fittings, outings, birthdays and holidays I really have to check my book to see if I have time to hang out with anyone. And because I'm never around for any of the drunken Hamptons fun, I have been left on the sidelines, still pale from the winter (although Jergens has hooked me up a bit), with no Grease-style summer lovin'. I have no gossip to share with anyone, so the normal even exchange of fun weekend tales of debauchery is one-sided with me. So yea, it sort of sucks.

But then I thought about when I was actually in the loop. That sucks too. EVERYONE knows your business. Who sleeps with who and dates who and has a high school makeout session with who is open season. I have some experiences with the power of the Westchester gossip mill from my Freshman year of college. Strangers knew my business and it wasn't always pretty.

Now that I am out of the loop, my life is sort of mystery to alot of people. No one knows where I was last weekend...or who I was or was not with and what I was or was not doing.

And at the same time, I don't think any of them really care. Therein lies the dilemma. In the end, I wouldn't have my summer any other way. Would I switch spending a day with my friend while she tries on her wedding dress to any drunken night? Never. Would I blow off a good friend's birthday party to get myself back on the radar and in the loop? Nope.

But vow that every Monday, I will call my Hamptons connection and listen to her stories with anticipation and jealousy, and live vicariously through her tales of tanned men and drunken poolside fun. It just makes me more excited for August, when I will actually visit her mythical Hampton's house, and undoubtedly do something that will keep the gossip mills talking for years.



**Note, please exscuse the lack of picks. London is in France right now and I am writing this post on her computer because mine caught an STD. So, I don't want to download any pics on snaggle toothed babies or princesses kissing frogs for her to view when she gets back. Sorry, it's a very textual post.**

"LLoyd! Get in Here!"

I promise, a new post at some point this week. As soon as my life stops being a bad episode of Entourage and people stop running around calling my name loudly over cubicle walls.

At least this guy has a good looking boss.

"If they take my stapler then I'll set the building on fire..."

I've just been flooded with work and incredibly busy taking out all of my stress on unsuspecting friends and loved ones (poor Spanish never saw it coming). So please, bear with me until I get myself organized!


To top it off, my laptop has seem to have gotten the flu. I promise at least one post this week. I have quite a bit of catching up to do! Trust me, this stuff will be worth the wait.

Now if I can only get Lumberg to leave me alone for like 5 seconds....

"Ummm yea, I'm gonna have to ask you to help me print this out."

The Average Princess and The Horny Toad: An Urban Fairy Tale

Once upon a time there lived a princess. A simple, average princess named Jones. She grew up in an average sized castle in an average kingdom not far from the greatest kingdom in all of the world, Big Appleshire. Now in her average kingdom Princess Jones lived an average life. She went to school, she played sports and was friends with many other princesses.

As the princess grew older she began to day dream about one day moving to the great kingdom not far away but she was scared. She saw many of her princess friends meet princes and they were happy. But being that Princess Jones was a modern princess, she knew how to dream big. She dreamed of breaking out of her average kingdom and getting a job working for a big magazine. But, all of the jobs at the magazines were in the greatest kingdom in the world. How could an average princess make it on her own in such a large place? She had many doubts, but her Fairy Godmother told her to head to the big city and study hard. Then she could make it at a big magazine that every princess in the world would read. Princess Jones was brave, and with the help of her mother, the Queen of Residence Park and a loan from the government of all the kingdoms, she moved into Big Appleshire in a small hamlet called Hell's Kitchinia.

Princess Jones immersed herself into her studies and on the completion of her hard work she was offered a job. She didn't work for a magazine that every princess read. No, this was a much more magical magazine that was targeted towards an even better audience, QUEENS!

Our princess was very happy and worked very hard to become more than just another average princess. She became very smart and learned to love her average self which she found out was more beautiful than she ever knew. But still, Princess Jones thought something was missing. All of her other pretty princess friends were in love with wonderful princes. One even became a Queen! Princess Jones began to dream of nothing but finding her own prince. She started to believe in fictional tales told to her by Julia Roberts, Sarah Jessica Parker and Meg Ryan. She even started to believe in an old fairy tale told about another princess, who kissed a frog who just so happened to be an enchanted prince.

Now, Princess Jones had a few other friends who were looking for their own Prince Charmings. One was Princess Carly, who lived in her own hamlet called Upper East Sidius. One stormy night, Princess Jones and Princess Carly (who was a modern princess herself) decided that they needed to be proactive. Afterall, the princess who kissed the frog prince ended up happily ever after.

Armed with nothing but the most fabulous little blue princess dress (and an enchanted bra that made her bosum look incredibly more ample than it actually was), Princess Jones and Princess Carly braved the storm to try and meet some princes. The two traveled to a magical tavern, known only to the people who weren't turned off by the giant fiber glass pig propped outside. The people at the tavern were wonderful and gave both princesses free popcorn and a delicious ale (which both princesses were drinking very quickly due to the wine they had drank earlier in the night).

Princess Jones like to dance when she drinks wine.

Once they decided that no princes, just wonderful common folk, were to be found at this tavern they chose to journey to another tavern not far away. The tavern was full of very handome knights in white pants that traveled in on large boats for a week in the large kingdom. But the knights were already with younger, sluttier princess. So Princess Jones walked around until a prince approached her. He was quite handsome, a little buck toothed but quite handsome, and was a high ranking knight. Princess Jones liked the prince, but he was boring. The prince introduced the princess to his friend. Who was a frog. With warts. A tall frog with warts. Princess Jones was frightened, but as she turned to be rescued, her prince had left, to woo Princess Carly.

Then, Princess Jones remebered her favorite fairy tale. Maybe she had found her prince who would return to his human form when she kissed him. But even Princess Jones couldn't stomach that sober, and the frog knew that, so he gave her some poison called Bud Light, knowing that it would impair her vision and overall judgement.

Princess Jones began to feel drunk, and she was amused by the frog, who it turned out, was from a far away land called Alabama. The frog kept moving closer to the princess and eventually she gave in, and kissed the frog in a tacky bar makeout that all princesses are advised against. Her prince even kissed like a frog with his creepy long tongue that would rival that of Sir Gene Simmons, a minstral in a band called KISS.

Princess Jones will do crazy things when poisoned with beer.

When Princess Jones opened her eyes her prince was still not a prince, but an even more horrifying frog, nay, a TOAD! He wasn't even a knight like his friend. Rather he was a recovering frat frog with very large beer gut. The princess used her clever getaway line but the toad could not be stopped. He begged and pleaded for the princesses phone number. What was she to do? Princess Jones was normally very honorable, and did not want to hurt the toad's feelings. But she gave him a fake number anyway, promising herself that this was an exception because the toad was horrifying.

The next morning, she awoke to a feeling of nausea and light sensitivity. In part because she had been given too much poison and in part because she had believed in a fairy tale. She
vowed never to do it again and to wait, like every other successful princess, for her perfect prince to find her. Even if it meant she had to makeout with some not-so-perfect princes along the way. And she knew she would one day live happily ever after.

The End.

Finally, some clarity! Maybe it's because I didn't drink this week....

So this past week I’ve had many moments of truly inspired thought leading to new and interesting revelations that I would like to share with you.

1. Revelation: I am officially too jaded and cynical to believe in something that never was. As I explained, I lost my iPod in a vodka induced trance last Friday. I didn’t mention that I lost a lot more than that. On Wednesday of last week I found out that my biggest crush of all time, the guy I swooned over for all four years of college was going to be in New York City. I haven’t spoken to him since 2002 and even then, I was choppy at best. We shared one awesome night (no sex, I swear) together in 1999. Yes, this is pre-new-millenial crushness. It never worked out but we had talked about that night and he agreed that it was something special and there was something there, even it was just a brief encounter, clouded with Parliament Lights and a haze of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. He was the guy that my friends forbid me of mentioning about halfway through our junior year because I refused to do anything about it. I had planned on stalking said crush, but chose not to, because it’s been 4 years and really, I like to remember him in the context of the ways things were in college. In a word: hopeful. Unfortunately, fate decided to spin her wheel and bring us back together, in an accidental meeting outside of an Upper East Side watering hole. I had no choice but to say hello (already the vodka had taken over). Again I was hopeful, but the look on his face suggested otherwise (I swear, it was like I was breaking a restraining order) so I left him alone all night, avoided any and all contact. My friends can rejoice: this crush is over. Fate let me know he’s not the one and I’m over it. Finally. Really. I swear.

2. Revelation: Divas are funny, especially Clay Aiken. American Idol. Two words that I haven’t really held value to since the first season, aka, the launch of my true idol, Kelly Clarkson. But this finale was perhaps the funniest thing I’ve seen on TV since watching Ashlee Simpson and her hoe-down idiocy on SNL last year. Tony Braxton drunk of her as trying to grind on Taylor = funny. Dionne Warwick looking like she may break hip = pretty damn hysterical. And the Gaiken comes out (unfortunately, not all the way out) and reveals to America that he is slowly morphing into Barry Manilow and/or a woman. Gives his Diva look to the sad sack trying to sing like him and then proceeds to serenade his look alike. Creepy? Sort of. Not as creepy as Kevin Covais singing “What’s New Pussycat?.” Comedy gold? Most Def.

The G in Gaiken stands for G-UNIT!

3. Revelation: I miss the Mastercard ads. Here is mine of the week. Losing my iPod and having to buy new one= $193.00. New makeup to impress Fleet Week seamen = $15.00. Getting gussied up and walking by a group of hot sailors and having brand new iPod randomly shuffle to Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” = Priceless.

4. Revelation: Ugly guys can be sexy. Not gonna lie. Was a little upset to find out Elliot Yamin had a girlfriend. Whatevs, I think I made out with him on a spring break somewhere.

Elliot Yamin's offspring will look like this:

Let’s hope this week (and especially the upcoming long weekend) is as full of clarity and insight as the last. And let’s hope I get to have fun with some seamen. What do you do with a drunken sailor? I can think of some things. [insert evil plotting laugh and envision Jonesy rubbing hands together maliciously here]

See you at the crossroads (crossroads)...so you won't be lonely.

Folks, I lost my iPod. My little blue pal who has given me my soundtrack since May 17th of last year. I did a post on it as soon as I received it. It was a happy day.


Friday was a happy day too. Because of the excessive amounts of vodka that made me happy. I know what you are thinking, "Jonesy, why do you drink vodka when you know the result will be loss or bodily injury to you and others?" My answer is it makes me forget and it's tast with some club soda. And I have short term memory loss so I usually forget what it does to me. Memory loss probably caused by the vodka.


So my iPod is gone. Either in a taxi of picked up by some ne'er do well on 9th Ave. RIP blue iPod and blue iPod sweater. I still have the headphones (haven't figured that out yet) but the iPod is indeed gone.

I will have a better post after I am finished sitting shiva (and when I've figured out how to work my brand new iPod nano, haha!)

Silly Rabbit...Trix are for kids. Oh wait, can I not have them anymore?

Don't fence me in, bitches!

I am a large child. I have refused to grow up for quite some time. I still play video games. I still read Seventeen (sometimes). I still watch cartoons (Spongebob anyone?) and I still eat Lucky Charms. I sleep in a twin bed. n fact, the shirt I am wearing right now was purchased in the kids department at Old Navy.

When I was in College, Carly and Little would always joke that I was like an overgrown child. Partly because of the food I ate (CoCo puffs and Kraft mac and cheese), partly because I would rock out to 'NSYNC, and partly because, well, I refused to grow up.

I realized yesterday that it was starting to happen. Sometime, somewhere, my Peter Pan thought it would be a good idea to exchange Neverland for the life of corporate drone, and forget about chasing his shadow so he can pay rent.

I am officially a coffee drinker (I hated it growing up). I listen to Lite FM at home sometimes. I just bought a classical music cd. Sometimes I stay at home on Friday nights because I'm tired. I am starting to save money--well not really, I'm starting to pay my debts. I like Sunday morning.

I've been trying to find the source, reasoning or any explanation to my recent changes in lifestyle. I can blame it on work, the fact that after a year and a half of grad school I'm back to the grind and therefore miserable because I'm lazy and I hate work in general. But that's not a good enough excuse because I actually sort of like my job and at least I'm in the right industry now.

I can blame my issues on my friend's recent breakup, like my friend Penny, (http://pennythinks.blogspot.com/) but I know that's not true. I'm just not close enough to the situation to do that.

I can blame it on my family, who l also blame for the three white hairs I picked out of scalp yesterday. Fully white. Thanks for the stress guys.

I can blame it on Lost and Grey's Anatomy for making me spend countless hours on the internet looking for clues and spoilers to their stupid shows.

I can blame it on my boss, my colleagues and my friends, who are now settling into married/almost married/dating life, while I stay behind praying for someone to go out boozing with me.

Translation: This baby rules!

I can blame it on the bossanova, but that would be downright idiocy.

And I do blame it on everyone. Everyone including myself. For the pressure, for making the world move to fast, for not letting me appreciate my childhood while I had it and for making me jealous of the little girl I saw yesterday, who was twirling in her Communion dress like there was not a care in the world.

So I am taking a stance. I am taking my life back and staring all over. I will eat my sugary cereals, fruit snacks and roll ups with glee. I will blast The Spice Girls. I will stop looking for a potential provider and start looking for a soul mate and best friend. I will continue to act like I’m 19 when I’m drunk. I will continue to drink like I’m 19. I will party like it’s 1999.

And I will throw temper tantrums like this one and have to suck it up and continue my drone-like existence. I will continue to grow up, grow old and let’s face it, grow out (I expect the moon to start orbiting my ass once I pop out a few kids).

Ok, I won't grow out that much.

But this I promise, I will never get a mom haircut (short and sort of messy). I will never stop wearing thongs. I will never stop eating Lucky Charms (even if I don’t let my kids have them). And I will never, ever, ever, ever, lose my sense of wonder. Because at this point, it’s sort of all I’ve got.

Maybe the Dingo Ate Your Benes

I'm here to address the bad hair movement of the moment. Ladies and gentlemen meet the Benes.

Before

After

Named after Seinfeld character Elaine Benes who made the 'do popular in the early seasons. After realizing her own stupidity, she changed her do to a much more refined look.


Now through some twisted form of fate colliding with extremely bad taste, young Hollywood has readopted the Benes. Taking a cue from the faux hawk (now known as the no-hawk) many a Hollywierd young-blood is rocking a Benes. The unfortunate hairdo is sweeping the country. From a younger, humbler, Jessica Simpson:


To one of the two Olsens (Ashley to be exact):


To everyone's favorite young hussie, Lindsay Lohan:



This offensive coiffure can be seen running rampant on the Manhattan club scene. Known offenders: 1. Girls who work in PR or Fashion with long straight hair (extensions) who cannot do anything with their hair but this so they do it often. These girls are most likely coke heads. THey probably did their hair when high on nose candy.

2. Anyone from Long Island or New Jersey.

3. One of my friends who will remain nameless, but I totally caught a picture of her Benes the other day.

Anyway, I am taking a stand against the Benes. And you Hillary Duff, for rocking it way too often. You look like an ass.












And that's what really grinds my gears.

A BILF, a Liar and a Crush: Glorious!

Yesterday was the kind of day that Bono writes about. The weather was absolutely perfect. Not too hot, tons of sunshine and little breeze. That’s right folks, it was drinking weather.

It didn’t surprise me when I received an email mid-afternoon from a friend saying she needed a cocktail STAT. I agreed. So we met up at a local bar, chosen only for it’s glorious outdoor roof deck which lets boozehounds alike drink and smoke under the glorious moonlight. It's glorious!

As we approached the makeshift bar they have set up outside, we both noticed him. A hot barkeep. A BILF if you will (not to be confused with the BILF who works in a bar in Amsterdam, appropriately called “Amsterdamned”). He was talkative and smiled a lot, in a cute, only mildly cocky way. My friend and I were immediately smitten. Drinking weather and a reason to keep ordering drinks. Perfection.

I was almost ready to have a crush. The crush I have been waiting to find for over a year. The one that lasts long term. Then I noticed he was too charming. He was charming everyone, even guys. Basically, he was charming his way into my wallet in hopes of big tips. Luckily I caught this early and only gave him the standard. Damn hustler.

So not crushworthy (I also spotted neck pimples…gross). He was like a mirage. Looked like something I really wanted but turned out to be nonexistent. So it got me thinking. Can I no longer crush because I’m too cynical? Too jaded by the ghosts of dramas past? Or am I picky? Could I have overlooked many a quality guy for stupid reasons? I know I can be quite, well, abrasive to men (only undesirable men) who approach me when I am drunk, but am I that awful?

I choose to think I’m not that evil and that any evilness that comes from me is only a result of an excessive intake of vodka. But I’m sure there are people that will argue with me on that one, including a ton of guys at Cheers London who had o deal with my wrath and the liar I met last night who swore he did promos for Showtime, and when I asked him about one he froze, mumbling something about things being “in development.” Tool.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about this all day. And I may sort of have a crush. He’s all wrong, we’ll never EVER be together, and if we did get together it would be more of a disaster than Tom Cruise recent dancing on BET. But something is alluring about this person. I wish I could dish more, but I won’t for fear of incrushinating myself (Jonesy’s friends tend to have big mouths). And I don’t want my friends to find out (even though I think most of them already know). It’s not the die-hard, can’t eat, daydream believer kind of crush. Just an animalistic kind of thing. It’s not serious and I’m sure it will pass. But it’s nice to think that maybe, someday, in a perfect world, it could work out.

In the mean time, I will enjoy the sunshine, the flip-flops, and God Bless Mother Nature, perfect drinking weather. Happy Cinco De Mayo!



Cinco De Mayo = perfect crush weather!

Don't hate me because I work...

love me because I promise i will put up a new post sometime this week. If only Tom Cruise would stop unchain me from my desk and stop filling my head with tohoughts of Xenu.

Free Jonesy!

Paaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrty Crashers

Have you ever walked into a room and felt like you were in a completely alternate universe? Like you were in the weirdest place you've ever been in your whole life? Almost like you are the new fish on Prison Break being um, er, violated and threatened, because you stole an expensive baseball card? Maybe you have. Maybe you were at a certain bar on Saturday night and went through exactly what I did.

Let me preempt this story. This past weekend marked the visitation of one of my nearest and dearest. I'll refer to her as Katya. She likes cats and laughs when I do my wicked impression of a Russian accent. We became friends for three reasons: 1) We both tend to get ridiculously drunk on delicious English ciders. 2) We both tend to approach boys after imbibing a few pints of delicious English cider. 3) We lived on the same floor in our study abroad dorm and she didn't hate me after I ran screaming down the hallways that it was "Naked Night." (I was fully clothed. No one else participated either.)

I hadn't seen Katya in almost a year due to my travels in London, hectic grad school schedule, her hectic grad school schedule, her work, my work, and a hundred other reasons. Needless to say I was ready to suit up and relive old times. Not that we can ever remember old times. People would have to recap us on our nights out based on the stories we told when we came home. The first week of school we picked up a stick in the street and started hitting people. I don't remember saving it, but we found it the last week of the semester and brought it to the party. It was a hit...literally.

One night we left a bar at the same time as everyone we knew, which was essentially closing time. We didn't make it home until 1 and half hours later. When everyone wanted to know where we had been we had no answers. We can only assume that someone, somewhere, probably still has scars.

On Friday, I promptly picked up Katya from Grand Central Station, or she picked me up really, by coming out of a different exit and scaring the bejeezus out of me. London joined us for dinner and a cocktail and then we started the boozefest. I was proud of Katya. Even though she has since sold out on the single life and gotten her self a cute boytoy, has taken a job teaching, and a result stopped drinking for sport, she hung in for a long night.

Since the weather wasn't on our side Saturday, we decided to go to a museum and gets some culture outside of a bar. The museums weren't on our side either with their ridiculous suggested donations. $14...Good Lord that's a lotta money.

We couldn't come up with any solid game plan on Saturday night. We were cold from walking in the rain, but used two beers from a leftover six- pack to warm our bodies (including our stomachs--hair of the dog!). I know of a little bar that sells our cider of choice, in fact, I think it's the only bar in all of Manhattan that has it. It was a hike in the rain but we went anyway. To our surprise, some friends of mine happened to be there. After pounding two (or was it three or four?) pints we left with them to go to another bar which is separated into rooms and levels. We always hang out in the back room, there's a nice little alley way that you can take cigarette breaks in. Which in NYC is a rare gem.

But for some reason, when we walked into our little sanctuary, we felt, well, kind of like one of that kid on Sesame Street that was doing his own thing. It seemed that most of the people around us were dressed up. Like pirates. I swear, pirates.

It must have been a theme party gone wrong (since there were also a handful of people who missed out on that part of the invite, one idiot was dressed like a sailor). Everyone was looking at us like we were crashers. I felt like a chick Vince Vaughn. So we started dancing around and drinking beers. We ate some of their cupcakes. I flirted with one of their men (who may have been gay, but at least he wanted me as his beard).

And then I realized how funny the whole situation was. They were dressed like pirates, but we were stealing all of their booty (in more ways then one).

So I will tip my glass, and my bandana, pierced ear, pegleg and parrot to Katya, who made last weekend one for the books,

**Note: This post may not be as accurate as others, as some events have been retold to me by others and may be embellished.

It's a Scientologist!

Why do I have the feeling that the first photo of Suri (a.k.a. TomKitten) will look like this:






Because we all know she wasn't preggers. FREE KATIE 2006!

Apparently My New Nickname is Puma

http://www.nypost.com/entertainment/62609.htm

Debbie Does Dallas, Abby Does Advice, Jonesy Does Everything

Dear Jonesy: I need your advice! Love, One of your friends who are considered one of the members of your inner sanctum


I’ve noticed that many members of my innermost circle have been coming to me for advice lately. I don’t mind it at all. I actually enjoy doling out a tome of wisdom via email or an astute oration through the magic my cell phone.

What boggles me about this new phenomenon is the why. WHY are these people coming to me, lil’ ol’ Jonesy, for guidance that plenty of other people are qualified to give? Why not a therapist? Or a minister perhaps? WHY me, the girl who once received a pair of socks that said “Boozey Floozey” on them and took it as a compliment? WHY me, the woman who has been known to canoodle with highly unattractive men for free drinks while on vacation? WHY me, the person who has to check that she has spelled the word weird right every times she types it? WHY??

To be honest, I really think it has nothing to do with me. I think it is part of innate human (or at least female) nature to poll all of your resources when making a big decision. For example, I have a friend who is graduating from law school this year. I will dub her Angel, as she was the maniacal brain behind a very elaborate prank involving an angel costume and techno music our senior of college that I will never forget as I still think that poor boy is scarred for life. Angel is deciding whether to move back to the NY area or stay in the city where she has attended law school. There are more factors at play here, but for the sake of her privacy all of you are on a need to know basis. Today she asked me for advice and I know she has gone to other friends as well. Which is smart. She is utilizing her research skills that were no doubt taught to her in law school considering our college had a small library that gave you to constant feeling that you were about to be raped at any moment and on Saturdays and Sundays, smelled like a whiskey factory. And yes, I know what a whiskey factory smells like. I’ve been to one that actually had a Disney-type ride inside. They gave me a certificate and told me I was officially whiski-fied.

I tend to turn to others for advice. In part because I am a Libra and can’t make decisions for myself and in part because I have no idea what the hell I am doing 99 percent of the time (which again brings us back to WHY me?) Most of the time I listen to what my friends have to say. But that’s because I take a very specialized approach to guidance seeking. For all things that are relationship and fashion oriented I turn to my married friend Spanish and a friend I’ll call Got-it-together who is in a serious relationship. They both work in fashion and they are both good at holding onto good men for extended periods of time. Bitches.

For advice on career moves I ask another college friend, who I will call Carly, because when I think of her going to work I think of the Carly Simon song from the film Working Girl. Leeeeeeeeeeeet the river ruuuuuuun…anyway, she’s a success.

If I have a problem thinking of a show tune I ask London or Tiny Dancer. They live and breathe for those things. Oddly enough, this happens more than you would think.

Angel and a friend I call Little get called in for the big guns. The ultra-embarrassing problems that I probably wouldn’t tell anyone but I know that they will keep a secret, especially for the stuff that is buried deep in my college past. Usually they make me laugh about it in the end, but there will be no funny references here.

Mary-Kate (I am the Ashley of this friendship) gets calls for every problem as she is my best friend since I was three and she has to listen to me blabber by default. She’s stuck with me for life. I feel bad for her but my stories tend to amuse her.

None of these people hold the secret to life or any type of degree that would qualify them to give me any sort of advice. But they do know me, with all of my quirks and intricacies. They know the real me. So based on that knowledge they can at least help me make a decision that is right for me.

Going to one of my posse members for advice is like a badge of honor. It’s me saying, “You know me enough to tell me what you think good for me.” And not too many people get that honor besides my momma.

So thank you Angel, for letting me know that you trust me and that you value my opinion. I value yours too. And even if you totally ignore my advice I appreciate you asking even if the subject was way off my radar. But next time you have a beer and/or vodka related question let me know, I pretty much have that covered.

Finally, I field I am an expert in!

Is this going to be on the test?

Is JJ Abrams a mathematical genius? Or just a satanic Hollywood type trying to suck hours of my life away.

I don't want to offend any sci-fi geeks out there, but after losing yet another hour of my life to the television show Lost that I will never get back I've come to my own conclusion about this show. It's just like math.

Let me preempt myself here. I suck at math. I hate math. Ever since my junior high teacher with the Irish brogue shook her dandruff on my notebook I've been a mathphobic. The only reason I passed her class was because she gave 10 extra credit point for spelling perpendicular correctly.

My 9th grade math teacher laughed at me when I would answer questions incorrectly. My trigonometry teacher caught me sleeping in class constantly. I took precalculus just to have it on my record in applying to colleges. That teacher told me she didn't need her job and that if we didn't care she didn't either, which is probably why she passed me.

In college I squeaked through my math requirement with a D+ (it was my first D since penmanship in the 7th grade) because I went to the class 8 times the entire semester, pretty much for tests and quizzes only. We had to hand in homework and I never got more than 50 percent right. But hey, I can spell perpendicular. That should count for something, right?

So while watching Bernard and Rose's pointless back story tonight it came to me. Why is my relationship with Lost just like math? I mean, I liked it when I started it. But eventually I just started hating it and had to keep watching and learning or else I would never get the answers. So when did Lost shake it's dandruff into my notebook? Episode 5 of this season. It's when I stopped caring. It's when Jack started being an ass. It's right about when Tiny Dancer pointed out to me that Ana Lucia has had the same jeans on since she crashed. Which means they got wet in the salt water. Any girl who has ever worn wet denim knows how much this sucks. I would have taken them off and rocked a bamboo mini but that's me. Anyway, shouldn't they have stretched by now. Every time I wear my jeans more than twice they never fit the same way as right after a good spin cycle.

Numbers are important on Lost. Any avid viewer knows 4, 18, 15, 16, 23, 42. I feel like Hurley and I hear them in my sleep. But since JJ Abrams and Damon Lindeloff haven't given me the slightest clue as to what they mean I won't try to make any sense of them. But here are some things I do know.

Let's start easy. The number 1. Seems harmless right? Not on Lost. As far as we know there are one of each of these on the "island":

A polar bear - which has attacked Walt and may be something he created from his mind out of an Asian comic book he picked up. Seems crazy? Yea, I know.

"Monster" and or "Safety Precaution" - I initially thought it was an invisible cheetah. Turns out it's a cloud of smoke with invisible claws that may or may not read your thoughts. Yep, this show won a Golden Globe.

A crazy French Lady - her name is Danielle. She had a child named Alex, who, may or may not be alive and helped Claire, was kidnapped when she was pregnant by crazy Ethan so they could inject something into her amniotic sac and make her baby Aaron (who I bet will turn into some kind of Damien) sick, not sick, we don't know. Like a lot of things, we just don't know.

A wrecked pirate ship with no pirates. Oh, and this show won an Emmy too.

A hot Korean man named Jin - I just had to mention him because he's one of the reasons I keep watching.

Ok, So while the number one is everywhere on Lost (as it is in life), I've also established here the like in algebra, Lost has a lot of unknowns. You could easily say that x=1. But not so fast. Let's look at the number two.

There are:

Two surviving married couples.

Two children if we say that Walt being alive is a given.

Two dead siblings (I still curse the day they killed Boone).

Two people who have "recovered" from their illnesses on the island.

Two little hangy things from Eko's beard (although he cut them off).

Two crashed planes one large, one small Nigerian prop plane.


The number two is usually bad on the island. When people venture out in twos someone usually ends up dead. Locke and Boone. Sayid and Shannon. So you might want to say that x=2. Nope. People who go off on their own die or end up kidnapped. The guy in the ocean. Claire. Sayid. Sun. Kate. So maybe x=1 + 2. Let's look at three.

Love triangles like this island. You have Jin, Sun and Michael. The obvious: Kate, Sawyer, Jack triad of sexual tension. The not so obvious: Claire, Charlie, Locke weirdo relationship. And don't forget the incestual Boone, Shannon, Sayid. Three makes this island an interesting place to hang out (for more on the number three check out Penny's blog post on threes http://pennythinks.blogspot.com/).

I could probably stay up and explain more of the unknowns on the island and try to find a solution for the "x" factor that keeps sucking me in. But I'm putting my foot down. It's 11:30 pm and I'm tired. Tired of math and tired of Lost. Tired of Walt being on like NO episodes this season. Tired of the fact that no one mentioned Michael (a.k.a. Mercutio) for months which in Lost world is only days and it's not like you can forget someone that fast and then be shocked when you find him. Tired of the fact that no one seems to give a crap that some dude named Desmond is running around. Tired of the fact that "Henry Gale" is a scary mofo. I'm over it.

But, there's always a but. I can't let Lost go down like another Reunion. I have to find some answers. So I'm a slave for the show and it's messed up mysteries and nonsensical conclusions and flashbacks. And after showing you all of my work (and spending way too much time on spoiler and fan sites) I have come up with the proof. I'm sucked in and can't get out. So, X = the answers to the mysteries of this enigmatic TV program. And without the x, I'll be sitting in front of my TV asking y?

"A plague on your Island JJ Abrams!"