The .50 cents was for the compliment

Today was much less hot than it has been in the past few weeks, but it was still a scorcher on the asphalt and cement pavement along Fifth Avenue. It didn't help that a bajillion tourists kept knocking into me as I tried to make my way to what I call "the good H&M."

I started sweating, and after the Lohan incident about a week ago I decided to buy a bottle of water to hydrate myself as I burned calories and hole in my wallet. No delis or bodegas in sight (of course not, it's Fifth Ave). So I hiked to a hot dog vendor and asked for a Poland Spring.

I figured it would be a dollar so I was prepared with my folded up single in my sweaty palm. As we made our exchange Mr. Weiner Seller barked at me for another 50 cents.

The risked of Lyndseying out again was to great, so I started to dig for two quarters so I wouldn't have to break a twenty. I pushed my sunglasses up on my forehead to get a better look and eventually found my needed currency. As I handed them over (a little peeved) Mr. Weiner Vendor said, "You have beautiful eyes."

WORTH EVERY PENNY!

(and no this is not me in the shot, I would never be caught dead with a large white clip and a half french twist)

And it made my day. So yea, compliments are worth paying for. I may have to hire someone in the near future (because this week, all the Bends were out of control).

I'm hot as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore...

It's effing hot in Manhattan and like no one knows how to use air conditioning. It reminds me the sweat which I lived with in London last summer because there wasn't air ANYWHERE, not even in my bedroom. My roommates AC is broken (her AC provides the air for our living room), the super is ingnoring our calls and they are painting our building so it reeks.

I'm annoyed. But I have found the cure for the hot Manhatty summer blues, Marino's cherry Italian ices. Two to be exact. I eat two every night, to my frozen sugar water delight as I feel my temperature going down on the couch. VIVA LA ITALIAN ICE!

The wheels on the bus go slow slow slow

My bus ride back from Saratoga took 5 hours. 5. Hours. It was supposed to be 3 and a half hours. I booked a ticket on the fast bus with no transfers on purpose. But since Adirondack Trails and GreyHound both hate me, I took 5 hours. Not to mention the 2 hour waiting time at the Saratoga bus station, which is conveniently located behind a diner. A diner that has a large fiber glass horse on top of bit. With betting stations inside. Talk about getting local flavor.

In the bus station I happeined to overhear a man trying to book his friend a trip on a bus. From Saratoga. To Mexico. MEXICO. How long would that take? 3 days and 19 hours. With stops everywhere and many transfers. And it cost about 300 bucks. I wanted to lend him my laptop and introduce him to expedia.com but maybe he likes bus travel.

The only plus about the whole ride was my bus driver from Saratoga to Albany (where I transferred) was my bus driver (who we had to wait for so he could switch and dirve our bus because he can't go into Montreal --some delicious sex scandal I presume). he looked just like Jim from The Office. He was adorable and he kept glancing back in his rear view mirror. I think he wished we could go to Montreal together.

He wanted me to be his Pam I know it.

Maybe he likes to sit next to 8 year old children from Albany on their way to Georgia. Maybe he would have liked Chantelle, the little girl who decided to plop down next to me.

Meet Chantelle, I mean Satan.

Here is just a smidgen on what my ride was like:

• 4:45 - Chantelle looks at me sweetly and asks me if she can sit in the vacant seat next to me.
• 4:46 - Chantelle starts putting down her 18 bags of child-friendly crap, puts down her tray and asks me where I am going.
• 4:48 - Chantelle asks me what I'm doing.
• 4:49 - Chantelle begins a brigade of questions, making me ef up my game of diner dash on my cell phone. She then inquires if I had beat the game. When I respons with a "No." she says that she is really good at video games.
• 5:00 - Chantelle starts leaning over the seat talking to her sister. They both ask me questions about my pink Razr phone, which I then put in my bag for fear of theft. They were drooling at it.
• 5:30 pm - Chantelle tells me about her Dad's trips on his Harley motorcycle, and about the accident that left him with cement burns and exposed bones.
• 6:00 - Chantelle takes out her disc man and puts it on her tray preventing me from being able to get up and pee.
• 6:15 - She asks me if I have a disc man. I tell her I have an iPod. She drools at it so I immediatley put it on to drown out her next story about her and her cousin.
• 6:45 - Chantelle invites said cousin down from the front of the bus. As the short stocky little boy comes over she invites him to sit with us. In a two seater. I explain that it might be uncomfortable. She says "No it won't. I'll just squeezze closer to you." Luckily, Chantelle's grandma saves the day!!!! Then Chantelle tells Grandma that she may get "Bus sick" and that she's feeling woozy.
• 7:00 - Chantelle pulls a chicken breast (cooked) out of her bag of tricks. It smells. She offers me some and asks me "Why, don't you eat?" when I say no thanks.

It smelled like spices.

• 7:30 - Chantelle harasses the people behind me, exclaiming that she doesn't want to see New York City and that she hates George Bush and that she doesn't know who the mayor of her hometown is.
• 7:59 - We pull into Manhattan and Chantelle takes 20 minutes to gather her items and get off the bus. Chicken included.
• 8:00 - Chantelle waves goodbye to me and I repress every muscle to not give a child Dane Cook's Su-Fi on my way out of Port Authority.

And I'm actually really good with kids. Just not with a case of dehydration and exhaustion. And when they have chicken.

I am not a homeschooled jungle freak, that's a less hot version of Regina George!

I told my co-workers about my weekend and they keep referring to me as Lyndsay Lohan. Shoot me now.


I'm Lyndsey Lohan and I have diabetus.

Don't call it a come back...

Ahh Saratoga Springs, New York. The wonderful land of quaint small town shops and bars, beautiful parks around a famous race track. And now home to one of my most embarrasing moments.

Some people bring home souveneirs, I bring home shame.

I headed up to Saratoga on Friday after work. Amtrak did it's job, getting me there in under 4 hours, and I even got a seat (it seems that AMtrak--like Greyhound--like to overbook, more on that later) next to some local Saratoga folks who gave me the inside skinny on the local hot spots and a lecture about the gentrification of the town (OH MY GOD--STARBUCKS!).

Best Dressed's Saratoga home was adorable and a great place for me to spruce up to hit up the local bars. Who knew that SS, NY had such a booming night life? Streets closed off, crowds of people in the road, a million bars, bands playing on small stages--I haven't seen anything this sick since my Austin, TX trip back in '03. Needless to say, beers were consumed by Little and myself but I kept it under control. I was fully aware that we had a long day ahead of us the following day as we had to be up at 9 am to go to the race track.

When we woke up the following morning, I felt groggy and had a headache but it wasn't anything a shower, tylenol and a morning mimosa couldn't fix--or so I thought. We showed up at the track and were shown to our tent. Best Dressed's dad had hooked us up with table in the owner's tent. It had a huge buffet, waitress service and we were right on the rails. It was amazing--except for the heat. I started sweating (and I didn't even wear a hat!) profusely but thought nothing of it since everyone else was drenched too. When our first orders of mimosas showed I took one look at them and started to feel ill. The kind of ill you feel after a long night of drinking when you are about to have a projectile puke. Gross. Luckily, we had also ordered water and I grabbed an ice cold Dasani out of the bucket and took a few sips. No help there. At. all.

I totallyw alked out of a conversation with the college crowd and stood in front of an industrial fan. You would think it would help. But blowing 95 degree hot air at industrial force only made me sweat more. And then feel like my legs couldn't stand.

So I sat. And then I closed my eyes. And then I put my head down.

The next thing I knew, Little and a Best Dressed's dad were dousing me with water soaked cloth napkins and ice. I was forced to drink small sips of water and crunch on ice chips. Then. it. happened. I heard the fateful words:

"I NEED A MEDIC!"

Tengo sed.

And did the medics come. I heard about 5 showed up, asking me invasive questions (They kept asking me if I was preggers in front of ALL of my friends and I wasn't even wearing an empire waist dress!). I was in and out for the next few minutes and I couldn't really tell what was going on around me because I couldn't open my eyes.

Then came the wheel chair. Yes, an effing wheel chair. That I had to be picked up and put in. I was wheeled out of the fancy pants tent, and I can only imagine what everyone was thinking ("Did she drink too much?" - No, the frigging races haven't even started yet. "Is she pregnant?" - No, totally impossible...trust me, it's been a bit of a dry spell).

Oh but it gets better. Outside of the tent, the medics proceeded to place an oxygyn mask on my face and take my pulse and blood pressure. Little's good friend LT followed me in the chair, a nice gesture so Little wouldn't miss any of the races (and a picture in the winner's circle and all this fun stuff that happened when I was melting).

I was wheeled across the entire grounds to the medic station. As soon as I felt the air conditioning I started to feel a lot better. A doctor grilled me ("Are you pregnant?") and a nice nurse brought me some Lemon/Lime Gatorade. I was quicly on the road to recover with a wet cloth and ice pack on my head. LT and I started laughing, only because it was sort of funny...I mean really, who gets an oxygyn mask. The saddest part, once I started feeling better and it was decided I didn't need an IV, we were the most concerned on whether I could drink or not or if I would make it out that night.

When I made it back to the tent I was greeted with applause. I was the comback kid--a wise one who stuck to water for the remainder of the races.

BUT--

Once the sun went down, I started proclaiming that we all had to "PUMP IT UP!" since we were all exhausted. After dinner, I thought a celebratory beer would be appropriate. And indeed it was. The boozy floozy was back. And while most of the party pooped out by 12:30, Jonesy was in the last cab home still proclaiming that we needed to "PUMP IT UP!"

Pump it up, You've got ot pump it up.

I had a great time (minus the almost passing out and extreme public embarassment). I learned to bet on the ponies, I learned all about Saratoga Springs history (thanks train friends!) and I learned to always chug a few glasses of water after a long night of drinking.

And most of all I learned that a good rally from a short, pale Irish girl in a dress is definitley impressive.

I hate Mozilla Firefox

I was all ready to publish my new post about why I am starting to hate my tv when my browser "unexpectdly quit."

Bitch.

Now you'll never know why I am starting to hate my tv. Like you cared anyway.

And they're off...

Don't be surprised if you se me coming down the stretch on the back of one of these beauties.

This weekend I am heading up to Saratoga Springs for Hats Off Weekend. Which I guess is a horse race event that you don't have to wear a hat to. Which is good for me, since I really don't like hats. I mean, I look good in them, great in fact, but I hate that they hide your face and make your head sweat. Nothing worse that a pretty gal with a sweaty punnum.

The reason I am heading upstate to uncharted territory is a birthday party for a college friend, (who I'll call Best Dressed since I have NEVER seen her wear the same thing twice). Due to our busy lives, I don't get to see her that often--it's been over a year. I will also get to see Angel (who I haven't seen since January's college reunion event) and her new beau. She's pretty serious about this one, so I'm pretty psyched to get to see what he looks like.

Hat's = a bad idea.

Also in attendence will be Little, who I haven't seen since February and one of my many Mrs. Robinson affairs. Beachhead (named so since she looks like she should always be on a beach) will also be there.

It's like the perfect storm of old college gals getting together. And since it's my frist summer weekend post-wedding, I assure you that I will Get rediculously drunk and make an ass of myself. Hell, I'm short enough, maybe I'll end up riding one of the horses over the finish line. I may not know what my first trip back down drunk single girl ally will hold, but I can tell you this:

I will not have a sweaty head.

I bet this guy had a hat on.

Here comes the bride...with Jonesy right behind!

BFF is now officially now Mrs. BFF. Despite my complete exhaustion now, I can say that I had a fantastic time.

Her calla lillies galore (and I mean galore, she got them on even the tiniest details like her garter and the ring bearer pillow and the box that had the almonds in them.) made the reception hall look absolutely AMAZING! I mean, who thinks of freezing flowers in an ice sculpture? Mrs. BFF!!!!

As maid of honor I had to make a speech at the reception. Literally, the speech had been giving me anxiety since my birthday in 2004, the day they got engaged. I hate speaking in public and being that there were 300 guests at the wedding, it was definitley public.

I wrote my speech based on little notes I had taken for months and it all finally came together. I kept my speech in my purse in the bridal suite, and when it came time for us to do our grand entrance, I realized I couldn't carry my bag. I tucked my speech into my girdle of a bra, and prayed that my nervous sweat wouldn't smear the ink.

It went pretty well, I didn't stutter (I can turn into Piglet when I'm nervous) and strangers ended up complimenting my speech. I guess I have a gift for mushy congratulatory prose but I can honestly say I meant every word.

Then I officially started boozing. I have learned that I have to watch the booze intake during cocktail hour because I tend to eat very little at weddings (when I'm in them) and it's easy to get drunk when say, an entire bottle on wine, and some champagne and some vodka hits the belly before 7 pm. Needless to say, parts of Spanish's reception are a blur. But luckily, she was well aware that I had drunk bridesmaid written all over me when she asked me to be in her wedding.

Innappropriate, innnapropriate...I promise, no Old School moments

Then it was time for Mrs. BFF's mama to start her matchmaking. I was introduced to someone like this:

"Jonesy have you met your future husband? You're both so smart your kids will be in MENSA."

Lucky for me the guy was actually cute and I didn't feel so dateless the rest of the night because everyone kept telling me that I was going to have babies with this guy that I had just meant. Apparently, our kids will be beautiful. Spanish even pointed it out when she saw pictures, his tan skin and my light eyes will make adorable kin.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker make me a match...

It was weird, but I laughed it off. To bad for Jonesy, future husband lives in Washington DC. And his mother was sitting with him when I said goodbye. Typical. Oh yea, and did I mention that he watched me pour a galss of wine all over myself...classy. But hey, that's a wedding! And I wasn't that much of a boozy floozy.

Here comes the bride....and my booty.

BFF IS GETTIN' HITCHED!

BFF's wedding day is this weekend so I'm bogged down with all sort of preparations (and TONS of work).


I may not be able to post...But I will leave you with this....


Last week I went out for drinks with a few coworkers. As it usually happens, when I have 2 beers I want more. So I decided to pop home, use the ladies and meet Carly for drinks with her work friends.

I hopeed out of my building and starting walking (hard runway walking as I bopped to Sean Paul's "Temperature."). I live across the street froma raggedy ass parking lot. The attendants like to sit outside and stare at passersby. I ignored them and bopped right past until I heard someone screaming "MISS! MISS!"

I ignored it at first, figuring that it was a typical cat call, which tends to happen if you live in New York and have a vagina. The man kept callin out "MISS! MISS!"

It was then that I realized my skirt was tucked into my underpants. My thong underpants. My white butt was on full view to Hell's Kitchen.

Only I had a thong on....

The best part was, I untangled my skirt and ran. Full on ran. Not back to my apartment, no. Down the street and aroun the corner, just to get away from the people who I had literally blinded my the whiteness of my behind.

I have a case of the bends...and it ain't from diving.

Did you ever have the kind of friendship that was completely one-sided? Like you invite a person everywhere and they never come, they never call, and if you want to spend time with them it's on their terms??? Not in a Nicole Richie way, more like Abby Morgan on Dawson's Creek, who had to get drunk and die at the party Dawson and Joey were catering.

Nicole Richie even gives directions to lost drivers....soooo not a bend.

No? Ok then, I'm just a big loser. Because I have tons of these friends, whom I like to call bends (short for bad friend). Which, I guess aren't really friends. More like distant enigmas that I see every so often when they feel like enjoying my company. They don't return calls, emails or respond to any other flare that may send the signal "Hey, I might need your hlp/someone to talk to/advice." Dicks. They only respond to questions about themselves or anything involves them and their lives. Myself on the other hand, make ssacrifices every so often for the sake of a friendship. Like going to a bar I hate so I can hang out with a certain person, or letting an annoying comment go just because I know it's not worth the headache. Bends don't do that. Because htey don't have souls.

Here is a typical exchange between me and one of my many bends:

Moi: "Hey, What's up?"

Bend: "I am going to give you a 30 minute rundown of my life. My job is awesome and I'm doing really well, I go out ALL the time and have so much fun, I might not make a lot of money but I'll spend it on anything except for maybe cab fare/train ticket to come hang out with you, I totally met this celebrity last week, they were not a cute as you think. Oh yea, and I got a promotion and a raise and a this and mememememememememememememe, mineminemine, IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII......."


Moi: "Sounds like things are going really great for you. Glad you're happy. As for me, I've been really stressed out lately because..."

Bend: "Well, um, I have to go do something wonderful for me like give myself a pedicure/make dinner/date a rockstar/do anything other than listen to you or hang out with you."

Moi: "Oh. Ok. Maybe we can do something this week? Dinner?"

Bend: "Maybe, I have to check my datebook...oh I mean to tell you..."

Moi: (actually excited that Bend thought of me for a second) "What?!"

Bend: "That guy you said was cute that time? Yea, I saw him last week at that party I went to the night I never called you back and he told me he didn't like you and then we made out. Talktoyousoonbye!"

I think you get the idea.

So like the teenage gossip girl in the dropped call commercials I will put up with this NO MORE!!!! Gone are the days of having terrible bends stuck in my life. I declare, today is my Independence Day.

Monica Keena aka Abby Morgan...can you see the evil in her grin? She ruined Jen Lindley's life, even from beyond the grave.

Bends will no longer:

Be invited to any of my fun events that I put together.
Receive phone calls from me, even when I am bored on the weekends.
Burden me with their drama.
Borrow anything of mine.
Steal my look of the week.
Make me feel embarrassed for showing a little skin. (bends are usually less attractive than me and like to make comments on what I wear.)


My cure of this disease: decompressing with my good friends a la a birthday party this weekend. That and taking some lessons from a pre-rexic pre-cokewhore Lyndsey Lohan in Mean Girls. I'll let you know how it works out.

What the Duck?

I have officially had the most crappy weeks of my life all fall on top of each other.

It started with the day that was spawned from Satan and Star Jones. Then things got a little better with an extended weekend over July 4th. But with every ray of sunshine there seems to be a shower, and now here I am, Monday morning, back at my desk until Friday.

I thought I should be productive and gets my ducks in a row this week. I was at a family BBQ yesterday and since everyone was discussing the rising cost of New York real estate and how everyone will have to move and other adult type things (I sat in the corner with a beer), I figured today would be a good day to enroll in my 401K. I have no idea about finances, so I asked my mother too look at the documents. She told me how much of my fledgling salary to put away.

Cue Joe, the man who works for T.Rowe Price who, over the phone, convinced my that I am an idiot who has no idea about finances, savings and/or retirement. I told Joe how much I wanted to come out of my check to go into this thing called a 401K. The conversation went something like this:

"Hello, Hey Joe, Wanna Give It a Go?"

Me: "I want you to take this much out of my pay check."

Joe, the money man: "Ok, that's great, now we just have to convert that into a percent. Do you know how much your annual salary is."

Me: "Not down to the dollar, no, it's some number or something."

Joe: "Well, ok, do you know how much you make an hour?"

Me: "Well, sort of, but again, not down to the exact number."

Joe's Ducks.

Joe: "Hmm, ok then."

Me: "Oh! I still have my offer letter here, here it is...."

Joe: "Great. So you want to put away 2%."

Me: "That's it 2%?"

Joe: "Yes, that's how much you said you wanted to put away."

Me: "Ummm...ok. "

Joe: "Now, where would you like the money to go?"

Me: " Ummm, wait, what? I want it to go in my 401K."

My ducks.

Joe: "Yes, the money will go in your 401K, but you have to choose an investment."

Me: "Like stocks? (thinking it would be a great time to invest in something really cool, like toys or something. )"

Joe: "Well, you can do that if you would like to take the hands on approach, but in that case you would have to monitor your money very closely. There is another option where someone takes care of it for you, and you invest in diversified (I start hearing blah, blah)...mutual...blahblahblahblah....portfolio...blahblahblah.

Me: "Ok I'll do that."

Joe: "Are you sure?"

Me: "Yes? (asked like a question)"

Joe: "Ok good, now, let me explain about taxes....blah....pre-tax...blah....blah....loan. ok?"

Me: "Yep."

Joe: "Ok, now, we have to set the term of your account according to the year you retire. I see you are 24, so it's safe to assume that you won't be retiring any time soon?"

Me: Shocked at this point, that Joe, my financial phone guru, had managed to ascertain that I had no rich boyfriend and/or husband in sight and would have to work until I found Mr. Sugar Daddy. "Yes. That is safe to assume."

Joe: "So, since you'll be working until 65, I'll set you up with a 2045 retirement date."

Me: "Well.....okaaaaaaayyyy...ummm" I see all hopes and dreams slowly melt away and envision myself at 65, at the same desk, on the same phone. Single, Childless and alone....perhaps with cats. Then I realized that when I am 65, my boss will either be dead or like 104. The picture just gets worse and worse in my head until Joe interrupts the daydream.

Joe: "Of course that doesn't mean you HAVE to retire in 2045, you can work longer if you like, or, you can retire early."

Me: "OK!" Sigh of relief. Maybe I won't turn into an old cat lady with Joe from T. Rowe Price as my only companion afterall. Perhaps Joaquin Pheonix or some other male actor who has the look that he's always lonely will find me today and marry me and pay my bills. Damn, Joe, interrupts the daydream again.

Joe: "Ok, you're all set! We'll be sending you some literature in the mail, you may want to look it over."

Me: (feeling totally stupid for having no idea what was going on thorugh this whole process) Ok, Joe, will do.

So officially, I am a financial idiot who really needs to learn about:

1. investing
2. what a mutual fund is
3. about retirement
4. what an IRA is (apparently my mom has set one up for me)
5. how to not block out perfectly nice phone financial advisers when they are explaining the above to me so I can make an appropriate decision.

But I bet Joe would suck at Cranium. And that's all that matters to me.

I may just be the greatest Cranium player of all time...I AM the Star Performer.

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.