I work at a modeling agency and today another agent was writing an email to a model that had sent her photos to choose from. She wanted to express how the model's amazing photos had made it really difficult for her to choose her favorites so she emailed her back, "It was SO hard! They're gorgeous!"...unfortunately, after sending the email, she realized that she had forgotten to include the T in "it"...so the email that she sent the model read, "I was SO hard! They're gorgous!". Super amazing.
Last night, my roommate had her bible study at our apartment. Passing through on the way to the kitchen to refill my wine glass (ahem) and head back upstairs, I overheard one of the girls (who were all beyond nice, for the record) say that she and her roommate had been looking for a new place. Her roommate liked one place and she liked another. They spent several days trying to come to a compromise when her roommate finally told her that, "God told me that we shouldn't live in the apartment that you like"....and so now they live at the apartment her roommate liked better.... Ummmm....God just told me that your roommate just owned you.
This weekend I went back home to Northern Michigan (I hate that song by Kid Rock, btw) to visit family and also because it was a couple of my close friend's birthdays. On Friday night, the bar was a t.o.t.a.l. high school reunion...so that, naturally, involved me avoiding eye contact with many people until I was drunk enough to miss them/want to talk to them. As the night rolled on, I crossed that threshold and, according to many people, I had a wonderful time. The next morning I woke up not feeling as great as I had (allegedly) the night before. Until that is, I checked facebook and saw that I had a message from one of my high school friends [ahem]:
"omg..... lia just told me that last night....after my boyfriend threw my ass in the car...that the two of you ordered shots and you tried to pay for them with your qdoba card. priceless."
DYING. I should note that I am reaaaaaaalllly rich when I'm drunk and I probably shoo'ed away my former classmate's attempts of paying for the shots in a baller-like fashion. Of course I immediately picked up the phone and called my friend to see what the whole story was and she answered the phone laughing hysterically. Apparently, not only did I try and pay for the shots with my qdoba card, but I also ordered said shots by yelling, "bartender! give me two of the strongest shots you've got!!". After the bartender politely noted that they didn't accept the "frequent biters club" from Qdoba as payment, I laughed hysterically and told him that he should reconsider since I had a free burrito coming. Such a triumphant return from the biiiiiig city.
I enjoy many things French: french bulldogs, berets, saying "ooh la la", pepe le pew, french fries (ESPECIALLY french fries), and speaking in a faux French accent whenever the opportunity presents itself (i.e. always). However, one of the things I cannot stand is a bad french manicure [Please note: good french manicures do exist...but they're kind of like stumbling across a Unicorn]. Bad french manicures are typically waaaaay too long, square tipped, and were air-brushed (nike swoosh and crystals optional) by an asian woman that told you, "square tip in right now!". If you find yourself wondering if you fall in the "acceptable" or "tragically tacky" range, then you most likely have/have had the tragic version. If you're STILL unsure which category you fall into (god help you) then take this simple test: 1. Do you prefer Myspace to Facebook? If you answered "yes" to this question, you definitely have a bad french mani (and you also probably are waaay too tan, have bleached white hair, "looooooove the color pink", have a bedazzled t-shirt reading "spoiled" or "princess", and regularly take pictures of yourself rocking a sideways peace sign (so as to show off your lovely nails, of course (!!!))....essentially, you're my worst fear (m.w.f.)).
Over the years, I've discovered that many people share my opinion on this topic. Much to my delight, I've even had some of my guy friends and even my dad (!!!) point out bad frenchies to me. However, I didn't realize how far the hatred had reached until picking up the most recent copy of Us Weekly [quick side bar...if you're still reading that as: U.S. Weekly, as in United States Weekly, kill yourself. quickly]. But I digress....back to Us Weekly. On the June 1, 2009 cover, the top story is about/demonizing Kate Gosselin, otherwise known as the Kate of TLC's hit show, Jon and Kate Plus 8. For those of you that don't devour celebrity smut at the rate that I do, Jon had recently been caught cheating on Kate with a much younger woman....which is awful of him unless you consider what a terrible nagging wench that Kate is portrayed as on the show. Anyways, the article goes on and on about how Kate has gone "Hollywood", is a bad mom, diva, etc. Then, Us dropped this beautiful bomb comparing Kate to the evil "Octomom": genius! genius! genius! Well done, Us, well done. You've offically gained my respect for your hard-nosed investigative journalism and my continued readership.
***side note: Kate's manicure is an example of an acceptable fm while Octo-mom, in all her tackiness, is an example of m.w.f. (my worst fear....keep up, people).
One of my friends, who shall remain nameless to protect her good name, met this guy one night at the bar. As stories like this usually go, they hit it off, had a few drinks, and as closing time rolled around, they were on their way back to his place to...errr....roll around. The next morning was delightfully free of awkwardness and they spent the morning cuddling and chatting (and probably picking out baby names of their future children, but that's pure speculation). According to my friend at one point her new boy even took a call from his mom while they were laying in bed together....unconventional, yes, but it was an unconventional sort of morning and she took it as a sign that he was just really comfortable around her. As the morning went on, my friend asked to use his computer to check her work email and he, naturally, complied. As she sat down at his computer, an icon for his internet popped up....along with his network name: pussy-getter. She was out the door in 5 minutes without a word of explanation and never spoke to him again.
So, I realize that I have been a wee bit MIA...but I have a good excuse...I moved, am changing careers, had computer issues, and my dog ate my blog entries (...). Thanks to those of you that sent me motivating emails (read: hate mail) encouraging me to start blogging again. I'll try not to leave you hanging again (but let's be serious...I probably will at some point).
In light of said recent move and changing of careers this is a text I received last night from one of my bestest friends. (If you're a Friends fan, you'll love this, otherwise...tough).
"So my mom thinks you should get a job at a coffee shop and from there you will get a job at Ralph Lauren."
Since I'm both popular and 27 I was, naturally, watching Wheel of Fortune this Friday evening. A young woman had been leading by a narrow margin over another contestant for the course of the entire show. She was now leading by only $100 when it came to the speed round towards the end of the show. Now for those of you that don't have as active a social life as I do -- the speed round is essentially just like regular Wheel of Fortunerounds, only the leading contestant spins the wheel once and the dollar amount that it lands on is the going rate for all correct letters over the course of the puzzle and the contestants have to take a stab at the answer on each turn. The young woman that spun the wheel landed on $6000 (!!!), which is essentially the holy grail of Wheel of Fortune dollar amounts. Anyway, the young woman guessed R and there were four of them so she was up to $24,000 right away but wasn't able to solve the puzzle. The other two contestants were equally successful but were also unable to solve. It went on like this for two more rounds until it got back to the young woman, now up to $36,000. The clue for the puzzle was "The Great Outdoors" and the remaining puzzle looked like this: _H_RRY OR_ _ARDS. It seemed rather obvious that the answer was "Cherry Orchards" and I waited expectantly for the young woman to answer. Excitedly, she said that she would like to solve and then exclaimed, "Cherry OrGards!!!". omg.omg.omg.omg.omg. Seriously? Since the guy that formally had been trailing this girl was familiar with the English language, he easily solved the puzzle and won the whole thing. After the show, the host asked the woman what happened and she shrugged and said, "I don't know. I thought I had it". Can you imagine? She will literally be haunted by that for the rest. of. her. life.
I'm endlessly fascinated by vanity license plates of all kinds (shout out to bixler's mom). However, nothing perplexes me more than the fact that rented limo services always, always, ALWAYS have license plates that read: "class" something-or-other. First of all, if experience has taught me anything, a rented limo is rarely the definition of class. (Unless, that is, your definition of "class" includes cramped seating for 12 (read: uncomfortable seating for 7), guaranteed late pick up, and a squiggly-mirrored ceiling.) To be fair, however, I suppose that whenever I have been part of a rented limo, the occasion was the antithesis of class and usually ended up with people piled all over the floor in a drunken haze and someone (ie me) playing with the sunroof ala Tom Hanks in the movie Big (and hopefully eating baby corn on the cob; off the cob (!!!)). In fact, its been my observation that the only time it's ever used with sincerity is by people that also loudly chew gum. The irony, and my point here, is that limos, much like the word classy, usually aren't. Don't be fooled by these high brow license plates.
A few years back, I was visiting my then-long-distance boyfriend at his college for the weekend with an acquaintance that graduated a couple years after me in high school. The night started out as most of my nights in college did; fun was had by all and many, MANY, MANY drinks were consumed. After the bar, the party headed back to my boyfriend's apartment where my boyfriend and I proceeded to get into a heated argument about something important like religious and political beliefs (read: he forgot to pay more attention to me). This ended with me proclaiming (slurring; what have you) that I was sleeping on the couch and promptly leaving in the morning. I woke up bright and early the next morning (noon) still drunk and pissed. As such, I rounded up my travel companion and we set off on the trip back to Ann Arbor.
On the short walk to my car, I quickly discovered that a giant booze induced poo was immanent.....I had goose bumps all over my body and yet I was also sweating profusely. Specifically, I practically had sweat dripping down my butt crack since the situation was so dire that I was in "clench mode". Not knowing the girl I was with very well, I didn't feel comfortable making her privy to the perfect storm that was brewing in my bowels. Instead, when I noticed her glance sideways at the beads of sweat forming on my forehead and upper lip, I just said, "I'm not really feeling so great". She nodded and we continued to on to my car.
Literally, within the first 10 seconds of our car ride, I swerved my car into the nearest poop-able place; in this instance, Wendy's. Throwing the car in park outside the door without even bothering with a parking spot, I yelled "park this!" to my passenger as I ran into a packed lunch hour Wendy's. The bathroom turned out to be one enormous one toilet room with no stalls......and the lock to the outside door was, naturally, broken. Panicking, I pulled off the sweatshirt I had thrown on over the bar outfit I'd slept (sequined tank, jeans, and eff-me boots...don't judge me; it was a long time ago) and hung it on the outside door knob to signal that the bathroom was "occupied".
Unbuttoning and pulling down my pants simultaniously as I hurried back to the toilet, I was overcome with the urge to throw up. Just making it in time, I did just that. Unfortunately, the force of vomiting also caused me to shoot diarrhea all over the pants around my ankles and ALL over the tiled bathroom floor. AGH!!! Turning around to finish emptying the contents of my colon I and surveyed the devastation in utter disbelief. To be gentle, the scene before me resembled that of Vietnam. Total. Nightmare. Gingerly, I removed my jeans, threw away my underwear, and attempted to clean my jeans off. It wasn't happening. As it turns out, my body had decided take that opportunity to produce limited-edition-water-insoluble-fecal-matter that literally would NOT rinse out of my pants.
This. was. not. good.
Leaving the pants in the sink to "soak" I turned to tackle the bathroom floor. In an inspired moment, I constructed some ye olde fashioned poop mittens by winding massive amounts of paper towel round and round my hands. I then used said poop mittens to "scoop" poop off of the floor. As I realized that I was only succeeding in smearing the "problem" around more, there was a knock on the door. OMG. OMG. OMG. OMG. In a panic, I squeaked, "Just a miiinute!!" while thinking, "killll me". There was NO WAY I could put the jeans back on. They were poopy and soaked through. As my own viable alternative, I opened the door a crack and snatched my sweatshirt off the door knob and quickly slammed the door shut again.
The woman knocked again. This time aggressively and I could hear her loudly complaining about how long I had been in there and how I "hadn't even parked [my] car". Working quickly, I threw paper towels on top of the residual (read: all of it) organic matter, wrapped my pants in paper towel (...don't judge me for not tossing them. They were expensive and I was poor), and proceeded to stuff my legs into each sweatshirt arm, pants-style. Yes, I was going to wear my sweatshirt as pants.
[knock! knock! knock!]
Tucking my package o' poopy pants like a football under one arm and holding my "pants" up with the other, I opened the door to the persistent woman on the other side. "Well it's about time", she started before registering my outfit and trailing off. "Sorry, it's all yours", I smiled back and headed out into the crowded dining area with the hood of my sweatshirt swaying back and forth like an utter between my legs as I walked away.
Outside, I threw my feces stained jeans into the trunk, and I got into the passenger side of the car. Looking over at the driver I commanded, "We shall never speak of this". To her credit; she never did....not that she had to since I promptly told my harrowing tale to anyone that would listen.
i dont remember anything that happens right before i go to sleep, or right after i wake up...or when i drink...i've pooped my pants almost every single year of my adult life...i'm always late but i hate it when others are...i'm a mass of contradictions...no i'm not...i'm clumsy and i always have bruises...i hate showering...i'm the best at bragging...i change my hair color all of the time, i dont get sick of the color, i just really want to showcase the diversity of my good looks...i reference commercials constantly...i love to sleep, but i hate going to bed...i'm a member of the clean plate club, and i'll finish my food even if i feel like i may burst...i dont like capital letters, lowercase for life...i'm a bad driver...paula abdul claps like a monkey with a set of cymbals...i just had to call brooklynn to see how to spell "cymbals" and neither of us knew how to spell it...lose expensive pairs of sunglasses and manage to retain cheap ones...i'm curiously strong (like the altoid of muscles)...i exaggerate and i'm a bad speller, however, i'm still awesome.