Saturday, February 28, 2009

Why (almost) 40-Year Olds Should Stay Away From College Bars

Last Saturday night, I headed back to my hometown to visit an old friend from High School who was turning the big 4-0. It started innocently enough. Her parent's threw a lovely garden party for approx 50 people. Meanwhile, when I turn 40, I'll be lucky if we can round up a party of 5. Maybe it was the fact that the only thing I'd eaten all day was a Baby Ruth bar in the Phoenix airport, but by the third plastic cup o' wine I was happy as a clam. And Loud. And Friendly. Needless to say I was in no mood to argue when after the party, someone suggested heading down to 4th Ave.  - a mecca of hedonistic college bars where I haven't been in almost 18 years.

Going to a crowded college bar is mind-blowingly different at the age of 39 then it is at say the age of 19. For example, I'm pretty sure at 19 I didn't find myself repeatedly screaming at the top of my lungs, "Jesus this band is so loud I can't even hear myself think!" Also, I ordered 5 drinks and pulled out $40, wondering if that was enough to cover the tab and tip. When the bartender told me, "that will be $13," I stared at him cross-eyed in disbelief.  Ordering $3 drinks at a college bar made me feel like I was Ivana-freaking-Trump. I gladly handed him a $20 and told him to keep the change.  From the expression on the bartender's face, I'm guessing the poor guy doesn't get a lot of $7 tips. He practically creamed his pants and offered to walk the drinks to our table (maybe he felt sorry for us old gals, who had clearly parked our "Lil' Rascals" out front). Either way I felt it was my duty to tip liberally considering all the times I used to steal $1's from the tip jar at the seedy bar I frequented as a poor, underage 18 year old (seriously, some nights I'd come home with more money than I left with. Once again, going to hell). 

In retrospect cheap drinks aren't always such a good thing. When a good friend turns 40, cheap shots and vodka/red bulls certainly seem like a good idea, but it all went south when shortly after the bar closed, I found myself being held up in the air on my back ("stage dive" style) by two skinny college girls and their big gay friend who I think might have been the gay in the movie "Mean Girls" and who thought I was the 'bees knees" because I was a housewife from Orange County. My girlfriend took a picture of this (probably because I was screaming at the top of my lungs from my rock and roll stage dive position "Take a Picture!!"): the result was something that you might find in the pages of the 2009 Webster's Dictionary under the word "Muffintop". 

Our designated driver (who ironically was a 21 year-old, full-bearded, Latin teacher with the personality of a day-old bran muffin, who unlike us cougar ladies, hardly drank at all) took us back to my girlfriends house where even more bad decisions were made. I guess it's time to call it a night when you find yourself doing a shot of warm Smirnoff Green Apple Vodka out of your girlfriends daughter's mini tea cup from her plastic My Little Pony tea set at 4 a.m. Game over. 

The next morning, just like in High School, my mom came to pick me up (but this time to take me to the airport) and I looked and felt like Courtney Love after shooting heroin and doing shots of  tequila with her band Hole. It didn't help that my girlfriend had a gas leak at her house, i.e. no hot water, i.e. no shower, i.e. smelly drunk lady with Alice Cooper eyes on a plane. I actually bought a pink fleece blanket at the airport to hide under during the flight which was terrible, to say the least. The 4 year-olds in front of me pulled out their greasy, stinky McDonald's cheeseburgers and the lady next to me ordered a chardonnay - it's called Karma, I know.

When Tom and the kids picked me up, I felt like I'd been rescued from a deserted island - one with no food, but lots of liquor. Never had I been so happy to see my family. I told them I was very "tired"(my code word for hungover beyond belief) and Tom tucked me in on the couch and served me grilled steak and Parmesan mashed potatoes and it was then that I remembered that being 39-going-on-40 (as opposed to 19) isn't so quite bad.
NOTE: The above picture is not me or anyone I know - just some lame old cougar trying to relive her youth. So pathetic!

Friday, February 27, 2009

There are No Words just posted the top 10 creepiest commercials of all times - somehow this one only managed to come in at number 4. I'm not sure if this product (called the "Rejuvenique" que classy!) is still available, but lord knows I'd shell out 3 installations of $19.95 if for no other reason than to scare the shit out of my kids. Ella didn't clean her room? The rejuvenique mask oughta do the trick. The patio needs sweeping? Get your ass out there and sweep it kiddos or the mask goes on!

When they come home from school I would sit in a rocker (maybe with some knitting needles) silently rocking back and forth while that freaking mask massaged my face muscles, rendering me younger by the minute - and watch my little monsters run to their rooms and lock the door. This product was clearly the catalyst for the phrase "WTF"? It also makes a great holiday gift for your peri-menopausal girlfriends. 

P.S. Love the warning about not getting "Rejuvenique" wet EVER!!!! Seriously - that's just an invitation for me to take this monster to the beach and see what happens. Will my face melt off? Will I turn into an evil Gremlin. Will I be electrocuted and end up looking like Mickey Rourke?

Monday, February 23, 2009

Oscar: The Play by Play texts

I had planned on doing a live blog during the Oscars this year. But after celebrating yet another friend's big 4-0 on Saturday night (and celebrating it like we were turning 21 and finally able to legally drink, then legally drinking everything in sight) I was in no condition to deal. It took every ounce of energy to respond to Parker's Oscar texts, which I am reprinting verbatim in lieu of an actual Oscar roundup. I will say, however that after watching the Oscars every year since I was 4, that this was one of the most entertaining and well-put together one's yet. Sure the musical numbers were cheesy but it was the first time in years that I wasn't bored to tears by the time Best Actor came around.

V: Watching red carpet. Why does Angelina always have the "My shit don't smell" look on her face. She's so god damned gorgeous its totally unfair. J Anniston is presenting - girl better get her game on.

P: Am mesmerized by her Emerald earrings - they are small and cheap.

V: SJ Parker's dress is to die for. 

P: All this nude, cream, gray, light diarrhea -colored palette  isn't doing anything for me. Apparently cement is all the new rage in color this year. Altho Penelope Cruz's dress amazing. 

V: Totally, it is also sixty years old. By the way, hasn't Penelope Cruz been in America for like 15 years? When is she gonna learn the English?

P: When she accepted her award and did the last part in Spanish, I bet she said "I'm going to Disneyland! But first I'm stopping at Taco Bell and getting the pintos and cheese."

V: Yikes. So maybe I'm not loving SJ Parker's dress after all. It looked much better on the carpet and is a Christian Dior Haute Couture.

P: Crappy.

V: The Japanese guy that just won said "Sank you Berry Much" so cute.

P: Total Sank You Berry Much. Did Sarah Jessica get a boob job?

V: Nah they are still squishy -  just pushed up majorly by the CD dress with the 19-inch waist. Meryl Streep's daughter is ugly - not.

P: I know, very cute. And poor.

V: They have Heath Ledger's Joker face up on the big screen. The joker totally looks like me after going to Frat Parties in College.  Loved Ben Stiller's impression of sane Joaquin Phoenix. 

P: Missed it, was doing dishes. Do you have a Pannini Press? You should totally get one. 

V: Huh? Sheesh, Slumdog just won again? Can't understand some of the Indian people.

P: "Would u like some highly salted pretzels?"

V: Huh? 

P: You have to insert Indian accent with that. It's a Simpson's reference.

V: Sweet - a tribute to Jerry Lewis. The most annoying man on the planet. 

P: Going to bed, sorry Oscar night.

V: Whatever. Queen Latifah is singing to all the dead showbiz folks. Unfortunately they keep panning back and forth and I can't read the god damned names. Queen's song is totally distracting me and I can't conjure up the necessary tears. Damn you Queen.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Flash Those Pearly Whites

I've struggled for years to get my son to brush his teeth. Years of calling him "cake teeth" and "butter teeth" never seemed to do the trick (and possibly scarred him for life). He's getting better, but only because I hound him like a prison guard every morning until those teeth are clean.

The Sun recently announced that tooth decay is the third most common reason that children are admitted to the hospital in England. Shocking news, I know. Take this handsome young lad whose mom clearly didn't enforce the tooth brushing rule and probably fed him Mountain Dew and Pop Rocks for every meal since birth. 

I wonder if his mom calls him "coal teeth" or simply"Pebbles"? Had I seen this picture a few years back I would have blown it up poster size and placed it smack square in the center of my son's bathroom mirror with the  words "Brush Your Teeth or Else!" 

Travis: The Ape Shit Chimp

This story, while very sad (the dismembering of a person, shooting of an animal - never funny) does have some humor in a sick way. First of all, who has a chimp as a pet? A little monkey, maybe but to own a full size friggin chimp you would have to be a whack job to say the least. Also, there is no way a chimp owner could possibly live in a clean house - for sure there are dirty dishes in the sink, you smoke two packs a day and you have giant chimp diapers with chimp shit in them lying around. Don't even get me started on the fact that she named him Travis. Is he a country singer in Wranglers or a chimp?

Even if the owner was channeling "Every Which Way But Loose" it is still very odd. Then your best friend pays a visit to your Chimp-Dung-Taj-Majal sporting a new hairdo and the cujo-ape doesn't recognize her and proceeds to rip her face off ala Montecore/Siegfried and Roy. Giant white tigers weren't meant to be bedazzled and put on stage in Vegas with spot lights and chimps weren't meant to sit on a couch in a trailer watching Judge Judy.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Movie Review: Confessions of a Shopaholic

I've never read any of the "Shopaholic" books. Truth is, I'm a bit of a book snob. Sure, I have no problems watching terrible television - i.e. "
Confessions of a Teen Idol" or "Tool Academy" (ok, actually I've only seen that show once) but when it comes to literature, I try to have some scruples. (Clearly this was not the case when Parker sent me the Artie Lang biography "Too Fat To Fish" and I read the entire seedy memoir in less than 6 hours). But, in general I don't read a lot of "chick lit" - yet I have no qualms about seeing it on the big screen.

So, in a nutshell, here is my review for "Confessions of a Shopaholic" (broken down into easy to read bullet points)

  • The main character Rebecca is played adorably by Isla Fisher. The fashions are fun. Everything else is completely unrealistic, for example:
  • Rebecca has a closet full of Prada, Gucci, etc... yet she is only in debt $16k? This past weekend alone I had my hair colored and cut, bought a new handbag (COACH, not even Gucci,)  a Wii fit and a pair of jeans to the tune of $1,000. In in my 20's I somehow managed the impossible by racking up close to $50k in debt by shopping at Ross, Target and Marshalls. (That's a lot of crappy tee shirts and Liz Claiborne sweaters). 
  • Rebecca, after downing a bottle of tequila, writes a phony article about how shoes relate to the economy (because we all can see the correlation there) and is hired by a Finance magazine a mere 24 hours later and is a national sensation within days. Meanwhile I have a college education, over 15 years of administrative and hotel management experience, and just lost out on a part time receptionist job at the community college down the street from my house. (I'm sure a 24 year old with a high school GED is probably answering the phones right now). Really though, I'm not bitter. 
  • Rebecca repeatedly shows up to work in fuchsia pencil skirts, strapless bustiers and gemstone necklaces the size of a small ship and no one even blinks an eye. Last time I wore a bustier to my corporate job, I received a verbal lashing and was told not to return until I had a Brooks Brother tweed blazer, ruffle shirt and a Playtex 12-hour bra. OK, this is a lie - I never did wear a bustier to work, but did once wear one of my Heather Locklear "Melrose Place" suits to my hotel job circa 1994 (the skirt fell just millimeters below my ass cheeks) and my female boss looked at me as if I had just arrived from a night of part time whoring. 
  • And, like every other movie in the world, in the end she gets the charming, English dude who is independently wealthy but shuns his rich family. So cliche. 
  • Given a do-over, I'd save the $10.50 admission and Netflix this flick. 

Batshit Crazy People are Fun

The one thing the Internet (and the thousands of cable television stations with oodles and oodles of reality TV) has taught me is, that as crazy as I think I am, there is always someone more f-ed up than me.

This lady missed her flight and is a little bummed out about it. I had the same reaction when I ran out of Xanax over the holidays (luckily the house was heavily stocked with some good red wine). Oh, if only she was speaking English - because I really want to know what Utopia she was flying to that made her have a meltdown that rivals a two-year-old when he drops his ice cream cone in the dirt. * Update: Parker's husband just watched this video and said Parker had the exact same reaction in Paris when they missed their connecting flight to NY. I knew there was a reason we are such good friends.

Speaking of Xanax - here's someone who clearly has a never-ending prescription and uses it liberally. I'm sure you've all seen the Jouaquin Phoenix interview by now, but honestly, it never gets old.  Talk about a barrel of laughs, I'm totally inviting him to my next shindig. Personally, I think it's all an act, but who doesn't love to watch a nervous breakdown in action

Friday, February 13, 2009

Best Friends Being Bitchy (catfight!!!!)

Below, an actual conversation  via text message from friends who  have known each other too long:

To: Val
From: Parker
Can u please mail back the blog book that I sent to you? My brother  wants to read it. Also, do you want me to mail that Bug Book that you sent to Daddy Warbucks to your sister? Thanks for sending  it to him - he loves getting books.

To: Parker
From: Val
I don't know what the "Bug Book" is? I will send u back the Blog book (forgot I even had it) that I never even read.

To Val:
From Parker:
No! I said "Blog book" send  it back to me so my brother can read!!!!!!

To: Parker
From: Val
NO!!!!!!! You said "Should I send the  BUG book to  my sister." HUH?

To: Val
From: Parker
Whatever Brianyaic, just sent the book back.

To: Parker
From: Val
I love that you spelled "Brainiac" wrong. 
Listen up,  Forrest Gump, I get it! I WILL send you the Blog book, however you said to me "Do You Want me to Send the BUG book that you sent to DW to your sister." I was just trying to understand what you meant by "BUG Book"?? (did you mean "Big Book"?) Who's on first?

To: Val
From: Parker
"BIG Book. The one by an author named Walley something-or-other.
Total "Who's on First"?

To: Parker
From Val:
I'm  going to post our text exchange on our blog. You are a total Smarteyey. Did I tell you I'm getting my hair darkened tomorrow?

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

God will Kick Your Ass

Seriously, how can I get my hand on one of these? I'm guessing the only way would be a time machine and a trip to Arkansas (or Ebay). Either way this is one kick-ass toy. God, complete with Evan Almighty white beard, flowing robe and AK-47 assault rifle? God Almighty indeed! - And don't even get my started on his codpiece (look it up).
(Picture from

Is it wrong that American Idol made me cry?

I just watched last night's American Idol (the one where they separate the good from the bad, put them in an empty conference room for hours without even some complimentary bottled water and/or a tray of assorted cookies, and then send one room of poor souls packing while the other three rooms are screaming their guts out with glee) and I got totally choked up. This can mean one of several things: 
  • I'm getting older and more sensitive
  • I do have a heart after all
  • I have a raging case of PMS
Tonight's episode is two grueling hours of heartache. I have a box of Kleenex and some microwave popcorn ready to go. (Also I am predicting the blind guy and the guy who's wife died will go farrrrrrrrrrrr......). Also the crying, screaming, laughing psycho girl will be eliminated soon, and have a complete meltdown (I won't cry).

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Blogging in the Bubble Bath

I just finished cleaning my shower and doing a load of laundry - that kind of excruciationg work calls for a bubble bath. I do a lot of "deep thinking" in the bubble bath, so today I thought I might try to blog via bubble bath. (I know, who do I think I am, Pia Zadora?)

Deep thoughts:

Is it just me or does the mother of the newly-hatched octopluts resemble a "poor-man's" Angelina Joile? Sorry but how is it that you have no job, 14 kids and live in your parents guest house, but clearly can afford collegen lip injections? I just got back my tax return and I'm still debating whether I should re-do my botox from a year and a half ago, or continue to be taken for Phyllis Diller on a bender, because I don't want to fork out $400. If I had 14 kids, lip injections would be the last thing on my mind (what was left of it).

So Michael Phelps smoked some pot. Sorry but big whoop. Give me a call when you find him behind the dumpster of the Roxy on Sunset mainlining cocaine and heroin with Stephen Adler from Guns N Roses, then we can all get on his case. Sheesh, if I had to swim 10 miles every day in a Speedo so tight that it would probably one day render me infertile, I'd probably long for a bong hit too. (Just kidding kids, drugs are Bad).

My husband and I went to Williams Sonoma to buy a stainless steel vegetable slicer (which was basically a rectangular shaped piece of metal with some cut outs for veggie slicing). When the cashier told us "That will be $71.00," I nearly squashed in my pants. By looking at this thing, at best it should have cost $9.99 - ok coming from Williams Sonoma, maybe $24.00, but $71.00??? It doesn't even plug in or have batteries. Who does my sweet cook-of-a husband think he is, Gordon Ramsey? For $71, that little slicer better do the dishes after dinner. After our purchase I took his tiny Williams Sonoma bag and buckled it with a seat belt so it wouldn't be damaged if we crashed (seriously, I did).

My daughter has been saving up her allowance and Christmas money and finally had enough dough to go to Target and purchase the new $230 Apple iPod Touch. (She could have gotten 3 vegatable slicers from Williams Sonoma). Which makes me wonder how at the age of 11, I seemed to get by entertaining myself with a bike, a black and white 9" tv (which only got the three major network stations and a Fox affiliate - cable was unheard of) and a "Lite Brite" which was like the iPod of the late 70's. I predict that her new iPod Touch will be at the bottom of her underwear drawer by early March.


Friday, February 6, 2009

More Blonde Moments (brought to you by L'oreal Pale Ash Blonde #43)

Yesterday after sitting in my car wondering why it wouldn't start for 20 minutes and frantically texting my husband, I eventually came to the realization that I had somehow tripped the alarm (this became obviously apparent once I noticed the flashing blue "alarm light" between my legs). I guess if the car alarm is on while you are in the car it won't start - who knew?). That light bulb moment brought me back to a few other blonde moments in my life - I can only blame the hundreds of boxes of L'oreal that I have used over the years.

  • Immediately after graduating from college, I got a job working in the Reservations Office of an upscale hotel. Among the many challenges I faced, was learning the new, ultra-confusing technology known as "E-mail" ("oh, this will never last, it's soo impersonal," I remember thinking) and the ever-frightening "fax machine'. Always on top of my game, for the first few months, whenever I sent an outgoing fax I always methodically sent two copies of my fax (one for me to keep and the other for the recipient to keep) - my blonde rationale was that one copy would somehow miraculously float through a time/space portal and land in the hands of the person on the other end of the line. it wasn't until a coworker noticed what I was doing and bent over in a heap of laughter did I realize how a fax machine actually worked. 
  • Leaving my dad's sports car in "neutral" (with the keys in it) while I went in to pay for gas (this was long before the ever-convenient 'pay-at-the-pump', back in the dark ages when you had to actually walk to a bullet-proof plastic window and pay for gas in person). After paying the clerk I turned around to discover a blank space at the pump where the car once had been. Then I saw it, out of the corner of my eye slowly rolling backwards downhill towards a busy intersection. I sprang forth faster than TJ Hooker on speed and got to my car just before it rolled into the intersection. Lucky me, the car was intercepted by a giant metal sandwich-board gas sign (toting $0.83 per gallon prices). The sign was knocked over, but a 40 car pile up was averted. As a crowd gathered (pointing and laughing) I hopped behind the driver's seat and made like Danica Patrick at the Indy 500. 
  • Pulling a Christian Bale-like rant on my coworkers when my stapler had gone missing for the umpteenth time. "Who keeps stealing by God-damned stapler?" I huffed. Hours later when it was quitting time, I reached in my bag to get my car keys only to discover my stapler staring back at me. Clearly, in addition to being a dumb blonde, I am also an amnesiac kleptomaniac. 
  • Locking my keys in the car while it was running, done more times than I can count back in the 80's. Obviously I'm not the only blonde who's done this. Today car makers have designed automobiles that won't lock if the keys are in the ignition. Genius! 
There are so many more blonde moments I could mention, but that would involve way too much brain activity. Besides, I've got a new episode of Sober House waiting on my Tivo and I'm not getting any younger. 

Wednesday, February 4, 2009

My Last Blog about The Real Housewives of OC (for now)

I am so over the Real Housewives of the OC - yet every Tuesday like clockwork I turn the telly to Bravo, while my son shakes his head with a look of grave disappointment. Last night was the (almost) last straw. Below, just a few reasons why the housewhores of the OC need to go straight to hell:

Gretchen: It was so sweet of her to spend hours cooking a gourmet spaghetti dinner for her sickly, 90 lb fiancee and his adult children, because nothing says "love" like a dining on hamburger meat covered in Ragu and a few stray Lee Press On Nails while we listen  to you drone on  and on about your upcoming "girls weekend" in Vegas. Really, why would you want to stay at home and nurse your terminally ill sugar daddy, when Bravo is footing the bill at the Red Rock Resort in Sin City? I can only imagine the inner turmoil Gretchen must have felt when faced with the option of changing the bed pan for a man  who looks like David Bowie in The Hunger, or slutting it out with a "Hottie Whistle" while drinking Rum Coladas poolside in a string bikini. (On a side note, Gretchen's fiancee/personal ATM machine died in September -  I hope Vegas was worth it, Gretchen).

Lynn: The  newest  housewife is clearly a distant cousin of Cornelius from Planet of the Apes (except Cornelius was like a thousand times smarter). I'm not sure if I am more disgusted by her stupidity or her tanorexic bony body covered with aged leather skin that looks like it has been rode harder than Secretariat. Don't get me started on her unnatural  hacky sack shaped boobs, or her ungrateful alcoholic teen aged daughter who has the ambition of a slug after eating a marijuana leaf.

Tamra: You husband is in  his 40's, please stop buying his shirts from "Hot Topic". And by the way, you need to take a bath in a giant tub of Le Mer moisturizer, invest in a really good deep conditioner and teach your creepy son  how to treat a lady. 

Vicki: Instead of stuffing your martini olives with blue cheese, how about you stuff   those olives with 20 tablets of crushed Valium, so you can chill the f*&k out. 

While I'm  bitching and moaning about a show that I clearly don't have to watch (but continue to torture myself and my family by doing so) Bravo needs to stop putting the price of things on the screen every five minutes. For example last night when they checked into the hotel, Bravo felt it necessary to show us the following disclaimer: "Presidential Suite $5,500 per night". As if we are supposed to believe that these cheap ass ladies sprang for the hotel suite themselves. Sorry but I'm not buying it. The camera panned over the hotel name at least 75 times during last night's episode, it was practically a Red Rock Resort infomercial. 

God Dammit, I am so ready for the Real Housewives of New York to start, because the OC bitches are killing me. 

For the Douchebag that Has Everything

Unfortunately Christmas is over, but the Goatee Saver is clearly a great gift for any occasion for the douchebag in your  life. Hey "Goatee Saver," 1993 called and it wants it's look back. Last   time I checked, looking like the lead singer of Color Me Bad was not something to aspire to. Of course "Heather" (classy lady in cut-out  zebra dress who looks like she just swallowed a handful of barbiturates) seems to approve, so maybe I'm just not down with the latest trends. 

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

I'll have the poached lobster with shaved white truffles and a glass of bubbly, please.

Spending money on clients that spend money with me has never been a problem for me, especially on loyal clients that I genuinely like. In my early years of trying to build relationships, I actually had the bad judgement of going on a vacation with a client and to another client's Christmas party. Really no matter how bad you need to schmooze, vacations and major holidays should be off limits for business ass-kissing.

As of late, I've been cold calling like crazy and trying my best to pretend that consumer confidence is not really in the shitter. After calling a prospect numerous times, I finally got the client on the phone and she was very friendly and didn't even treat me like I do with the Kidney Foundation People when they call me during dinner or when Habib calls me on a Sunday to tell me the warranty on my car has expired, yet again.

She suggested we go to lunch with one of her peers and mentioned a restaurant I had been to before, which was somewhat pricey . I said, "Sounds  great" and immediately went online to check their menu prices. Lunch looked reasonable. This particular client had not done business with me or my company for at least six years, so I wasn't up for lavishing them with a five-star experience.

The day of the lunch, the client emailed me, suggesting a different restaurant, one that I knew was very expensive. I thought about saying I ate there once and got the runs, but kept my mouth shut, knowing I was stuck. (Did I mention, that in this crappy economy, my company has taken away my once cushy "expense account," meaning that any time I entertain clients, I foot the bill. Thanks economy.)

Traffic was hell (as my office makes geographical sense to nothing) and I was 8 minutes late. Across the restaurant I met eyes with two non-smiling and I'm  guessing  hungry business women. (In retrospect I wouldn't be surprised if they'd already downed a few shots of Patron and told the waiter to put it on my bill). I apologized profusely, but no-personality One and Two just stared at me blankly. The waitress asked if we wanted an appetizer, which I quickly responded "No! And we are ready to order." I took the lead and ordered a Caesar salad with shrimp, literally the cheapest thing on the menu, hoping that they would follow suit with a salad, sandwich or at least something from the actual "lunch" menu. Both women ordered the Miso Black Cod - and one even ordered a salad to start. Being a foodie, I knew Miso Black Cod didn't come cheap anywhere (especially Dallas, where there isn't a freshly caught cod for miles). They warmed up a bit and seemed at least tepid on my ideas and pitch. All I could think was "oh no u did-nt just each order a $30 entree." Seriously, why don't we order table service and P Diddy can join us and bring a some Ciroc Vodka and strippers. Hell, lets just order a bottle of Cristal and some caviar while we're at it.

I signed the tab ($91 with tip). Unfortunately for them they have now opened my Pandora's box - no one gets a $91 lunch without some payback. I will relentlessly hound those freeloaders until they throw some business my way. 

Monday, February 2, 2009

A Friend of A Friend of A Friend.... (the Facebook Frenzy)

If you had told me a year ago that I would be on "Facebook" I would have look at you cross-eyed and laughed because truth be told, I don't really have, nor do I want to have all that many "friends". But over the holidays, I found myself drinking lots of wine and spending many a night alone after the kids were in bed, wondering "whatever happened to so-and-so." One night, after my 3rd glass of champagne, when even Celebrity Rehab was boring the life out me, I logged on to the Internet and found myself on Facebook. Within minutes I had found 6 sorority sisters and a few high school pals. I was more delighted than if I'd found a $5 bill in my back pocket. 

The beauty of Facebook is that, as you add friends, it finds more people who you "may know". It is a virtual a web-based Magnum P.I.,  searching for long lost pals  - and the more people you add, the more bright shiny faces of old acquaintances faces pop on as if by magic, onscreen. As I sipped champagne, my Facebook 'beer goggles' grew more and more foggy and soon anyone and everyone would be my friend.  The smelly kid from  High School who drove a Gremlin and wore the Michael Jackson "Beat It" shirt every day for months? Yes, he should definately be my friend. The girl who lived down the street from me during  Elementary School, but then I was relentlessly bitchy to her through high school because she wore clothes from K-Mart and had a bad perm? God I miss her! After the 4th glass of champagne, it was all a  blur.  God only knows who I tried to befriend, but lucky me I would soon find out as the next two weeks played out with a constant reminder as I received  emails confirming my "friend requests". Uggg, did I really ask my high school drama teacher, who used to drink beer and smoke pot with his students to be my friend? Do I really care what the guy I had a crush on in 6th grade is up to now-a-days? 

To be safe, I made sure that only "friends of friends" could see my profile. Because really, I don't want to make friends with a trucker from Mobile, Alabama (call me a bitch, but I'm selective that way). Needless to say I was shocked when just a few weeks after I joined, I had two new "friend requests" from some unseemly strangers. Obviously I had known these cuties in another life, but I swear to god, I just don't remember "Rob V..." who's picture was not of his face but a close up of the fly of his jeans, half-way unzipped. Thanks Rob V, but I'll pass. I prefer friends who keep their pants on in their profile pictures, but you stay wild and crazy, whoever you are. I also received a request from someone who I went to high school with, but I'm pretty sure our paths never crossed. Regardless, Tom X wanted to be my friend. His profile picture was reminiscent of Lee Harvey Oswald, holding a rifle with a "if looks could kill" expression, while wearing a olive green jumpsuit and standing in front of a shiny American Flag. From the looks of things, Tom X is now part of a crazed militia who at this very moment may be planning the bombing of the IRS building in downtown Topeka. Or maybe he just wants to proclaim his love of hunting big game and all things American. Either way, I've become more selective about who I choose as a "friend" (sadly Tom X and Rob the unzipped bandit didn't make the cut). I also try to avoid mixing booze and Facebook. Still nothing is more thrilling then logging on to see that my best friend's cousin's fiance has just logged on and is "making popcorn and watching Pineapple Express" or my old co-worker from 1989 is at her son's soccer game drinking a Cherry Icee. Good times.