Gah! Totally forgot about the little tryst Stacey and I had awhile back with these two lads, Sam and Ray…
In dim lighting, Sam bore a striking resemblance to an emo version of James McAvoy (ya know, the pretty goat-man from The Chronicles of Narnia). And Ray was the spitting image of a slightly malnourished Tom Cruise.
Jackpot. We’re both such suckers for celebrity doppelgangers.
But then, things got even better. When James and Tom, I mean…Sam and Ray opened their mouths, British accents fell out!
Zoinks, Scoobs! T-t-t-tasty, celebrity look-a-like foreigners! Yesss.
The British Bobbsey twins were only going to be in town for a long-weekend but Stacey was in one of her delightful man-eating moods, so she invited them out with us the next night for dinner etc.
So truth be told, at the time of the British invasion, we’d been living in our apartment for just under two months, and we had yet to even contemplate cleansing the joint.
The situation really wasn’t that bad though. Stacey and I are fairly neat-nicky. But apparently, there’s nothing like a little male motivation to light a fire under your sponge.
All Friday morning, Stacey and I Cinderella-ed the crap out of our apartment. I’m telling you, it was spotless. We scrubbed, we scraped, we got our floors so clean you could eat off ‘em! Which you basically have to do anyways since we don’t currently own a dining set.
Then 6 o’clock hit, and I got the call…
…kick it Mr. Revere!
“The British are coming! The British are coming!”
Sam and Ray picked us up at our apartment in their swank-a-licious, little rent-a-car and drove us to the 50’s diner on Coronado (I just can’t get enough of this place!).
The repast was delightful. Stacey and I both ordered mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies. One pile definitely would have been more than adequate for the two of us to split, but there are no sharesies when it comes to mountainous piles of ice cream and brownies, uh uh.
After dinner, things got a little less delightful, however. The four of us went for a gambol in the ocean where Stacey and I stole a covert girl talk moment…
We decided that the combination of natural lighting and Sam and Ray’s personas had been a lethal one. And the evening’s projected magic had OD-ed on razor blade haircuts, and schadenfreudes.
Here are three of my favorite British quotes of the night…
1. Ray: “Hannibal Lector…he’s kind of a hero of mine.”
Exchange of uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances between Stacey and myself.
Ray: “Well maybe hero isn’t the right word. But he’s definitely a legend.”
2. Ray: “And then, I don’t know why I did it, but I let go…I dropped a rock on my brother’s head!”
Additional uneasy, what-the-f-bomb glances.
3. Ray to Stacey: “My, you’ve got big feet for a girl!”
(Ray nearly got slapped in the face for that remark.)
But ya know, then Stacey and I both got a little moonshine into our systems and then, well…we didn’t want to have cleaned our apartment in vain…sooo yeah.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
My Before Sunrise
The roommate and I went out for a little karaoke jam session a couple of weekends ago where we met an adorable Australian boy and a German Danny Zuko, who came complete with a leather jacket and flawlessly lubed-up pompadour…“sommer loving, hat mich ein blast!”
I ended up spending the next 3 and a half days basically velcroed to the Australian’s side. What can I say? I got bitten by the smitten!
It all felt very Before Sunrise-ish. Except, I was a far less elegant and far more gauche version of Julie Delpy. And instead of Ethan Hawke, the slightly greasy philosterbater, there was Andrew, the electrical engineer, whose idea of foreplay involved sweet nothings on the inner ear and it’s semicircular canals (trust me, it was adorable).
The montage portion of our movie would run as follows:
-- GASLAMP - NIGHT 1 -- dinner at La Strada…mmm gnocchi in my belly -- post-dinner promenade by the pier with a little interdigitation -- “So this is what the inside of a Days Inn Motel room looks like…”
-- CORONADO - NIGHT 2 -- burgers and ice cream at the 50’s Beach n’ Diner -- moonlit romp along the beach -- 1 ceiling tile, 2 ceiling tiles…
-- FASHION VALLEY - NIGHT 3 -- shopping excursion for man-shaped clothing -- dinner at the glorious Cheesecake Factory -- oops, got a little sauced at Henry‘s -- 22 ceiling tiles, 23 ceiling tiles…
And then, unfortunately, our movie had to come to an end. Thursday morning, I escorted my adorable Australian from his hotel room to his taxi cab. Smooched him one last time, dropped a tear in his wineglass, and put a period at the end of my whirlwind romance with the thunder from down under.
I think I might actually miss him.
I ended up spending the next 3 and a half days basically velcroed to the Australian’s side. What can I say? I got bitten by the smitten!
It all felt very Before Sunrise-ish. Except, I was a far less elegant and far more gauche version of Julie Delpy. And instead of Ethan Hawke, the slightly greasy philosterbater, there was Andrew, the electrical engineer, whose idea of foreplay involved sweet nothings on the inner ear and it’s semicircular canals (trust me, it was adorable).
The montage portion of our movie would run as follows:
-- GASLAMP - NIGHT 1 -- dinner at La Strada…mmm gnocchi in my belly -- post-dinner promenade by the pier with a little interdigitation -- “So this is what the inside of a Days Inn Motel room looks like…”
-- CORONADO - NIGHT 2 -- burgers and ice cream at the 50’s Beach n’ Diner -- moonlit romp along the beach -- 1 ceiling tile, 2 ceiling tiles…
-- FASHION VALLEY - NIGHT 3 -- shopping excursion for man-shaped clothing -- dinner at the glorious Cheesecake Factory -- oops, got a little sauced at Henry‘s -- 22 ceiling tiles, 23 ceiling tiles…
And then, unfortunately, our movie had to come to an end. Thursday morning, I escorted my adorable Australian from his hotel room to his taxi cab. Smooched him one last time, dropped a tear in his wineglass, and put a period at the end of my whirlwind romance with the thunder from down under.
I think I might actually miss him.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Kerry and Spiff
The fantastic Kerry Mullins and her spiffy friend Jon…aka Spiff came down from L.A. last evening for a visit.
For dinner, I took them to my favorite San Diego hang out. The fabulously kitschy 50’s Beach n’ Diner on Coronado Island.
While we were looking over the menus, I got a call from Marc, the guy I met two nights ago at Henry’s. At first, I thought he was being kind of sketchy on the phone. Asking questions like, “Where are you sitting in the restaurant?” and “What did you order?” Questions that were border line, “The call is coming from inside the house.”
But then he said, “Look up!” And ta-daaah! There he was with his friend standing in front of the diner.
I never fare well when I am caught off guard. And so, true to form, I started having a stroke while I was trying to introduce everyone.
I passed Kerry's intro with flying colors. But for the life of me, I could not think of Jon’s name.
JON! His name is JON! Could he have a simpler name to remember? It’s not like he goes by something like Agamemnon Punxsutawney Phil the III! Whiff - swing and a miss.
Ok go-go-Gadget brain power…
I got Marc’s name OK but my damn brain stroked again and I was firing blanks on his friend’s name. (ADAM! Yet another mind-boggling, brain teaser of a name)
…engine sputters and dies.
I felt like such a tard-face. Super nice and fun guys, well Jon is at any rate. Adam, the jury is still out...
On Halloween, his costume involved the haulage of a dildo, which he wagged in my face several times - I have tepid feelings towards men with dildo batons.
Anyways, aside from me having Alzheimer’s, dinner was lovely.
After we ate, me, Jon, and Kerry went and played in the Hotel del Coronado, then frolicked on the beach.
I have been to this beach three times now, all at night, and I have yet to ever leave with dry pants. Good times, friends.
For dinner, I took them to my favorite San Diego hang out. The fabulously kitschy 50’s Beach n’ Diner on Coronado Island.
While we were looking over the menus, I got a call from Marc, the guy I met two nights ago at Henry’s. At first, I thought he was being kind of sketchy on the phone. Asking questions like, “Where are you sitting in the restaurant?” and “What did you order?” Questions that were border line, “The call is coming from inside the house.”
But then he said, “Look up!” And ta-daaah! There he was with his friend standing in front of the diner.
I never fare well when I am caught off guard. And so, true to form, I started having a stroke while I was trying to introduce everyone.
I passed Kerry's intro with flying colors. But for the life of me, I could not think of Jon’s name.
JON! His name is JON! Could he have a simpler name to remember? It’s not like he goes by something like Agamemnon Punxsutawney Phil the III! Whiff - swing and a miss.
Ok go-go-Gadget brain power…
I got Marc’s name OK but my damn brain stroked again and I was firing blanks on his friend’s name. (ADAM! Yet another mind-boggling, brain teaser of a name)
…engine sputters and dies.
I felt like such a tard-face. Super nice and fun guys, well Jon is at any rate. Adam, the jury is still out...
On Halloween, his costume involved the haulage of a dildo, which he wagged in my face several times - I have tepid feelings towards men with dildo batons.
Anyways, aside from me having Alzheimer’s, dinner was lovely.
After we ate, me, Jon, and Kerry went and played in the Hotel del Coronado, then frolicked on the beach.
I have been to this beach three times now, all at night, and I have yet to ever leave with dry pants. Good times, friends.
Happy Halloweenie!
Halloween was pretty bitchin’ this year. My roommate went as the Hamburglar and I rocked a preggerrific Juno. Which was like the most comfortably amazing costume ever.
Usually, when the roommate and I go prowling around town on the weekends, I try my best to avoid toting a food baby around with me. To accomplish this, I ixnay as many of those evil but deliciously awesome carbos as I can from my daytime diet to keep my tummy looking as much like the pre-Columbus world as is possible.
But not this Friday, boy-o. This Friday, I let my inner fat kid tear it up. And the carbier the better! Pasta la vista, contents of my fridge! After all, as Juno, I had to look as preggers as possible.
I once read that Matt Damon lost something ridiculous like 40 pounds in about an hour for two days of shooting as a Gulf War vet in the movie Courage Under Fire.
I share his fortitude for whole heartedly committing to a role - but on the total opposite end of the spectrum. Way more fun becoming a tub of chub than a Kate Moss.
Before the roomie and I hit the town, we had some delightful trick-or-treaters come a-knockin’ on our door. Thankfully, Stacey had bought some Reese’s to hand out. All I had to give were either some stale Zips, a hand full of dried cranberries, or a swig of strawberry flavored Smirnov, which I didn’t think would bode well with the munchkins’ parental units.
Since Stacey was decked out as the Hamburglar, we decided to pop into Mickey D’s for ha ha’s on our way downtown. Unfortunately, the hilarity was utterly one-sided.
No one batted an eye when she walked in - not even the employees! Not a single person feigned distress over the imminent pilfering of their greasy beef products. Bah! Humburger!
This cheesed me off, so I said to the guy who was taking our order, “Don’t you know who this is!? This is your arch archenemy! It’s THE HAMBURGLAR!”
To which he responded, “I don’t believe in that.”
Me: “Oh..uhh..ok?”
Doesn’t believe in corporate mascots? Gwaaahh?
The whole event was highly disappointing. We had envisioned a far more dramatic response, in which Mickey D’s goes into full lockdown mode with the employees darting around shrieking, “This is not a drill, people! It’s go time!” as steel cages descend from the ceiling to safeguard all of the compromised burgers.
No such luck.
It was still a fantastic night.
Usually, when the roommate and I go prowling around town on the weekends, I try my best to avoid toting a food baby around with me. To accomplish this, I ixnay as many of those evil but deliciously awesome carbos as I can from my daytime diet to keep my tummy looking as much like the pre-Columbus world as is possible.
But not this Friday, boy-o. This Friday, I let my inner fat kid tear it up. And the carbier the better! Pasta la vista, contents of my fridge! After all, as Juno, I had to look as preggers as possible.
I once read that Matt Damon lost something ridiculous like 40 pounds in about an hour for two days of shooting as a Gulf War vet in the movie Courage Under Fire.
I share his fortitude for whole heartedly committing to a role - but on the total opposite end of the spectrum. Way more fun becoming a tub of chub than a Kate Moss.
Before the roomie and I hit the town, we had some delightful trick-or-treaters come a-knockin’ on our door. Thankfully, Stacey had bought some Reese’s to hand out. All I had to give were either some stale Zips, a hand full of dried cranberries, or a swig of strawberry flavored Smirnov, which I didn’t think would bode well with the munchkins’ parental units.
Since Stacey was decked out as the Hamburglar, we decided to pop into Mickey D’s for ha ha’s on our way downtown. Unfortunately, the hilarity was utterly one-sided.
No one batted an eye when she walked in - not even the employees! Not a single person feigned distress over the imminent pilfering of their greasy beef products. Bah! Humburger!
This cheesed me off, so I said to the guy who was taking our order, “Don’t you know who this is!? This is your arch archenemy! It’s THE HAMBURGLAR!”
To which he responded, “I don’t believe in that.”
Me: “Oh..uhh..ok?”
Doesn’t believe in corporate mascots? Gwaaahh?
The whole event was highly disappointing. We had envisioned a far more dramatic response, in which Mickey D’s goes into full lockdown mode with the employees darting around shrieking, “This is not a drill, people! It’s go time!” as steel cages descend from the ceiling to safeguard all of the compromised burgers.
No such luck.
It was still a fantastic night.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Somebody hire me!
What do Sphincter Girl’s tuckus and San Diego’s job-o-sphere have in common? They both had a gaping hole ripped in them by a smirky chimperor. Bah-dum chhh.
So yes yes, in case you couldn’t already tell by my crude, tailor-made, bad economy jest, job hunting in San Diego is crushing my soul.
Over the past two months, I have applied to well over 200 jobs - jobs that I am, more often than not, over-qualified for.
Guess how many of said jobs have bothered to call me back? Seven. A lousy, pie-in-the-face seven! And of those seven, only two were actually willing to hire me!
(The disdain continues) And fuck you very much Bachelor’s degree from Boston College - posing so high and mighty in your smug glass frame - neither of those two jobs paid more than what I could get working at Starbucks!
The price tag attached to each year’s worth of knowledge that was crammed into my brain at BC was over 40,000 dollars. Meaning that by the time I donned that adorable cap and gown ensemble, my brain was worth 160,000 dollars and change.
So ten dollars an hour, plus the spiffy company hat and apron, and perhaps a free green tea latte at the end of the day seems like totally fair compensation for a shiny, new, knowledgeized brain, right?
I guess it’s better than poor ol’ brainy collecting dust on the clearance rack at Walley World. Or even worse, being ousted to the isle of misfit toys with that pain in the ass Charles Nelson Reilly-in-a-box (I would LOVE to own the misfit toy gun that spurted jam, however. I would use that gun, and maybe even get me another one that shot peanut butter, to attack unsuspecting bread products and make them delicious).
Perhaps the government would be a doll and let me barter my student loans for coffee beans?
So yes yes, in case you couldn’t already tell by my crude, tailor-made, bad economy jest, job hunting in San Diego is crushing my soul.
Over the past two months, I have applied to well over 200 jobs - jobs that I am, more often than not, over-qualified for.
Guess how many of said jobs have bothered to call me back? Seven. A lousy, pie-in-the-face seven! And of those seven, only two were actually willing to hire me!
(The disdain continues) And fuck you very much Bachelor’s degree from Boston College - posing so high and mighty in your smug glass frame - neither of those two jobs paid more than what I could get working at Starbucks!
The price tag attached to each year’s worth of knowledge that was crammed into my brain at BC was over 40,000 dollars. Meaning that by the time I donned that adorable cap and gown ensemble, my brain was worth 160,000 dollars and change.
So ten dollars an hour, plus the spiffy company hat and apron, and perhaps a free green tea latte at the end of the day seems like totally fair compensation for a shiny, new, knowledgeized brain, right?
I guess it’s better than poor ol’ brainy collecting dust on the clearance rack at Walley World. Or even worse, being ousted to the isle of misfit toys with that pain in the ass Charles Nelson Reilly-in-a-box (I would LOVE to own the misfit toy gun that spurted jam, however. I would use that gun, and maybe even get me another one that shot peanut butter, to attack unsuspecting bread products and make them delicious).
Perhaps the government would be a doll and let me barter my student loans for coffee beans?
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
I would do anything for love...but I won't do that!
Bridget Jones is my hero. I have seen that movie roughly a trillion times; it is my visual comfort food. Whenever I’m having one of those mean-red sort of days where I just want to go fetal on my bed and swaddle myself tighter than a burrito’s wedgy in down comforter snuggliness, I pop a little BJD into the DVD and all becomes good in the hood again. BJD does for the soul what mac ’n’ cheese does for the taste buds. Gobs of warm, gooey contentment.
I now pretty much know the whole movie by heart, and so have adopted several of Miss Jones’ pearls of wisdom into my mantra. Namely the one about not wanting to die fat and alone and end up half eaten by wild dogs. Or in my case, the giant R.O.U.S.’s that reside behind my apartment.
With that said, I agreed to go out with this guy that I met while I was living the charmed homeless life in a dank, hole-in-the-wall hostel during my first week in San Diego.
My encounter with said guy occurred on the last night that I spent at the hostel. I had gone out for one last hostel hurrah with some of the new friends that I had made to a local dive bar called the Jewel Box, which is where I became acquainted with David.
Here's a little mood setting for ya - if the Jewel Box were personified, it would have an awesomely bad singing career churning out such melodious gems as Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad and In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King. And oh yes, it would be Meat Loaf.
I wasn’t all that interested in David but I’m hardly ever interested in the guys that I meet. Dating was spoiled for me a couple of years ago when I met one of those rare, perfectly perfect, unicorn, albeit unattainable guys. And now my dating standards are higher than Bob Marley at an all-you-can-eat brownie buffet in Amsterdam.
To combat this, I came up with the following plan - I will agree to go out with a guy that I’m not particularly interested in as long as I do not find him vile - as long as I at least nothing him, I will agree to see him again. My reasoning being that a lack of on the spot sparks does not necessarily mean that lightning won’t strike later on.
So for our lightning prelude, David took me to the Surf Club for drinks and a steak dinner. So far so good. Boozy McGee here loves her beef and alcohol.
Slight downside however. The Surf Club makes you cook your own food. Call me old-fashioned…or a lazy arse, but when I go out to eat, I want the restaurant to do the meal prep for me. Plus, I ain't no Rachel Ray, so the chances are great that my meal will end up tasting like a tire, and then I'll have no one to blame but myself.
Anyhoos, all in all things were cruising along smoothly. Even for Libido, who decided to call shotgun halfway through dinner.
That was, however, until David brought up how much he loves sunflower paintings and that he used to sing in an a cappella group.
Umm...is it wrong to want a man plate that doesn't come with a side of girly fries? This totally let the air out of my tires leaving stymied Libido high and dry thumbing for a ride back to Collin-Farrellville.
Meh, I tried.
I now pretty much know the whole movie by heart, and so have adopted several of Miss Jones’ pearls of wisdom into my mantra. Namely the one about not wanting to die fat and alone and end up half eaten by wild dogs. Or in my case, the giant R.O.U.S.’s that reside behind my apartment.
With that said, I agreed to go out with this guy that I met while I was living the charmed homeless life in a dank, hole-in-the-wall hostel during my first week in San Diego.
My encounter with said guy occurred on the last night that I spent at the hostel. I had gone out for one last hostel hurrah with some of the new friends that I had made to a local dive bar called the Jewel Box, which is where I became acquainted with David.
Here's a little mood setting for ya - if the Jewel Box were personified, it would have an awesomely bad singing career churning out such melodious gems as Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad and In the Land of the Pig, the Butcher is King. And oh yes, it would be Meat Loaf.
I wasn’t all that interested in David but I’m hardly ever interested in the guys that I meet. Dating was spoiled for me a couple of years ago when I met one of those rare, perfectly perfect, unicorn, albeit unattainable guys. And now my dating standards are higher than Bob Marley at an all-you-can-eat brownie buffet in Amsterdam.
To combat this, I came up with the following plan - I will agree to go out with a guy that I’m not particularly interested in as long as I do not find him vile - as long as I at least nothing him, I will agree to see him again. My reasoning being that a lack of on the spot sparks does not necessarily mean that lightning won’t strike later on.
So for our lightning prelude, David took me to the Surf Club for drinks and a steak dinner. So far so good. Boozy McGee here loves her beef and alcohol.
Slight downside however. The Surf Club makes you cook your own food. Call me old-fashioned…or a lazy arse, but when I go out to eat, I want the restaurant to do the meal prep for me. Plus, I ain't no Rachel Ray, so the chances are great that my meal will end up tasting like a tire, and then I'll have no one to blame but myself.
Anyhoos, all in all things were cruising along smoothly. Even for Libido, who decided to call shotgun halfway through dinner.
That was, however, until David brought up how much he loves sunflower paintings and that he used to sing in an a cappella group.
Umm...is it wrong to want a man plate that doesn't come with a side of girly fries? This totally let the air out of my tires leaving stymied Libido high and dry thumbing for a ride back to Collin-Farrellville.
Meh, I tried.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Rhinotillexomania uh oh
There's something I need to get off my chest dot dot dot my third nipple. Just kidding, but yeah that too.
Anyhoos, here it goes. This summer, I swapped spit (etc.) with the middle school nose picker (insert shocked gasp for emphasis). It was a low point. A supersonic-smack your forehead-what the hell was I thinking low point.
He is a reformed pointer, however. He has seen the error of his rhinotillexomaniac ways (you bet your ass I wikipedia-ed nose-picking) and has been clean for a number of years.
Nevertheless, that does not make it ok. Neither does blaming the booze. Obvi, I was rockin’ the beer goggles, which made ex-Mr. Bougs look like he’d been dipped in handsome sauce a la Ed Norton.
Incidentally, fruit flies also rock the beer goggles. After one too many ethanol cocktails, Chuck fruitfly is all “heeeeeeeeeaaaay how you doin’!?” to Larry fruitfly (once again, thank you wikipedia).
But I digress. This back seat batch of nonsense was not not not ok. Admittedly, I’d been experiencing a bit of a dry spell. Well actually, it wasn't really so much a spell as it has become more of a lifestyle. Thumbs down.
So when it came to decision making time, the randy Sandy inside me was jonesing for a bonesing. So up and over I went.
I’m still dizzy from the shame spiral.
Anyhoos, here it goes. This summer, I swapped spit (etc.) with the middle school nose picker (insert shocked gasp for emphasis). It was a low point. A supersonic-smack your forehead-what the hell was I thinking low point.
He is a reformed pointer, however. He has seen the error of his rhinotillexomaniac ways (you bet your ass I wikipedia-ed nose-picking) and has been clean for a number of years.
Nevertheless, that does not make it ok. Neither does blaming the booze. Obvi, I was rockin’ the beer goggles, which made ex-Mr. Bougs look like he’d been dipped in handsome sauce a la Ed Norton.
Incidentally, fruit flies also rock the beer goggles. After one too many ethanol cocktails, Chuck fruitfly is all “heeeeeeeeeaaaay how you doin’!?” to Larry fruitfly (once again, thank you wikipedia).
But I digress. This back seat batch of nonsense was not not not ok. Admittedly, I’d been experiencing a bit of a dry spell. Well actually, it wasn't really so much a spell as it has become more of a lifestyle. Thumbs down.
So when it came to decision making time, the randy Sandy inside me was jonesing for a bonesing. So up and over I went.
I’m still dizzy from the shame spiral.
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