Only on The Real (eyeroll*) Housewives of Whatever

Are those pants made out of FUR?! Seriously? Wtf.

Top 10 reasons why living at home is awesome*

Not my house

We'll start with the obvious...

1. Free cable, internet, heat, water, gas, etc.
2. When someone else does laundry, you are often asked if you have anything to "throw in."
3. You get all the family gossip firsthand, while it's happening.
4. When something major breaks or goes wonky (like the stove exploding), not only is it not your responsibility to fix it, but unless asked, you don't have to spend hours on the phone with a landlord/super/maintenance person trying to convince them that no, you can't live without a toilet for another day.
5. Coffee. Guaranteed. Every morning. Without fail.
   
6. If mom subscribes to the New York Times or People magazine, that means you get to enjoy it when she's done.
7. You don't have to travel on holidays.
   
8. Space to store all the crap you've accumulated from apartments-past.
   
9. You get to enjoy stuff you have neither the space nor money the keep, like a trampoline or Bose surround sound system. Or a German Shepard.
10. There is almost always food in the house, if not cooked especially for you.

*While all great, these things are only awesome if you are single and haven't already lived on your own for an extended period of time. Moving back home after a divorce, for instance, might not be so awesome. Moving back home when you make diddly and have student loans to pay back, pretty awesome.

How about not subjecting the world to your fantastic display of douchery? Can you take another year or two of THAT?

Remember when Katherine Heigl gave ABC and Grey's Anatomy the finger and declined an Emmy nomination because she thought she was the next George Clooney and wanted to star in major motion pictures? Well it looks like she was just kidding. That, or she realized her segue into movie stardom is slightly hindered by the fact that she's a raging bitch. Ya know, either or. According to the AP:

Katherine Heigl said Friday she's ready to stay with Grey's Anatomy and the decision rests with the show … she's comfortable balancing movies and TV by working on big-screen projects during the summer hiatus for Grey's Anatomy. "I'm more than happy to make that compromise. I don't know if I want to continue for five years working 12 months a year, but I can take at least another year or two," she said.

In related news, my neighbor recently took a third job working the night shift as a janitor to avoid foreclosure. When asked to comment on the Heigl controversy, he collapsed in exhaustion and was rushed to St. Vincent's Hospital. He was later diagnosed with bleeding ulcers, but refused surgery, stating, "I can't afford to take the time off right now. Maybe next year, if the bank doesn't take my house."

Me, myself and my blog

My original idea for this blog was to share sarcastic and funny stories about my life while trying to remain somewhat anonymous. I always felt that an air of mystery was essential to a good blog, and I still do. That's why until very recently I didn't post any [recognizable] pictures of myself, reveal the exact location of The Motherland or where I went to law school, or give any other personal information about danielle970 or her family.

Well as they say, all good things must evolve. At least I think they say that, I don't know. I wasn't an English major. In any event, I've decided to get a bit more personal in my posts. For instance, sometime this weekend I'll likely tell you why I was up at 5:30 this morning and why I'm mad as hell about it. And I'm sure I'll one day explain why I went to law school if I didn't want to be a lawyer, or how I sort of wish I grew up in Texas, or about the time I fell down the stairs with a baby in my arms. I may even reveal the location of The Motherland.

In the meantime, here's a little introduction to the more open concept of blogging. This first photo is of me in Lake Tahoe, freezing my ankles off. August in the Northern California mountains is NOT all that warm.

Here's me on my first night in Germany, maniacally excited about drinking Hefeweizen.

Me and my BFF Natalie in 95 degree heat in Venice, hungover and trying desperately not to puke over the side of the boat.

Being attacked by British boys in an Irish bar in Barcelona. Their friend proposed to my roommate shortly after this picture was taken. (Also, the dude on the right? He kisses girls AND boys. I have photographic proof.)

Attempting to drink an impossibly large fishbowl of some very dark beer.

You get the idea. Being less anonymous = posting more silly pictures of myself = you laughing = you coming back for more funny pictures. At least I hope so. I never really asked you, did I? Well I guess now is as good a time as any, even if it's after the fact. Here goes: what would YOU, my faithful follower, reader, commenter, like to see more of on this blog? More about me? More about my travels? More about YOU? Current events? Photography? Art? I'm open to pretty much anything, even politics. (Be forewarned, I'm a raging liberal leftist.) I'll pretty much respond to any topic you suggest, as long as it's not a legal question. So leave me a comment and tell me what you want to read about. If you're nice, I'll even include your name and a link to your blog (if you have one) in the post ;-)

How to annoy me, sunrise edition

Call me at 6:30 in the morning. FOR ANY REASON AT ALL.

Next time that happens, you better be standing outside my bedroom door so I can body check you and go back to sleep.

He's Our You

I'll admit it: I gasped when Sayid shot young Ben last night. I really didn't think he had it in him to kill a child. But this is LOST, and as such, it poses the question: is Ben really dead?

The hardcore fans on Lostpedia are abuzz with theories and explanations as to what really happens with Ben. I read everything from "of course Ben isn't dead, how would all that later shit go down if he was dead?" to "Ben lives and Jack saves him" to "Ben lives, and Sayid is the one who turns him into a cold-hearted psychopath by shooting him and leaving him for dead." All valid theories, especially that last one. But I do have my own theory to explore. It's not very well-formulated, but here it goes:

Sayid really did kill Young Ben, placing Old Ben in an alternate space/time. Ben and Sun were the only Losties who hadn't gone back in time when the flash occurred on flight 316. After the crash, Sun stole the outrigger and she and Lapedus arrived at the main island to find the barracks abandoned--obviously they were still in 2008 while everyone else went back in time to the 1970's. Perhaps killing Young Ben put Old Ben in (on?) an alternate time-space plane, one where his past didn't actually occur. To put it more clearly, killing Young Ben put everyone ELSE on a different life path, a path where Ben and his evil don't exist, where the Dharma Initiative survives, and none of the past LOST events as we have seen them actually take place on that alternate plane.

Does that make any sense at all? I hope it does. It's just a crazy, wacky theory to add to the already-burgeoning plethora of LOST hypotheses. It really only explains why Ben didn't travel back in time with the rest of the Losties--because in the time everyone else travels back to, Ben dies.

I also wanted to mention a couple of interesting tidbits that I learned by stalking Lostpedia. First, after Sayid exists the building in Moscow where he kills the Russian dude, mirrored writing "Олдхэм Фармасьютикалс" can be seen above a door, which translates to "Oldham Pharmaceuticals." Oldham is, of course, the "other" Sayid who gives the real Sayid one heavy dose of LSD.

Speaking of the good shit, a (real) Wikipedia search for LSD mentions the name Richard Alpert. Yup, a real-life person. According to the site, Alpert "is a contemporary spiritual teacher who wrote the 1971 bestseller Be Here Now." How this plays into the LOST storyline is anyone's guess and I will not attempt to figure this out unless given more information.

I would love to go further into "questions answered" and my never-ending list of stuff I still want answered, but I have a lunch date. In conclusion, I would just like to say that Sayid is the man and I totally want to get his A-rab money.

Top 10 stories that would be really cool to tell your grandchildren one day

Also, Top 10 things I will probably never get to tell my grandchildren.

(10) I married (and later divorced) this European guy when I was 23 just so he could get a green card. We still send Christmas cards.
(9) When I lived in L.A., I flashed my press credentials to get into a club where Entourage was filming.
(8) I made a million dollars during the recession of 2009.
(7) I bought a house on the beach in San Diego with that million dollars.
(6) I invented Febreze.
(5) I ran into John Stewart at a truck stop in Memphis when I drove from New York to California. He bought me a pastrami sandwich and called Jessica Simpson's singing career "the greatest farce since Elvis' death."
(4) I actually have one more tattoo than you think I do.
(3) I spent a summer in Africa building houses for orphans.
(2) I was in Washington D.C. the day Obama declared the national health care plan.
(1) I met your grandfather on an flight to Costa Rica. I spilled a drink in his lap and a year later, we were married.

I'm hoping that two or three of those will actually be true by the time I have grandchildren. How about you guys? What crazy stories do you hope to one day leave as your legacy?

That's the view from my multimillion dollar mansion in La Jolla. That's me in the lower right hand corner, being escorted by my husband, who just landed a sweet job with Apple. If you look closely, you can see all the sea lions we saved in our spare time.

My walking buddies

I never had any pets growing up. Both my parents worked all the time, and my mom didn't want the responsibility of taking care of another living thing. (Funny, because I'm an only child and it really wouldn't have been that hard, and oh, hey, I wouldn've had something to play with, but whatever.....semantics.)

A few years ago, my aunt got a dog. Her name is Cookie and she's the smartest Wonder Poodle I've ever met. Definitely not your typical yippy, lap dog. Because I was deprived of the love and affection of a pet as a child, Cookie became my sidekick.

We take walks together, she sleeps over sometimes, and I'm kind of her pack leader.

When my aunt got divorced, my cousin and I brought home Bacci. And how could you not love that face?!

Bacci is almost 5 months old now, and I just taught her how to walk on a leash. (And I also may or may not have caused her to take a dive off that couch while I was playing with her. Oops.)


If anyone ever tries to break in, beware the brigade of little dogs! They're pretty vicious-looking, no?

I wonder if Vincent the dog can time travel....

I'm liking this season of LOST more an more. I feel like questions are being answered, gaps in time are being bridged, and character connections are explained. I'm very curious to see where this season will go.

Favorite parts: (1) When Sun knocks Ben in the head with an oar; (2) Kate's awesome bitchface when she "meets" Juliet; (3) The whole end scene where Sawyer basically tells Jack "I'm running the show now, so you just sit back and do nothing for once and let me handle shit." (4) When Christian tells Sun that she has a "bit of a journey" ahead of her.

Questions answered: What happened on the plane when it went down (light flash, time travel, and a runway that somehow appeared on the island); how our Oceanic group gets integrated back into island DHARMA life in 1977 (Sawyer pretends that they're new recruits that came in on the submarine); what really happened to that outrigger (Sun and Lapedis took it.)

New questions: So if I understand things correctly, Sun somehow stayed in "real time" with Lapedis, Ben, and the other passengers on the plane, while Jack, Kate, Hurley and Sayid went back to 1977. How did that happen? Why did just those 4 go back in time and not everyone else? Does this mean that Sun, like Ben, can't be trusted, and she was "left behind" in time for a reason? Will our Oceanic group witness "The Purge" by young Ben? Will they try to stop it? Will the history of the island be rewritten? Is that why they had to come back, to stop Ben from killing the DHARMA people? What will happen with Cesar and Ilana? They seem way too developed as characters to not play an important role in future episodes.

Questions I still want answered: What is the deal with Christian hanging out in abandoned shacks? First the cabin with CLAIRE!, and now the barracks. Aside from being Jack's father, what is his role on the island and in this story? Why is he capable of speaking on Jacob's behalf? What is Pierre Chang's deal? How will the Charlotte/Faraday connection play out?

Assumptions: The Purge notwithstanding, I see the show moving in the direction of war. I think that once key characters are back in their respective positions of power, there will be a huge conflict involving many different sides: Sawyer, Jack, Ben and his Hostiles/Others, Locke, and Christian. I see Jack and Sawyer struggling over power, but eventually working together. I also see Sun being a lot more devious than we thought her to be, and it possibly being revealed that she's working for Charles Widmore. I see Locke stepping in and trying to keep the peace, or, conversely, if the Purge does take place, making sure that things happen exactly as they were supposed to 30 years ago so as not to disrupt the past of the island. As for the Sawyer/Juliet/Jack/Kate love connection, I see that becoming a major issue, possibly with a pregnancy and baby becoming involved. I can also see Sun doing Jin dirty, and I don't mean in the fun, naked kind of way.

Things I learned from stalking Lostpedia: Jorge Garcia's girlfriend, Bethany Leigh Shady, appears as an unnamed red shirt survivor of Ajira Flight 316.

Good stuff, LOST producers. I look forward to more episodes to watch how this story unfolds.

Forty-what? I could DEFINITELY get over that

My mom and I share a mutual obsession with the very hot, very dirty Mr. Mike Rowe. He's cute, he's smart, he's ambitious, and he's not afraid to tackle a pig while shimmying down a sewer pipe. I mean, what more could a woman ask for?

Today just happens to be Mr. Mike Rowe's birthday. I won't tell you his age, because that makes my crush on him just a little creepy. But I will share this ridiculously sexy picture of him.


Happy birthday, Mike Rowe. Is there a dirty job I can do for you today?

Gettin' my culture on

My friend Steve from Colorado/California came out to New York this weekend to visit his brother. Since I hadn't been to the MoMA or Guggenheim in years, we decided to take a little art tour of Manhattan yesterday. It's days like these that remind why I <3 NY.

The Guggenheim

St. Patrick's Cathedral

The Museum of Modern Art

Steve


First picture of yours truly ever posted on this here web log

Andy Warhol

How I feel most of the time

Edward Hopper, one of my favorites

Frida Kahlo. Her work is amazing in person

Self-explanatory (Monet's water lilies)

Gustav Klimt. I actually saw an exhibition of his work in Berlin

Fantastic exhibition of the work of German artist Martin Kippenberger

The day started with randomly coming across a piece of the Berlin Wall in Midtown Manhattan. I for one had no idea it was there. Very cool discovery.

So crepes at a European cafe in Astoria, four hours at the MoMA, some Manhattan architecture, a hot dog from a cart, all kinds of moving and live art at the Guggenheim, dinner at a Thai place in the East Village, and a drink at a KGB bar. If anyone can tell me how to get paid doing those things, please share.

The time I almost accidentally let my best friend die

A few years ago, my cousin Nicolle and I (well, more her than me) planned a summer trip to The Motherland. We brought along some of our friends, including my BFF Natalie. (Hi Nat!) We rented an apartment in a little "town" that exists solely because of its proximity to a tiny inlet of beach.

The house. The first floor was ours.

View of the house from the "town."

Now don't get me wrong, I am NOT complaining. The house was practically on the the beach of a European seaside village, and I fully appreciated its charm and overall awesomness. My one and only issue with the town is that it calls itself a town. Because to be a town, don't you need something more than a market and a restaurant that's only open for lunch? Just sayin'.

So we rented this super cool apartment at the bottom of a super-steep cliff, a cliff that has a total of one super-narrow road. A road not wide enough for two cars to pass each other, a road that, as of 2006, does not have guardrails. On the off chance that you've never driven on the cliff side of a 10-foot wide road with no guardrails while huge trucks are barreling towards you, I'll tell you now: it makes your butt do that thing it does when you think you might die. In fact, thinking we might die was an oft-spoken sentiment that summer.

That steep-looking road in the corner of this picture is nothing compared to the mountain roads on the other side of that hill. But you get the idea.

So because this "town" only has two businesses, and the lives of truck drivers are threatened every time they deliver goods to said businesses, the town doesn't get much traffic. As such, the trash is only picked up once a week, and from a dumpster at the bottom of that steep hill. And so every other day, my vacationing friends and I would gather up our trash, put it in the trunk of the car and drop it in the dumpster on our way out of town. It was on such a day that I almost let my best friend of 15 years die a tragic, unnecessarily embarrassing death.

We piled into the car on that scorching hot day, our trash in the trunk, ready to spend another day exploring The Motherland. As we approached the dumpter, Donna (hi Donna!) who was sitting front seat, and Natalie, who was behind her, exited the vehicle to deposit the trash. Unbeknownst to our valiant and brave driver, Nicolle, I opened my door to get some much-needed air. (Anyone who's ever gotten into the backseat of a car that's been sitting out in the sun all day knows what I mean.) As Donna got back into the car, I closed my door.

So Nicolle at this point had heard two doors slam and assumed that we were all safely back in the car. Only we were not all safely back in the car, as Natalie was only halfway in the car. Nicolle put the car in first gear and the car rolled back slightly, causing Natalie, who is 5'9" with the longest limbs I've ever seen, to fly forward as she unsuccessfully attempted to get the rest of her body into the moving car. I witnessed this, but for some inexplicable reason, didn't say anything. Nicolle then stepped on the gas and began to accelerate, causing Natalie to this time be thrust backward, while still attempting to get the other half of her flailing body into the car. Again, for reasons known only to the dumpster gods, neither one of us spoke up. As the speed of the car increased and the image of Natalie being dragged behind the car and off a cliff became slightly more real in my head, I started screaming something that sounded like, "Cole! Natalie not in car, legs out, CLIFF!" Nicolle, glancing in her rearview mirror and realizing that her friend was hanging out of a moving vehicle that she was operating, slammed hard on the brakes. This of course caused Natalie to be slammed against the open back door with a very unpleasant thud. A little stunned but otherwise okay, she got back in the car and we all took a deep breath.

Once we saw that she was okay, we couldn't help it. We tried not to, but it really wasn't under our control. We started laughing....hard. The realization that she could've been flung out of a moving car and thrown against a dumpster was just too much for us to handle. Newspaper headlines ran through our heads and we laughed even harder. "Girl dies tragically taking out garbage." "American has deadly encounter with trash bin." "Deathly dumpster dive leaves woman dead." If humor can be found in something as awful as your best friend letting you die in dumpster, then leave it to my friends and I to find it.

While scary at the time, Natalie was able to laugh about it afterward. And while I've apologized many times for watching her almost perish, I feel I should now do it publicly: Nat, I'm sorry I almost let you die that day. From now on, I promise to always make sure you're all the way in the car before the driver takes off.

Although if you do somehow end up in a dumpster, I can't promise I won't make t-shirts.

Happy Friday, y'all!

Did you know that if you watch too many episodes of Friday Night Lights, your subconscious develops a Texas accent? Well shoot, neither did I!

Ladies and gentlemen, I have discovered a secret little TV nugget that I did not know was pure gold. And that nugget is FNL. It has football, it has hot guys and gorgeous girls, it has drama, it has hilarity, and it has a huge Texas heart.

The basic plot line centers around the marriage of Coach Taylor, the Dillon High School football coach, and his wonderful wife Tami, the school guidance counselor. The series starts with the star quarterback of the football team becoming paralyzed and the events that transpire afterward. Throw in some cheerleaders, a lot of beer-drinking and a football game every Friday night, and you've got yourself a show as great as Texas is big.

Now if you're looking for shows like Gossip Girl or 90210, then FNL is definitely not for you. There are no fast cars and smooth-talking pretty boys and rich parents with credit cards. Instead, there are kids driving pick-up trucks and calling adults "sir" and "ma'am," girls with absent mothers who waitress after school, and a shy quarterback who lives with his grandmother. The show has a small-town feel and is probably the most real representation of what high school is actually like for people who don't live in New York or L.A. I implore y'all to give it a try. If you enjoy the 2-minute clip below, then you can go here for every episode ever made. (I know, I hate starting a show from the middle of the season, too.)



Now y'all just go on and yourselves a nice day, ya hear?!

Not unless your parents named you Adolf

Mother, calling down the hallway: I got boy's striped pajamas!
Me: What?
Mother, holding out a DVD: Look!
Me: You mean The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, the holocaust movie?
Mother: Oh, is that what it's about?
Me: Yes.
Pause
Mother: Well then I guess I shouldn't sound so excited about it, huh?

Getting older sucks sometimes

It finally happened. I had a feeling this day would come, but I didn't think it would be so soon after leaving the four walls of a higher education institution. Another reason why it sucks to get older: I'm officially offended by Family Guy. ::Hanging head in shame::

I don't know about you, but I always thought Family Guy was pretty funny: the tangents, the song and dance routines, the politically incorrect and off-color humor, it was all awesome. (Especially the performance of the song for which this website is named after. Ahem.) I used to watch this show religiously in law school. I had my TiVO programed to record all the reruns, I watched it before I went to sleep at night, and after hours of studying, nothing was better than sitting in my living room with friends, drinking beer and watching late-night episodes.

I didn't really watch the show much after law school, but I recently tried to catch a few episodes online. And wow. I don't know if I changed or if the show changed, but I feel like it's gone WAY past the sexual innuendos and poop jokes for which it was famous. In the most recent episode, Peter brings home a horse. Among the many inappropriate scnenes, we see Stewie drinking horse semen and Peter moaning while the horse licks his ass. (You can vomit now, I almost did.)

I understand that the whole concept of the show is a parody of everyday life, that it's supposed to be controversial. I get that it's a cartoon and that's probably why some of the dirty stuff is funny. But there has to be a line. And I think the writers of Family Guy kinda, sorta crossed it. I'm not sure when or with what episode or sketch, but the horse episode is evidence that it's clearly happened. And for me, when that line was crossed, the show stopped being funny. I think some of the scenes are purposely written to offend people. I think the writers like to see just how far boundaries can be pushed, how far the censors can be tested. I think they became too focused on being the most controversial, talked-about show on television at the expense of a pretty funny, well-written sitcom. Just my opinion.



Like I said... getting older sucks sometimes.

Haven't you learned anything?

N: Did you show Nona the picture of the house?
Me: No, I'm not going up there. You don't poke the bear. You wait until the bear pokes you.

**Not my Nona

How to annoy me, Hollywood edition

Ask me one more time if I have that copy of "The Case of the Curious George Button." Even better, tell me that Kate Winslet is the star of "Private Practice," or that Ben Afleck is married to Jennifer Connelly, or that Colin Ferguson hosts a late night talk show on CBS. In your world, does Val Kilmer star in "24'? Even if he did, I'm sure you'd call him Jimmy Kimmel. GET YOUR PROPER NOUNS STRAIGHT, WOMAN!



**Side note: why does Curious George look like he only has one eye in this picture?

Story of my life

While I was in the Motherland last year, I went shopping at a really cool mall. We passed a store that my cousin and her friend loved, but mentioned they could never afford. My first thought was, "Then let's please not go in there because I can tell right now that I love the clothes and will end up buying something even though I've spent the last 6 weeks drinking wine and smoking cigarettes all over the Motherland instead of looking for a job and I really can't afford it. So please can we not go in there."

Fast forward to the part where I left the store with a $100 jacket. A jacket I loved, a jacket I had to have, a jacket that spoke to me. It said, "No one else will have a jacket like this at home. You will be the only one with such a fabulous jacket because this store doesn't exist at home. People will ask you where you acquired such a gorgeous piece of outerwear and you can answer, 'Oh I got in Europe.' People will envy your jacket, you must BUY this jacket." And so I did.

Fast forward to the part where I wore the jacket in New York for the first time and a friend asked where I got it. The moment I was waiting for, the moment I had anticipated the first time I tried the jacket on. In my best nonchalant voice, I casually said the line I'd been rehearsing for weeks: "Oh this? I actually got it in the Motherland. We were shopping at this little store and it spoke to me." And then my friend asked a question....a passing, innocuous question raised out of pure curiosity. She asked, "What store?"

Now this wasn't a question I had anticipated anyone asking me; I assumed that my simple explanation would be enough, that by mere virtue of the fact that I bought the jacket in the Motherland, a country not known for its trend-setting fashion or in vogue style, people would just assume the store didn't exist outside of Europe.

But I kept my cool. This wasn't a problem; surely I'd mention the name of the store and my friend would say, "Hmm, never heard of it," and I'd smile a satisfied smile. And so I said the name of the store with a slight inflection at the end, a minor raise of the voice to connote a question... almost as if I was challenging her to answer me. But then something completely unexpected happened: my friend said some combination of, "Oh my God, really? I LOVE that store! There's one right by my job and I can't go in there because I'll have to walk out with something."

If someone had snapped a picture of my face at that exact moment, I'm sure it would've been the saddest photo of me anyone has ever seen. My hopes, dashed. Dreams, crushed. Ego, bruised. I am no stranger to people in the Motherland complimenting me on my American-bought clothes, compliments that I always politely shrug off. But for once, just ONCE, I wanted an American to compliment me on something I'd purchased in Europe....something that wasn't a t-shirt with "Gone Dutch" written on it or a pen that had a monument sliding around on top of it, something that was chic and stylish and was popular in Europe before it got big here. Oh the devastation!

But hey, that's okay. I have plenty of other cool clothes and accessories that people can ask me about. There's that awesome yellow handbag my cousin got me for Christmas. And those funky earring I'm always wearing. (Let's not even talk about my shoes.) And at least I have that cool scarf I got in Bosnia. How many people can say they have a handmade accessory from a war-torn, Muslim country?

Wait...probably a lot of people.

State of the unconscious

So I've mentioned before that I have very vivid, very strange dreams. Sometimes they make sense, and sometimes they don't. Sometimes the dreams have a theme and central plot line and play out like a movie, and other times it's just a bunch of random scenes stitched together by my wild subconscious. On occasion, I dream about famous people. And most recently, I've been dreaming about Barack Obama. A lot. Like more than a normal person should dream about their president.

I don't know where this all came from, but ever since the election, I've had probably about 2-4 dreams per month about him. And you know what? Even in my dreams, he's a perfect gentleman. He says please and thank you, opens doors, and lets women go first. I find that man so respectful, so genuine and honest, that in the first dream I ever had about him, he made it very clear that he was married and that nothing could ever happen between us. And that theme has pretty much continued throughout the dreams, making every one of them PG-rated. (Lame, I know.) In last night's dream, we were on a weekend trip for which he needed a date, and naturally he chose me. We were staying a huge house in the mountains where he was giving a speech. We stepped out onto the deck, his right hand waving to the crowd, his left hand on my back, guiding me forward. Amidst the cheering crowd, he leaned in and said, "You look lovely." And the only thing going through my mind was, "Too bad he's married."

WHAT?! Who dreams up stuff like that?! Only me. Only in my subconscious would I be on a weekend getaway with the President of the United States and repeatedly remind myself of his moral character and that he would never be unfaithful to his wife. That either makes me the hugest Obama supporter ever, or my mind is trying to tell me never to have an affair with the President. Odd that this wasn't ever a problem before...


....Actually, that makes perfect sense.

Musings of a bizarre weekend

It all started on Friday, when I began writing a post eerily similar to this one. It was entitled "Things I wish the media would stop talking about," and the first two things were Jennifer Aniston and OctoMommy. I always knew Liz and I had some secret psychic opposite-coast-twin connection going on, but this was the first time we'd blogged about the same EXACT thing. Bizzare, yes. A little creepy, yes. But stranger things have happened.

Friday night, I had drinks with a friend in Astoria. (Hi, John!) I left on time, the weather was great, and yet I still managed to be 20 minutes late because the world is awesome like that. First there was traffic, and then I got off at the right exit, only to get back on the highway for some reason. Then an accident happened right in front of me, then more traffic, then a gypsy cab who was trolling for fares and wouldn't drive. Then an ambulance and firetrucks blocking traffic, and finally an interesting discussion about ethnicity and sports affiliation. After that, a discussion about midget porn, YouTube viewings of people falling and dogs sleepwalking, and a grand finale by John's friend, who decided that an abandoned easy chair on the sidewalk was the perfect place for a rest and a photo op. I would classify this night as more random than bizarre, but definitely memorable.

Saturday was a pretty normal day: fought with my grandmother, who thinks I'm her personal chauffeur and demanded I drive her to my cousin's house, who was writing a grad school paper and specifically said to not come over; made macaroni and cheese from scratch (the kind you bake) and it came out pretty good; considered drinking heavily to pass the rest of the day; watched movies online instead. I hadn't planned on going to any parties on Saturday night, but one came to me instead: our tenant had one rockin' shindig down in his apartment, complete with loud music, Asian men ringing my doorbell, and what I'm pretty sure were hookers. The Led Zeppelin stopped breifly for what I assumed was a beer run, during which I attempted to watch Rachel Getting Married. Twenty minutes into the movie, the undeniable odor of ganja and grease came wafting up through the radiator, followed by a slurred demand for more White Castle. I couldn't help wondering if this is what Kid Rock does on the weekends....

Sunday brought many discussions about life, marriage, the future, money, dogs, family, and impending trips to NYC by people not from NYC. It also brought the end of one of my favorite shows on TV, The L Word. Add in one of my best friends getting laid off, the preparing of a dish so spicy I thought I might die, the most white trash waitress I have EVER seen, a puppy who doesn't know how to walk on a leash, and several uncomfortable conversations that had me thinking, "Wow, really?" and there you have my weekend. Bizarre, to say the least.

On my laptop: Rachel Getting Married

I've decided that my movie reviews are too long. I think I give useful feedback about the quality of the film, but my plot synopsis is way too long. As such, you can expect much shorter and more concise reviews in the future.



Rachel Getting Married. Kym is a recovering drug addict who has been in and out of rehab for ten years. She is given a one-day pass from a treatment program that seems to be working so that she can attend her sister's wedding.

For such a simple plot, the film is extremely complex. It examines Kym's relationship with her father, her sister, and her absent mother, and we slowly learn details about the family's past that give insight on how they came to be such a dysfunctional group. Every dialogue-filled moment of this film kept my interest peaked and my emotions on high, and I found myself empathizing with all of the characters: Kym, who has been the center of her father's attention since she entered rehab; Rachel, who should be in the spotlight, at least on her wedding day; Carol, the sisters' ever-present stepmother who looks like the quintessential second wife. Anne Hathaway's performance as Kym is without question Oscar-worthy, and having seen The Reader, I think Hathaway deserved the Best Actress win over Kate Winslet.

The cinematography in this movie is extremely well-done. The scenes all seem to be shot in one take, sometimes from multiple camera angles, sometimes from one, but always revealing the full extent of emotions from the characters. The placement of the camera during certain scenes makes the viewer feel like part of the story: in one scene, it points up at someone who has stood to make a toast, making the viewer feel like a guest at the table; in another scene, the camera is outside a window looking in, giving the impression of an outsider observing a very private conversation.

One last thing I want to mention is how the writers and director incorporated music into the film: instead of a typical soundtrack where music can be heard from an imaginary stero, live performances are featured throughout the movie, functioning as the "background music" for most scenes.

From beginning to end, Rachel Getting Married is truly a fantastic film. I highly recomment it to anyone looking for a group movie to discuss after viewing.

You will ALWAYS be my Noah

That is all. Happy Saturday, everyone!!

Wherein I admit to being more like my mother than I would ever admit

Someone I know recently blogged about getting older. And I knew exactly what she was talking about: that point in your life where you stop and repeat the last thing you just said, and realize, "Holy shit. I've become my mother." Everyone over 25 has had that moment, YOU included. Maybe it was when you complained about a teenager doing something you are totally guilty of at that age. Or maybe when you made a comment like, "I can't believe her mother let her walk out of the house like that. If that were my daughter...." Or maybe it was the first time you really considered, "I love him, but I could never bring him home to my family" as a legitimate reason to break up with someone. For me, that moment came when I drove past a group of boys skateboarding under a highway overpass and said, out loud, "Oh my God, that is so dangerous!! Good lord, they could roll right into traffic! AND WHERE ARE THEIR PARENTS?!" Whatever it was guys, you've been there. Maybe you didn't turn into an older black woman like I did, but you've been there.

And when the hell did it happen?! Wasn't it lke 3 short years ago that we were out at some bar on the Lower East side, getting wasted and dancing on tables? Not that that shit is classy or anything, but DAMN was it fun! When was the last time any of us did something crazy like that? A looooong time ago. And you know why? Because we're getting older. Being more "responsible," getting more "mature." We can't go out on Thursday nights anymore because we actually have to be at work on time the next day. And forget Friday night, that's become "me night," the one night a week we actually appreciate staying home by ourselves to watch DVR and decompress. Maybe we'll go out on a random Saturday to catch a movie, but not just any movie... it has to be a really famous movie, one we've been planning to see for a long time. Like James Bond or a comic book movie or like when Sex and the City came out. (Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.... you know you dressed up in your heels and shorts and had cosmos with your girls before going to that movie! )

I could go on, but it's getting pathetic. You get what I'm trying to say here, guys: we're not 23 anymore. We're older, we have jobs, some of us even have kids. We're old enough to say "we're not 23 anymore" and actually be ok with it. We did get more responsible, we did get more mature. And we like it better than your hungover, barely paying the rent, spent $200 on a handbag, didn't go to bed last night, immature ass.

**But we're all still really jealous of you and wish we could all be that young again.