Snowflakes in the air

I secretly enjoy the holiday season. I have already decorated my apartment with a small tree, bells, bows, and the scent of the holidays (Christmas smells like gingerbread and Goldschläger.)

There is something magical about this time of year. Like a sucker I feel the need to watch every TV holiday movie. These poorly made classics are staples on my television. A Charlie Brown Christmas is arguably the best.

A Charlie Brown Christmas shows a simple world where children run everything. With bit of talk about the Big J and speeches against commercialism it has touched the hearts of the American Public. If you hate this movie you ARE THE DEVIL.

In light of the upcoming holidays (and the recent biography of Charles M Schulz) I decided to spice up this holiday classic with a drinking game!

Take a Sip When…

* Charlie Brown says something that is ridiculously EMO.

* Every time a non-white character comes on screen.

* Schroeder rebuffs Lucy’s advances. (Finish your drink if anyone in the room suggests that Schroeder is gay…or if you think it.)

* Every time Schroeder’s piano produces the sound of some absent instrument. (Finish you drink if his piano magically sounds like a full jazz quartet.)

* Every time someone makes fun of Pigpen’s appearance. (Kids are horrid rude creatures. Shouldn’t the Christmas sprit extend to all people, including the dirty kid?)

* The relationship between Snoopy and Woodstock confuse you.

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

I wake up to Al Roker

I woke up at 7am, brewed some coffee, took a shower, tamed my wild mane and made a few thanksgiving side dishes.

By 8:45am I was ready to just relax and take in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. As I sat down with my hard cider I realized this is the perfect time to live blog. So I present to you my thoughts on the (first hour) of the American staple The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. (EDIT: I was tipsy when I wrote this, I made an executive decision and decided to post this as is...enjoy!)

9:00 am- Oh, those cheesy children dressed up in costume singing their guts out. I just know that they have no chance in hell at making it in the musical theater world. The guy at the ribbon cutting ceremony is ggggg gay and checking out his hair in the camera.

9:15 - Legally Blonde The Musical…wow singing a personal essay. When I am studying for LSAT’s I always wish things like this could happen. If I could only tap dance a personal essay instead of writing about how I want to save the world. Yes, I am a bit envious of a fictional blonde ditz who gets into Harvard Law because of “love”

9:20- Everyone is rubbing in the fact they are close to their families. SOME OF US LIVE ACROSS THE COUNTRY AND CAN’T BE WITH OUR FAMILIES. SOME OF US ARE STUCK CRASHING OUR BOSSES FAMILY EVENTS.

Why am I so bitter?

9:25 Young Frankenstein…this actually looks good. I am also already 2 hard ciders in…may or may not be dancing to the fridge to get another.

9:28 The Ronald McDonald balloon looks a bit like he is taking it in the rear from M&M guys.

9:30 Bob Saget in a helicopter, I have no clue why but this cracks me up. Now I hate him he is making fun of homeless people and the Golden Girls, not cool. Wait he just made a J-date joke which mildly increased his funniness.

9:30 Xanadu..I LOVE THIS MOVIE. Yes, I admitted this. And the idea of a roller-skating disco musical is my idea of heaven. Plus guys in American Apparel short shorts are always entertaining. I was born in the wrong decade. I want to think if I was in my 20’s in the late 70’s I would be a disco queen. In reality I would have been some lame lesbian feminist with a power suit job.

9:38 Time to call people and wish them a tipsy happy Thanksgiving…this does not count as a tipsy dial because I would have done this 100% not tipsy.

9:41- CHRISTOPHER MELONI (that guy from Law and Order SVU) HAS THE MOST AMAZING DOG. A pug, French Bulldog combo named Bonnie. I WANT ONE. I love pugs and French bull dogs, as I saw this dog I squealed it really is one of the cutest dogs ever.

9:43 Mary Poppins...nothing can compare to the classic movie. At this point I have moved on to rum and OJ. Why orange Juice, because that is the only mixer I have)

9:50 The ROCKETTS. I saw the Rockettst Easter special once. The show started with the Rocketts dressed like nuns singing in Latin, it was awkward and everyone in my family could not stop laughing. I opened up my blinds and I am sitting in the sun like a cat with my feet up in the air like a 15 year old girl on the phone. I have no clue why you need to know that but it fit.

9:56 The TV coverage of the balloons is starting…this is the boring part

9:59 I SPOKE TOO SOON DOLLY PARTON. God I wish I look as great as her “I am not the Dalai Lama but I try” words to live by Dolly, words to live by.

It has been a great hour. Mission accomplished if I do say so myself.

I wish you all a happy Thanksgiving and a lovely time with family and friends. Have a lovely Tofurkey day!

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

I missed DEXTER for THIS?

So I went on a date Sunday night. My first New York City date. I “met” the guy through the personals on bust.com through Bust magazine and had high hopes for this gent. He is 30, in magazine publishing, plays the guitar and seemed to be very attractive.

APPEARANCES ARE DECIEVING PEOPLE. Do not put up pictures of yourself that make you seem hotter than you are! That is just such a bad idea; I cannot stress it enough. Sure I put up a few pictures where my neck is at such an angle that I look like I have better bone structure than I do, but I wasn’t hiding a major skin disorder or a major jacked up teeth situation that causes a nerdy sounding lisp. Just don’t do it people.

So let me back up a little bit. So this Internet “bad-ass hottie” named Steve and I had been emailing for a few weeks and decided to go out for dinner and drinks. “Mamas gonna get some!” I casually thought to myself while making a thrusting motion of my pelvis (at work).

A few days before the date was to go down (if the pictures were accurate…zing!), Steve called me to chat. I was immediately caught off guard by what a stereotypically “nerd” voice he had. It was nasal with a slight lisp and he stuttered a lot. He also talked. A lot. Mostly about the difference between chrome slides vs. Digital photos in a magazine. Now I’m a design/magazine nerd, but such conversation is not the way to my heart, or my pants. He also divulged that the reason he couldn’t go out on Saturday is because he was going to UFC, or Ultimate Fight Championship.



Like the cage fighting you see on Spike TV when you’re flipping through channels...his “obsession.” Hmm…I hung up a half hour later feeling 98% “Oh fuck, how do I get out of this gracefully?” However, the 2% left rationalized that cool people can be into lame things. Take me for example, I love “Buffy The Vampire Slayer,” “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and went to the Maryland Sheep and Wool Festival for 6 years in a row out of choice. Or my roommate Serena! She’s cool as shit, but enjoys a good Renaissance Festival and likes horses. Or my sister! The epitome of cool, and she likes Linkin Park! I was feeling better and ready for our date.

The day before our date R2Steve2 (as he shall here on be called due to his cliché nerdy voice) called again and said we would be going to a Mexican restaurant on St. Marks Place. “Score!” I thought. I had had a very successful first date at a nice Mexican restaurant before and St. Marks is a trendy area. So the afternoon of the date I was filled with anticipation and butterflies. So I killed those butterflies with my pre-date ritual of a glass of wine and a bagel (well, the bagel wasn’t part of the ritual, I was just hungry). Except instead of one glass, I had three and was feeling a wee bit sloshed seeing how I had only eaten half a bagel that day. I realized that I had no idea where St. Marks Place was, if it was a park, circle, arch, dome, cube? I looked at the MTA map and saw that there wasn’t a St. Marks Place stop anywhere. Not wanting to call R2Steve2 back and reveal that not only am I new to the city, but I’m heavily geographically challenged, I searched the rolodex of my mind to think of who would know how to get around St. Marks. I knew there was only one man: my father. Seeing how my father went to NYU and spent a good chunk of the 60’s as a junkie laying around that area I called him up. Yes kids, I asked my dad for directions to my date drunk. Siiiighhh… But trusty old dad knew the directions of which trains I should take off of the top of his head and I was on my way.

Half an hour later, there I was, gussied up and looking fly, waiting for R2Steve2 at the corner of St. Marks (a street, not a park, circle, arch dome or cube) and third. Suddenly, he walked up and we exchanged glances. “What’s up, I’m Patsy.” I calmly said. “OH MY FUCKING GOD! HE’S SHORT, HAS GRAYING HAIR, LOOKS LIKE HE’S SUFFERING FROM LEPROCY, HAS A SERIOUS BUSTED TOOTH PROBLEM AND SMELLS LIKE ONIONS! RUN! RUN AS FAST AS THOSE IRONIC COWBOY BOOTS YOU ARE WEARING WILL TAKE YOU!” screamed my brain. But I’m not that shallow. I decided not to run and to continue on to the Mexican place and give the man a chance.

Now about this Mexican place. Turns out he takes me to Burritoville, a burrito-to-go place where you order at the counter. I got a taco salad and offered to pay but was met with R2Steve2 assuring me “Oh no, it’s on me, it’s the least I can do since we have to eat it in the cold.” Are you fucking kidding me? It was 32 degrees out! We shivered over our food talking awkwardly, most of the time just him talking about his new found love of shrooms and the best way to brew them in tea. Once the meal was over I thought, “Thank God, I’m getting the fuck out of here!” But then R2Steve2 asked if I wanted to go for a drink. And I just can’t refuse a damn drink, so I reluctantly said yes.

R2Steve2 took me to “The 24-hour Cocktail Lounge,” which I can best describe as the seedy bar at a seedy strip club, but sans strippers. We were the only people there (besides the 90 year old bartender who can’t speak anymore and just shuffles around) and there was no music playing. You could cut the awkward with a knife. We sat down at a booth that no doubt has already given me the Herp, and began awkwardly talking again as I chugged my Heineken. Finally another couple came in and started to have a normal conversation that was occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter. “Do you think we have that kind of chemistry?” R2Steve2 asked. “No I don’t. I also think I have to go now.” And that was that.

Fuck. Me.
Patsy

Liberty High

I know you all sit and wonder how I spend my free time. And perhaps in all that wondering you had a strain of thought that went something like this:

“I bet Eddie sits around her apartment sporting a ‘Hanes Her Way’ sweatshirt, matching panties and matching thigh high socks. She sits on her daybed (which is also her couch) sipping hot coco and crafting. The whole time My So-Called Life (the recently released DVD box set) plays in the background.” Well random person, you are 100% correct.

1990’s Zeitgeist, plaid and teen angst is always awesome.

I wish I could like quit you Jordan Catalano ,
Eddie

Stuff that Turkey

Today’s drinking game is brought to you by a special little underage lady, my friend Golden. (No I do not spend my time trolling for underage girls in parks offering rides for candy. Golden has graduated college and has a legit job, she just on the young side.)

One night I was one of those ‘bad’ friends and left her in a hotel while I went out to the bars. Golden joined forces with a co-worker and stayed in the hotel drinking. In a tipsy state Golden created The Food Network Drinking game. [Golden’s Edits: due solely to said co-worker's love of cooking, because Golden actually loathes the Food Network with the fiery passion of a thousand suns and wishes Rachel Ray would die a horrible, slow death. Get the fuck off my box of Triscuits, you crazy bitch!]

I can not attest to the quality of this game, for I was out wasting time and money. But when I returned to my hotel golden was giddy and obviously under the influence. With turkey day fast approaching, and as Americans turn their minds to food this is the perfect time to play. Feel free to play while your family members yell at each other. Or, if you come from one of those families gather everyone around the TV and play together.

Take a sip (of your expensive California wine…or in golden’s case Smirnoff Ice)
*When anyone with an accent speaks
* When a catch phrase is used
* Every time the title of the show is sung, spoken, or shown
* When measurements are given in immeasurable methods (such as a dash, a pinch, to taste)
* When the shows theme centers on an upcoming holiday
*Any time an onomatopoeia is used- IE the infamous "BAM!"

Finish your drinking
*Every time you see Rachel Ray (this rule can be amended for shows staring her…)
Golden’s Optional Rule: Hit your drinking mate with a pillow anytime a show staring Rachel starts. Yes, I know the rage that her annoying, shiny face induces. Just don't spill any booze in the process of releasing your anger. Wasted alcohol is not acceptable.
* When a shows theme is centered on a past holiday
* Whenever Neil Patrick Harris' full name is used

[Golden's Note- this game was born of a very specific show called Dinner Impossible, in which Neil Patrick Harris randomly guest starred as a sous chef, and I found that hilarious. How could you not laugh at Doogie in a kitchen, trying to make mango paste look like cheese? If you're really compelled to see this, the episode was called the Magician's Meal... or something.]

Wash your hands and double dare everyone in the room to take a shot
*When Mark Summers is on TV

Drink up Bitches

I wish I could quit you,
Eddie

Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick

In addition to tsunami warnings the cute coastal town warned me not to touch seals on the shore. There was a harsh monetary punishment for coming within 50 feet of the sea mammal. As a rebellious spirit I decided I had to break the law. I vowed to come within 49 feet or less of a live seal and poke it. My weapon of choice was my finger, with a short stick as a backup.

Sadly, I never achieved my goal of poking a seal. During a lovely walk on the beach a rock started to bark. After my girly shrikes ended I was delighted to find the noise coming from a cute little seal pup. The small creature looked up at me with big brown eyes (actually eye, the right one was crusty and closed) and instantly like the Grinch my heart grew. I also realized this thing was infected, and from the look of the funk eye it was not good.

I am a very tactile person when it comes to animals. Going to zoos and seeing animals just out of reach is torture. These beautiful majestic creatures behind plastic and bars call my name. They appear to say, “pssst Eddie, forget the sign, please pet us!” It is not just living creatures; I also have to fight the urge to touch museum artifacts and works of art. Like shooting up with dirty needles my personal demons are risky.

Years ago, at the National Zoo I was joking around with friends about panda coats. (If you ask me babies would also make a great leather coat. Over-fed babies plump and supple for the skinning. Babies from all different ethnicity's would create a darling patchwork effect… I am Cruella DeVille.) As soon as the sentence was out of my mouth a panda lady appeared. I do not use the name “panda lady” lightly; this woman was COVERED in panda gear. She wore panda shoelaces, socks, pants, t-shirt, vest, necklace and earrings. To top it all off panda lady donned a pair of panda ears in her damaged perm fried hair.

In a deep robust hausfrau voice panda lady proceeded to shout information at me. She informed the growing group panda hair was “poor coat material” along with other useless facts. All of a sudden from the back of her panda pants pocket the zoo worker (or what I hope was a zoo worker) pulled out a bag of panda hair (or what I hope was a bag of panda hair). The woman kept moving to stop me from running away. She firmly instructed me to reach into her zip block bag and touch the furry mass. The hair felt identical to a goat (truth-be-told it could have been a bag of goat hair). Yet, the experience quenched my thirst, I found out what a panda feels like without jumping into the bamboo ridden habitat.

There is a lesson in all of this (I am also the internet Aesop):

1) Panda people are weird

2) Sometimes making rude jokes and mistreating endangered wildlife can be a risky, yet awesome life choice.

I wish I could quit you,

Eddie

Rule #1 of Fight Club: don't blog about Fight Club

When I come home after work, generally I’m in one of two states.

State 1: Zombie State. Example: last Thursday I came home, drank half a bottle of wine in bed watching “Reno 911: Miami!” passed out and slept from 9:30pm until it was time to get up and get ready for work the next morning.

State 2: 12 Year-Old Boy with ADD/ADHD State. Example: A few weeks ago I had an enormous surplus of energy. Where this excess energy sometimes comes from, I have no idea, seeing as I’ve been compared to a housecat on numerous occasions. I decided to channel this energy in a constructive manner by challenging my boy roommate, Blair (of wrote the last Drinking Game fame) to a fight club. Blair being basically me in male form whole-heartedly agreed, and the battle ensued. Most of the fight was pretty innocent, spent rolling around and tackling each other while trying to sneak a punch in, but towards the end of the fight, we had a good old fashioned “How Hard Can You Punch Me?” competition. Two things went awry at this point. First, I held back. I should have beat the shit out of my dear best friend, but I know my own strength (Eddie can attest to this, we took kickboxing together), and I didn’t want to hurt the poor thing with my Hulk-like strength. The other thing I forgot is that Blair is athletic and really strong. I don’t know why I forgot this, seeing as Blair is a dancer and once was a gymnast…boy is strong. As my mom later said to me, “The boy may be gay, but the boy is still a boy.” So I let him pound away on my right upper arm until I couldn’t take it anymore. The result was a beautifully impressive black and blue bruise the size of a baseball that lasted about a week and a half.

However, once the bruise disappeared, I sort of missed it. It made me feel so badass. And it’s been cold in New York as of late, so I’m always wearing long sleeves or a wrap. One night last week when I had another random and unexplained bout of high energy, I dared Blair to punch the spot where the old bruise was as hard as he could repeatedly in hopes that a new bruise would return (I swear I’m not a masochist weirdo…I just get bored and I like proving my high tolerance for pain…I DON’T NEED TO EXPLAIN MY ACTIONS TO YOU!) And indeed, a new bruise is back…and bigger and blacker and greener than ever. I was impressed for a few days until my mom informed me that such a bruise could turn into a blood clot, move to my brain and kill me (Fight Club not over however, we’ll just move to my left arm, and I won’t hold back anymore).

So the Fight Club, and resulting massive bruise really haven’t been a problem until today. This morning I was running late, and before I was out the door, I realized I was wearing short sleeves, exposing my disgusting and suspicious bruise. With no time to coordinate a whole new outfit, I ran to my dresser and half-assed covered it up with foundation and shimmery powder. So now I’m walking around with a bruise that looks like I’m desperately trying to cover up a beating I got from my boyfriend with shimmery powder.

If I had a quarter from the number of concerned/odd looks I’ve gotten from co-workers today, I’d have a shitload of quarters. When faced with inquisitive co-workers, it would probably be less embarrassing to mutter some cliché line a la Lifetime made for TV movie (maybe specifically from the one starring Tiffany Amber Thiessan where her army husband beats her but nobody cares because that’s the price of being an army wife…anyone? No takers? Only I saw that?) like “Oh that…I…I uh ran into a wall,” or “Oh THAT…haha…no my army husband beats me.” These statements are all less embarrassing and more socially acceptable than “Oh that? My roommate and I sometimes play Fight Club and see how hard we can wail on each other. He’s good. I’m secretly a 12-year-old boy on the inside with the body of a stacked 22-year-old woman. Well see you later in the conference room!”

So if anyone asks, Blair is my husband, he’s a serviceman and he puts me in my place when I get new fangled ideas like maybe getting a part-time job or learning to read.

Sha la la!
Patsy

Poor Planning

My “running around the pacific northwest” muscle is sore. After consecutive professional development conferences/trainings in different states/areas I am beat. In my travels I came across a few disturbing pieces I feel compelled to share with the general public.

First alarming image is a sign I found in a cute coastal town.

1) What idiot runs towards the water during a tsunami?

2) Even though the stick person is running towards higher ground it is clear zie has no chance of surviving the approaching wall of water. This sign does not inspire hope for safe evacuation.

3) This sign made me feel bad for the quaint little town. After seen the warning I knew that they were geographically fucked.
a. (Maybe that is why people like beaches…risks are fun! After all areas that are safe from natural, human, or zombie disasters tend to be lame.)

4) I would bet a large monetary sum that this town considers the sign their emergency management plan. I can just hear the mayor;

“A tsunami sign is how much?!? I know they are rare but do they have to be that pricey? We will take one, yeah just one; a natural disaster will only hit the area closest to the ocean (even though we are surrounded by water). One strategically placed sign should be enough warning. I would also like to order 50 ‘Keep your dog on a leash’ signs and 50 ‘Don’t feed the wild life’ signs.”

I wish I could quit you (remember move to higher elevation),
Eddie

You Wanna Be On Top?

Well happy Drinking Game Friday to one and all. My roommate Blair wrote this week’s drinking game, but before I turn it over to him, I would just like to state that I got felt up yesterday. By a homeless, perhaps schizophrenic man in a stairwell coming up from the subway. He and my left breast are now best friends. That’s the most action I’ve seen in a month and a half. So, referring to Wednesday’s post, I guess the moral of this story is— be careful what you blog for, it just might come true. Take it Blair!

America's Next Top Model. My guiltiest of guilty pleasures.

Wait, no. I take that back. I am in no way embarrassed of my viewership of this show. ANTM has been nothing but good to me since its inception in May 2003. I have spent countless hours laughing at the show with various friends, from Tyra's infamous freak-out in Cycle 4 to Kathleen's "I know, right?" from cycle 8 and everything in between. In fact, it was ANTM that brought me and one of my closest friends here in NYC together in the first place, bonding over the absolutely luda antics of Tyra and the contestants. So I live for MTV or VH1 marathons of the show, knowing full well that when these happen, I can easily kill upwards of 4 hours watching episodes I've already seen hundreds of times already.

So I'd be willing to say that I am a bit of an ANTM connoisseur. After nine cycles, there are some things you can just count on happening. Since the brilliance of Tyra Banks and Ken Mok is already chipping away at your brain cells, why not help it along with a bit of alcohol.

Thus I propose the America's Next Top Model Drinking Game:


1 sip:

* Any contestant says "I'm not here to make friends." (You can usually count on this at least once an episode. Because…)
* Any contestant says "This is a competition." (It hardly seems fair because usually "I'm not here to make friends" follows or precedes "This is a competition". However, this is a drinking game and I'm not writing this to make friends. I'm writing this to get you drunk.)
* Any contestant claims modeling is their dream/passion/lifelong ambition. (You might want to make these sips small…)
* Tyra Mail is received. (This is probably the easiest rule to follow since Tyra Mail is announced loudly by everyone on screen.)
* Tears. (I think in order for this rule to be put into place, the person doing the crying must also acknowledge the tears. We need to see some genuine emotion, or at least a hand brushing the tears away. Sometimes a bitch just gets something stuck in her eye, and her eye waters up.)
* The word "fierce" is used.
* Twiggy says "The camera loves you." (If you happen to be watching an earlier season in which Twiggy does not appear, you can just drink whenever Janice Dickinson is abrasive.)
* Tyra demonstrates the right and the wrong way to pull off a pose/picture/commercial/whatever. ("You're giving me this ::squints:: but what I want is this ::squints and moves forward::. Can you see the difference?")

2 sips:

* A judge other than Twiggy tells a girl "The camera loves you."
* Tyra talks about smiling with your eyes. (Because models don't smile with their mouths. Ever. Next Tyra teaching the girls to hear with their elbows.)
* A contestant is accused of looking "hoochie" or "porn-star". (What I love about this is Tyra asking them to look "ho, but make it fashion")
* Miss Jay looks gender confused. (Basically just whenever Miss Jay is wearing women's clothing, but make no effort to fem up the face.)
* Jay Manuel sasses a girl on set. (I'll leave the definition of sass up to you. But for a man made from plastic, Mr. Jay is pretty darn sassy.)
* A yelling match ensues. (This will probably cause you a lot more inebriation in earlier episodes, however the full blown yelling becomes less extreme as the season progresses.)
* Mark Rosenthal, Atoosa Rubenstein, or Benny Ninja make an appearance. (Luckily these three have never appeared in an episode together or my head would explode from all the hotness, large-faced-ness, vogue-ness respectively.)
* A contestant mentions their baby back home. (No, not their boyfriend. An actual baby. Because most of these girls are 18-22, and have a child, but believe that pursuing a modeling career is the smartest way to support your family.)

3 sips:

* Tyra hugs any of the contestants. (Cycle 3 Tyra was the best for these hugs because she clearly did not want these girls touching her.)
* Miss Jay appears to be wearing men's clothing. (It will blow your mind.)
* Makeover episode!
* A girl is sick, either in bed or enough to get sent to the emergency room. (Most people go to the emergency room for a broken bone or a life-threatening illness. ANTM contestants = dehydration.)
* A former winner of ANTM appears on the show. (Don't these girls have modeling careers to attend to?)
* A contestant's terrible past is recounted. (My daddy used to touch me in my no-no spot in the back of our trailer…. And that's why I want to be a model.)
* An aberration occurs during elimination. This could be no elimination, a double elimination, or a contestant voluntarily leaving the show.

And finally, finish your drink:

* Someone you've actually heard of in the fashion industry is involved with the show. (Another discretionary event, since some may be more fashion literate than I. However, I certainly would recognize Kimora Lee Simmons, for example and not necessarily the "Swirl Twins" of Ron and Richard Harris.)
* A full episode concludes without Tyra actin' a damn fool. (This may not ever happen. But if it does, finish two drinks.)

Well, I hope I didn't just punch your liver into submission. What I hope you take away from this drinking game is knowledge of your angles, the ability to find the light with your face, and recognition that you are a role model for millions of little girls out there. And probably a few college graduates who enjoy mindless entertainment.

I hope you've enjoyed playing this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And thanks to Patsy and Eddie for the ghost writing opportunity.

Stay fierce,

Blair Waldorf

Where Have all the Cowboys Gone?

Normally I like to write about just random, kooky things that happen to me (as they tend to), but alas—here comes the dreaded “Sex and The City”-esque update. So let’s set the scene- I’m wearing boy cut underwear, a Gucci camisole, my Patsy gold ghetto-bling necklace, chain-smoking and walking around my fabulous studio pondering all of the recent sex I’ve been having.

Reality: I’m wearing jeans and a white shirt (It is BCBG though…I don’t know if that wins me any anti-white trash points), sitting at my office computer in my cubicle drinking sugar free instant cocoa, thinking about all of the sex I’m not having.

I propose the following question: What the fuck Brooklyn? What. The. Fuck. When I moved here, I wasn’t aware that it was a magical borough full of couples with dogs and babies. BABIES AND DOGS AND HAPPY COUPLES! Everywhere I look! I assured myself that when I went out a-boozin’ in the trendy area of Brooklyn this past weekend, surely I would frolic through a field of single indie-hipster boys, spin around, throw my hat in the air and sing “I’m gonna get laid after all!” But no! Even at the trendy places, it’s married couples and dating couples. Where did you people come from? In order to become a couple, you technically have to be single at some point. Therefore, there should be single people besides myself who are single and ready to mingle. But no! The entire borough of Brooklyn has coupled off. I don’t get it. How is this possible? All I know is it’s 100% depressing.

Everyday when I commute to and fro work on the subway, I have a subway crush. Someone I make eyes with hoping to God they’ll toss a note to me across the car that says “I like U, do you U like me? Circlez 1: Yes, No, Maybe.” But alas, they always break up with me and get off the train before the note can be tossed. The worst is when you’re makin’ eyes at your subway crush and you can’t see his ring finger to see if you’re a subway crush home wrecker or not. Yesterday there was a hot guy standing by me and he sneezed. I was about to say “bless you,” when I realized he was wearing a wedding ring. So I didn’t say bless you. This is how bitter I am. I wish we all had to wear stars sewn onto our clothes, a yellow star meaning you’re single, and a black star meaning you’re taken (a.k.a. you are any given resident of Brooklyn that is not myself or my roommates). Yes, sewn stars on clothes everyday. No exceptions. This is what will happen damnit! Didn’t someone try to do that before…? [Editor’s Note: Patsy is Jewish and therefore allowed to make Hitler jokes. It’s like black people with the N-word]

Last night I watched 4 back-to-back episodes of HBO’s “Tell Me You Love Me,” which taught me two important lessons: 1.) Never get married and 2.) Never have children or attempt to have children. Both will ultimately ruin your life. If this is the case, Score: Single Patsy: 1, Stupid couples with their dogs and babies: 0

But the romantic in me can’t be that cynical…last night I found out an old friend of mine got engaged. I got jealous, harsh words were thrown around the apartment (she sort of deserves them…we were Middle School friends, so she was obviously a deviant little cunt.) That makes like 5 friends from my childhood engaged in the non-white trash “I got engaged because mah boyfriend Jeb is shippin’ out to Iraq in 2 months and I gots knocked up” kind of way. Via facebook (facebook: making stalking people socially acceptable and easier since 2003,) I looked through her photos from the night they got engaged. She looked so damn happy. I want that! Later that night, I got to thinking: What the hell is a girl to do surrounded by couples, dogs and babies on an island full of happy couples?

Sha la la!
Carrie, er, Patsy

You Don't Own Me

Sorry, for my absence (not like you noticed…) I was in Portland for a conference. I spent my time going to meetings, skipping said meetings and going to the ocean, calling Patsy while at the ocean saying “I AM LOOKING AT THE OTHER OCEAN RIGHT NOW.” My nights (all two of them) were filled with walking around Portland admiring the cute vegan places, vintage clothing boutiques, a giant book store, and hitting up the bars.

I hope everyone had a lovely Halloween dressed as a Slutty _____________ (soccer hooligan, garbage collector, fry cook, postal worker.) As Brooklyn Vegan pointed out I had the year’s most unoriginal costume. I was Amy Winehouse post bloody knife fight with her husband.

Before becoming a drunken whiskey sour filled mess in another city I planed ahead. When I found out I was on deck for this weeks drinking game Netflix came to my rescue. One of these three ladies attended our alma mater so it is a bit of a GO COLLEGE shout out. That has nothing to do with why I picked this movie but it sounds classier than “I put it in my queue when I was feeling all lonely and upset and at the time I though it would give me a good laugh.”

I brought the DVD to my friend’s apartment along with a pocket full of enthusiasm, another friend, and a six pack of André- my favorite $3.99 sparkling wine. We started to play the game with only three of us and it went very well. When others joined I realized we were on our way to breaking the cardinal rule of movie drinking games. Thou shall not play a movie drinking game with more than 5 people. If played with more than five people the game will fizzle and everyone will start their own conversations. This fizzling is not always a bad thing. Some people were probably delighted at the games early ending. But for others (me) who actually wanted to play the slow death of the game was painful.

If we had played the game to the end our livers would harden and our hearts softened with a warming pro-woman agenda. Instead I was left barely feeling a buzz. Without further delay I bring you the classic 1990’s chick flick The First Wives Club.



Take a sip of your drink (out of the bottle)…
When a character takes a sip of their drink (alcoholic)

When the word lesbian is used or lesbianism is referenced

When someone says something to the effect of “this is the 90’s”

For every character on screen who is wearing pearls.

Shout l'chaim and drink when Bar Mitzvahs or studying Hebrew is discussed/occurs (this was turned into when Judaism is mentioned…which turned into when a person who is Jewish is on the screen) In conclusion drink when you see Bette Midler.

This is how deep I am (points to puddle)

I know it’s Drinking Game Friday and it’s Eddie’s turn to rock it, however, it’s only 10:31 in the morning, I have ZERO work to do today and my world was just rocked. So I turn to the blog to exorcise my emotions and pass the time.

I have this problem where I know an actor but I never connect the dots that they are in other movies. But I know it’s the same actor in those other movies. This is hard to explain so, case and point: The Great Jared Leto Debacle of 2006. In my mind, there used to exist 5 different Jared Letos.

#1: Jared Leto of “My So Called Life Fame”


I knew that this actor’s name was Jared Leto. I was a fan of the show and loved the character of Jordan Catalano.

#2: Jared Leto of “Requiem for a Dream Fame”


I knew that this actor’s name was Jared Leto, I knew I was a fan, but I did not connect him with the Jared Leto of “My So Called Life Fame.”

#3: Jared Leto of “Girl Interrupted Fame”


I knew this actor’s name was Jared Leto, I knew he was famous, but I did not link him to the previous two Jared Letos.

#4: Jared Leto of 30 Seconds to Mars Fame


Again, I knew that this heavily eye-linered guy’s name was Jared Leto, but I did not realize he was the Jared Leto from “MSCL”, “Requiem”, and “Girl Interrupted”.

#5: Finally, I just had an overall abstract concept that there exited in this world an actor named Jared Leto. I couldn’t really picture what he looked liked, but I knew he was a famous actor.

One day in the car with my college friends, we were discussing Jared Leto (and I really don’t know why,) and it dawned on me that these various Jared Letos were the same person. And it blew my mind. I then had an embarrassing outburst of, “Jared Ledo…OH JARED LETO! LIKE JARED LETO! AND JARED LETO! JARED LETO JARED LETO JARED LETO! WOW!”…And then I got laughed at, and deservedly so.

Well as I’m sitting here, bored as shit making snowflakes out of post-it notes and wondering if my dress is showing too much cleavage, I had another break through. This time involving Julie Benz. There exist three Julie Benz’ in my mind and I just realized all three are one in the same.

#1: Julie Benz of “Jawbreaker Fame”


#2: Julie Benz of Darla from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer Fame”


#3: Julie Benz of Dexter’s girlfriend fame in “Dexter”


It’s these small and pointless little “woahhh the universe is heavy man!” moments I have that make me wonder if a.) am I retarded? b.) do I have ADD or it’s hyperactive cousin AHDH? and c.) am I really that vapid? This is like the time I watched “I Heart Huckabees Fame" with a group of people. After the movie, everyone was sharing their thoughts on existentialism, and my only reflection on the film was "Dude...Jude Law sounds funny-like with an American accent!"

Sha la la!
Patsy

Shameless Promotion/This is Actually Cool

Hey gang! So this is less amusing and more just me shamelessly plugging some cool stuff. As dear Eddie is in the middle o' nowhere Oregon as we speak and hasn't seen a single episode of "Gossip Girl" (blasphemy), I'll take over some cultural duties on this here old blog.

So coming in the spring is a book my friend Icey is doing publicity for and it sounds incredibly cool. It's called BEAUTIFUL CHILDEREN by Charles Bock and I'm not 100% sure when it comes out, but you can pre-order it on Amazon.com (I did!). It's about struggling teenagers, strippers, musicians, runaways etc. living in Las Vegas in the 1980's (I'm drooling at the mouth). It also has a totally cool website (design wise...I'm a nerd, what more do you want?) with really good music, so make sure your speakers are up when you go there! www.beautifulchildren.net



What's even cooler is the author has created a musical side project. As his myspace explains: So, I had this awesome idea. I gave my novel — BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN — to some of my favorite bands and asked them to make a song from the book. It could be based on a character, on a phrase, on the sound the book made when they threw it in the trash, whatever. Well, turns out that some of them actually decided to fucking make songs. I'm going to be posting them up here real soon.

According to Icey The Killers are already in the midst of writing a song. Very cool stuff to check out: http://www.myspace.com/girlwiththeshavedhead Add that puppy as your friend! "Girl With Shaved Head" is the name of the musical project. Ultra cool in my book.

Now I'm going to go take my digital camera to the bathroom of my office and take really angular emo pictures of myself looking sexy and vulnerable, because this all reminds me I haven't updated my myspace picture in over a year.

Sha la la endorsement,
Patsy