Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Ode to My Fanny Pack: The Underdog of Bags

Oh, sweet Fanny Pack. How do I love thee?

Your skin is weathered and licorice black
Your zippers are strong and grounded
You grip my waist with a sense of duty
A sense of pride
An attention whore for the decades existed
And decades to come
You demand to be front and center
Drawing eyes, you hold steady in your position

There you wait
Ready to hold my phone
My lipgloss
My flippy floppies, if need be

100% genuine leather
Made in Mexico
Found at a thrift store
You were fated to be mine
To join me at every dance party requiring tube socks
Patent leather pants
Mullet wigs

You bring people joy
You bring me nothing but satisfaction
High Fives

Those that say you can never be
Let them be silenced
Let them gaze upon your beauty
And weep.

*** If you'd like to see me rockin' a fanny pack via youtube, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQ7Lqo15aIU

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Hermosa Fiesta: A Labor Day Celebration

This past weekend was Labor Day, a day to look back and honor all of those people who ever had jobs and fought for fair laws and hours in the workplace. In their honor, apparently, Americans feel the need to have barbecues, fireworks, and in the case of Hermosa Beach, CA, an enormous festival. This festival shut down the main streets leading to the pier where vendors could sell things and people could get shit faced drunk and not get run over. I was one of those people.

Saturday morning, after hosing off my stairs because some drunk asshole decided to half die there the night before, I looked out upon the vast sea of tents floating along the street. A hot guy jogged by and I thought it my best interest to dive right in.

A USC game was on, so Freaky and I left a screaming and hollering DNasty to her game so that she could freak out alone. We made our way through the free samples, a few times naturally, and decided to wade through the tents that were actually there for monetary gain. While some of these tents had cool stuff and unique artwork, I beg of you tell me: why in the fuck would someone put up an entire tent dedicated to sell nothing but cheap, wood, "funny" signs saying things like "Wine a Little Bit, You'll Feel Better"? Or a tent that viciously attacked defenseless hats and shirts with an enraged bedazzler? Or better yet, a tent that only sold thick, leather bracelets with yin yang symbols that only a member of Creed would be caught wearing? The answer: old people. (Side note: Watch yourselves. They're everywhere and they will buy anything that would fall under the category of junk.)

As we made our way through waves of the excited elderly waving dollars, we came to the opening of a fair ground. To our left we saw that there was a beer/ wine garden. Exchanging a glance, no need for words, Freaky and I skipped to the garden where we got the biggest cup of wine ever sold to us in the continental United States. Plus, all proceeds went to charity so we'd tell people that was why we were there. Instinctively, we scoured the crowd that was enjoying the live band for hot guys. With a sigh, we realized that there were none and that those god damned old people infiltrated our shores once again. We'd have to just swig our wine and rock out to the 80s cover band "Heartless" that was playing. Man, they were awesome. The lead singer was a fatter, red haired version of Steven Tyler and her voice was made to sing "Barracuda".  Obviously, this is what Labor Day was all about.

We were not the only ones enjoying the band's fortysomething enthusiasm for the music of their youth, however, and two heavily intoxicated twentysomethings with no self esteem got onto the grass dance floor and continued to dry hump the air and each other for an impressive five minutes (I believe they recreated a scene from Cirque De Soleil at one point.) as random, elderly men slowly staggered by . There was a lot of drink flinging, falling down, awkward gyrating, and cries from the crowd to "please God make it stop!" before a crazy, Asian tranny broke up the scene by trying to join. He/she was wearing a barely there red swimsuit and, quite frankly, I think her/his angry face and "sexy" face are on in the same. The crowd, as a whole, took a step back and the singer made a depressing yet utterly true comment about the fact that her life had brought her here to this moment. Best charity event EVER.

Our lips now purple from our massive drinks and a decent wine buzz in us, we decide that we want to get on a ride. (Bad idea after you've been drinking? Yes, yes it is. However, we're professionals, we know what we're doing so stop questioning it, ok?) After being told we were "too big" and "too old" to go on almost all of the rides, we found one that we were allowed to ride. Not without parents looking at us like we were creepy and *gasp* perhaps a little drunk. The man told us to climb into the giant green dinosaur and we did so. It was one of those rides that spin but have a steering wheel inside to spin you around faster. Whirling and whirling we went, laughing hysterically, and slamming our heads into the side, delighted at speed and sheer stupidity of what we were doing. Stumbling out, I thought it best to leave because apparently acting strangely around children is a good reason to get the police.

We made our way back through the tents again and met up with DNasty so she could get us more free samples. (I actually considered changing my clothes so that I could get more as well. Then I realized how pathetic it is to go to such lengths for a free carton of soy milk that I will never drink.) A guy popped out of nowhere and offered us free drinks at his tent. DNasty answered yes before I could go over the probability of this guy being able to maim and murder us in public without me being able to leave a trail to his warehouse where he would surely hide us. I don't like to think anyway (it hurts) so we all followed and had free drinks while they tried to sell us some cable bullshit. I wasn't listening because I couldn't care less. Jack Daniels wanted to make out and I had to plan my outfit for the night.

Awhile later, we came inside and began the long, music filled, make-up smearing, pregaming process of girls getting ready to go out. Finally, we were ready, and on our way out, ran into a buddy who got us into Sharkeez and paid our cover. The dancing began and so did the drinking and smack talking. We're having a great time when the girls spotted a dude that apparently looks like USC's new quarterback. (After Mark Sanchez left the team, a part of me died. That piece of man meat was basically the only reason I accompanied DNasty on the couch to watch the games.) Freaky was talking in a language the guy didn't understand, and to help, I translated. Actually turning to look at him, I was momentarily stunned. He was absolutely gorgeous.  I'm not sure how I formed words after I saw his face but I managed. And for a reason at that moment I could not understand, he seemed interested in me. (Yes, me you asshole.)

He was nice, beautiful, tall, completely ripped, and a Navy Seal. A Navy goddamn Seal. Could he be any more perfect? As the night went on, I realized that the answer was no. I also realized why God would allow me to think this incredible god like creature would want to talk to me. The answer: to insult me. (Now I'm not sure why perfect strangers feel compelled to say rude, uncalled for things to me with no provocation, but they do. [It's been hypothesized that I make people feel very at ease and they feel they can say anything to me including the ugly truth. That makes me the ugly truth so this theory is not one of comfort.]) So, after being informed that I have "lumberjack hands", a question regarding whether I was a whore or not, and the overall sense that he had no respect for me or women in general ended my little bubble-o-happy. On a nice note, Freaky and DNasty both met very nice men who spoke to them like human beings and I assume told them they were pretty.

The next morning, I awoke from my whiskey haze feeling sorry for myself.  After devouring an enormous burrito and two mimosas, my two girlies led me back home for a nap (not before I knocked over a bike in the street) and made me lay down. I felt better (aka sober) when I woke again and we all talked in my kitchen for a bit. We discussed the weekend and the fact that we didn't have to work the next day (Monday). I posed an asinine question : "What do you guys want to do tonight?" They looked at each other, rolling their eyes at my stupidity and internally questioned my patriotism.

DNasty: "Um, we're going out tonight, Brenna. It's Labor Day and in America, this is how we celebrate."
Freaky: "Dance Party."
DNasty: "Did you vote? Do you enjoy your freedom? Then how about you not be so selfish and let this country know how much you care by drinking."
Freaky: "Dance Party."

They were right. I was being unpatriotic, selfish. After all, my work, my writing, my labor, was based a lot on how I go out and drink so I would be doing this country a service by going out and dancing my ass off at Union Cattle. God bless all those workers, Americans, that came out to dance with me. I applaud you and so does Uncle Sam.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

My Life Has No Meaning... Or Does it?

Moving to Los Angeles was one of the biggest decisions I've made in my entire life. I was a kid fresh out of college with big dreams and a decent chunk of ambition. I always wanted to be a writer, producer, and even perform what I created. Looking back, I never thought I'd end up in the reality where I currently reside.

I'd been working as a freelance production assistant in TV, films, and commercials since I moved almost two years ago. Quickly, I was growing tired of the disrespect, illegal hours, lack of drug use I'd been warned about, and lack of personal satisfaction this was getting me. A thorough love of unemployment crept up, but other than that I preferred commercial work over anything else. The reason? Less time, more money. My life was coming together so nicely.

I was working a commercial for a brand of cheese awhile ago. (Yes, cheese. Didn't you read the title?) I was standing on set, in the baking heat of the south bay, when the shot they were setting up was ready. Bored, I looked around at all my coworkers faces that were genuinely interested, actually serious about what was happening. 

I always understood yet never empathized with the brotherhood, gang mentality of people in this industry. Although other professionals have a hard time understanding what we do and go through, I never formed that "I'm better than you, do you know what I do? I work in the movies, bitch!" mentality. Because who gives a shit? I'm not a doctor, I don't save lives. I'm not the president, I can't change laws to better people's well-being. I'm not Pamela Anderson, I can't make the world smile with the flash of just one boob. Those are things to brag about. Just as I thought that, the director yelled "action!"

I would like to preface this by saying I never read scripts of anything I work on before hand. I don't care what it's about because with what I personally do, it kind of doesn't matter. (A blessing and a curse.) The director prompted the scene. As I watched on, in horror, four grown men lifted pieces of huge, fake cheese in front of their faces and started dancing around, jumping up and down. And then it hit me - my life has no meaning. This is what I must partake in to pay my bills. By my choice (I use the that term loosely), I put myself in the presence of people who would rather critique the jumping and wiggling of said grown men than to laugh at the absurdity of the situation or the fact that someone was paying good money to have these men do this. No bragging rights belong to me, sirs and madams.

It made me think back about all the ridiculous material that has been shot in my presence. Let alone the ridiculous things I've had to do for it behind the scenes. I've had to follow around/ document an orangutan's every action (including pooping on a conveyer belt), help collect a DP's dirty underwear to be cleaned because he didn't feel like it, have a stand off with a bobcat (a real, unplanned bobcat) while being a stand in, track down the correct concealer for a male television host, and drive a 15 pass van in circles for twelve hours straight. I love coming home at Christmas, fresh off a commercial about a new milkshake (who was treated with more respect that I) and have people bubble about how "glamorous" my life must be. I realize people don't know, but it makes you feel like a shit head for wanting to shake them and let them know that their jobs are a slice of George Clooney's ass next to yours. So I tell them my stories about when I see famous people (like a drunk Kate Walsh, Tiger Woods making fun of me, or that one time my friends assaulted Lance Bass from N*Sync) because that's all they really want to know about anyway.

Was it worth it to live through this crap to get where I wanted to be? I supposed it was but continued my pity party internally while everywhere else in the world there was hunger, war, and poverty.

Later at a party I retold my day with disgust fueling my enthusiasm. Someone said "You know? You should be a writer. You should write this down. All these crazy stories might be real inspirations."

No shit.

Vegas: Gross... Amazing

Holy shit.

DeVon, Cayce, Morgan, and myself went to Vegas this past weekend for birthday shenanigans... shenanigans indeed.

We arrived at the Luxor, immediatley blaring a barrage of nonstop Lady GaGa from the hotel room in a haze of hairspray and glitter. Being broke, we packed snacks and a handle of Smirnoff's finest. Pre-gaming is an art that I like to believe I have perfected. (You want to get a decent buzz, but not so much that you can't get past security at the desired bar you will be attending.) 

Stepping off the elevator, we were invited to free drinks at a club called Rok at New York, New York. Yes please. As we arrived, we realized our sweet DeVon has not yet perfected the pre-game tight rope. God forbid we stand in line for three minutes - do they know what we look like?! After informing the entire line of how unnatractive they were, she marched up to the bouncer and got us straight in. Although no one in the club wanted to talk to us because of the rant, we did get in and got our free drank on. DeVon-1, Ugly People-0.

Free drinks run out so the next obvious step is pizza. We're getting sleepy... long day. We make our way back to the Luxor but decide to give LAX Club a go (even though it sucked two years ago and it would surely suck tonight.) The moment we step inside, a promoter pops out of nowhere and leads us to the VIP bottle service section (ropes and all bitches). I thought it was because it was my bday... turns out Father Time had a table and wanted some young girls around. However, they were nice and really didn't bother us so we drank their free booze and danced. I don't actually remember the rest of the night but Devon speaks of a red haze (aka Noir After Hours Club) where we drank some more VIP booze that I obviously didn't need. A French man name Michelle (it was so fun to say!) and a chiropracter whose name still escapes me hung out with us there. (I abused said doctor. [I slapped him in the face, called him a pussy, and held his mouth shut when he was trying to have a convo with me. I assume I thought it was funny.] After the abuse, he actually thought I was awesome. Turns out he was right.) We didn't get back to the room until the sun rose. 

In the meantime, the Sisters McFreaky (Cayce and Morgan) go back to the room, break out some hummus we packed, and turn on the TV. Cayce starts ralphing into her hands (quite red from the Sun Dried Tomato hummus) while Morgan sprinted to retrieve a trash can. Then, Cayce forces Morgan to clean her hands off. Ah, sisterly love.

Next day - pool. It's my actual birthday and i think I lost 6 pounds due to severe dehyrdation (I looked great.) A promoter earlier had stopped us to offer free champagne that night and shots if we showed up to a place called The Cathouse (Sidenote: If it's in the Luxor, assume it blows.). Never ones to turn down free stuff, we show up. We had to wait a minute which did NOT sit well with our fearless DeVon. Once in, we got our free champers that tasted oddly similar to piss (don't ask how I know that). I drank it anways out of principle. Looking around, someone allowed 4 incredibly fat, unattractive 40 somethings to basically pole dance for our delight (to be clear I think everyone should be able to get in to whatever club/bar they wish. But for the love of God, if you look like John Goodman in drag, stay off the fucking tables). We need to go because an elderly woman hit me with her oxygen tank while trying to do the A Town stomp. DeVon- 1 Ugly People - 1.

We meet some of Dev's cousins and the lovely Kristin and Liz at Studio 54. Perfect! People are buying me drinks all over the place and I am dropping them accordingly. However, we are amongst the "normals" and obviously we don't belong there. VIP section here we come! More free bottle service with people I couldn't pick out of a line up. It's 3am... we need to call an "early night" b/c we have to check into Rehab in the morning (but not before pizza and a stale birthday donut). We walk back from MGM, sans 5 inch heels, and promptly get AIDS on our feet (DeVon actually steps in spit. Turned on yet?)

8:30 am - Woosh!! Curtains fly open and sunlight rips into the room searing my bloodshot eyes. Devon's awake, turning on GaGa and dancing around the room.
Cayce: "Wow, Devon's acting like it's Christmas morning."
Me: "Hun, to her this IS Christmas morning." 
There isn't enough hemerroid cream in the universe to cure the swelling around my eyes. I chunk on the make-up and hope for the best. Who cares, I'm still a little drunk anyways.

We use our hook-up at Rehab and get in quite quickly. For the most part, this pool party was everything we had dreamed... minus the fact that half of New Jersey was smeared across it, insistent on throwing their overly tanned bodies into the booze/dirt infested pool screaming things like "Look at my gold chains!" and "How perfect are my eyebrows?" Aside from them, the hotness I was promised was there. Brok from "Tough Love" actually checked me out - in a bathing suit. Well, that or the combined shocking paleness of Cayce and me was enough for a double take. Kristin, Liz, and Dev found some guys who wanted to give us free booze from their bottle service at a cabana (turns out that it wasn't actually theirs... mad points for hitting on girls using other people's stuff.) 

After a quick cat nap, we got ready to go to a place at the Hard Rock called Body English. Not before a saunter inter a rocker bar called Wasted Space (which happens to explain it perfectly). The bands that played thoroughly scared the girls so we left for the other club. Literally, the second we step in, we are ushered into the VIP section full of Europeans and Australians. (I really have no clue why we kept getting such luck with all the freeness but I'm going to climb out on a limb and say it's because of me and my boobs. Or perhaps that the girls I am friends with are incredibly beautiful and friendly. [Hmmm... nope, I think it's my boobs].)

Making out with an Australian for like 6 hours straight can be exhuasting, so by 6 am we were ready to leave and actually friggin' sleep. Not before I destroy a peice of red velvet cake, though, which I later regretted on many different levels (and the pictures are terrifying). 

We manage to sleep until noon (which is the most sleep we got the entire weekend) and then checked out and hung by the pool (when I say "hung" i mean we crawled into chairs and flung our limp bodies over them, hoping the sun would cook the booze out of us). Staggering to our cars, haggard, make-up crusted faces, stiff hair, and sun burned skin (I'm sure we smelled like heaven), a promoter walks up and offers us free drinks. Devon-2,Ugly People-1. Even looking like that, she wins.

Leaving sweet, sweet Sin City that evening, we recounted our long, crazy adventure (some of which will stay in Vegas as it should) and discovered some things. They are as follows:

-Morgan is permanently, emotionally scarred from hanging out with us.
-Cayce can catch her own puke.
-Devon HATES ugly people.
-I can survive off nothing but LUNA bars and vodka for days.
-All men cannot resist Cayce. Seriously. Don't even try. Her charm transends race and generations. If she were the president, we would have world peace.
-Old men with balding mullets will do anything to rub Morgan's feet. While she is sweet and innocent, she has no problem telling people to fuck off. She would make a good Sec of Defense. (Being that there would be world peace, she could just sit back and be amazing. Because that is exactly what she is.)
-Devon has no shame. She could talk her way out of a paper bag trying to sue her with a sexual harassment lawsuit. She would make a great VP because she could go in with demands after Cayce bats her lashes. 
-I am a lush. I'm pretty sure I died twice this weekend. Legally. So if I was a position, I'd be like the automobile industry as a whole, and my friends would always be bailing me out.

All in all, this past weekend was more faboosh than watching a Sex and The City Marathon while making out with Ryan Reynolds. Thanks to everyone for the birthday wishes - you make me feel special - in a good way! And to Vegas... I love you, you dirty, dirty whore!

Ode to My Car: A Love Story

Remember the first time you fell in love? It was great, wasn't it? It was exciting, fun, sexy. The anticipation of the first ride was palpable. And it didn't disappoint...

It was 2002, I was 17 years old. Although I've always been a bit of a wild child, I was a good kid with excellent grades. Because of that, my father promised to buy me a car for all my hard work. I loosely explained what I would like - a fast, black convertible. He obliged.

Homecoming night of my junior year I saw her. Standing alone in my driveway, the world became still. Her sleek, dark curves, her tan, cool top, and her engine. V6... the things I could do with that!

I slid into the smooth leather seat and turned her on (as she did me) and revved her up. She purred, I swooned and that was it. My Japanese love machine I lovingly called "Lil E". (Apparently, if I don't name things that sound like they could possibly be a rapper, I can't love them.)

We were a packaged deal from then on out. She saw me through high school and numerous colleges. Although people tried to separate us by showing me new cars, I refused and she remained faithful, too. What did I do to deserve such a beautiful thing?

She took me out to California so we could start a new life together. It was hard for her travel all that way, away from home, away from the weather she loved so. She did it though, out of love for me.

But like all great relationships, ours began to crumble. I was working so much, putting lots of time in with that and trying to see my friends. When she started to complain I explained "California is different. It's all spread out from the valleys to the beaches. You need to understand." She kept grumbling, though, and eventually started to let herself go. 

We began fighting a lot. Once she left me stranded in Manhattan Beach claiming that I kept "draining her battery!". Another time she threatened to kill herself if I didn't get her flushed out and replace her oil. I thought that was a little dramatic. Worst of all was the way she was beginning to look; the sun spots. Dear God, the sunspots. If she were a dog she would be a Dalmatian at this point. Naturally, she blamed me for not knowing how important it is to "spend time with me and wax me. You know, make me feel sexy." Everything was always my fault.

Last night, it all came to a head. It was late and I had worked about 14 hours. I was exhausted and just wanted to go home. Instead, she decided that it was time to have the big talk. 

"Where is this headed, Brenna?" she demanded.

"Nowhere if you don't turn on your headlights!" I yelled, irritated.

"What's wrong with my headlights, huh?" she screamed incredulous. "They were just fine until you decided you didn't like how bright they were a few years ago. You wanted brighter ones and hired some dumb ass mechanic to put them in. He broke the piece that holds them steady and so now they point every which way and jostle out of place. If you had just appreciated me how I was naturally, maybe you wouldn't be standing here now."

"It's not just your headlights. Look at you! Look at your coat, it's ghetto and blotched! And the holes in your bumper make it look like you got shot!" I retorted.

"How dare you. First my rack and now my ass. It's all about looks with you. I've seen you checking out other cars when we're out," she sadly, looked away.

She had noticed that? "Ok, maybe it's unfair to attack how you look. But every time I turn you on, I never know if you're gonna throw the 'check engine' light at me or not. And that noise you make when we hit any bumps, it's awful! You sound like you're falling apart. I'm embarrassed to be seen with you when you do that," I admitted. 

She shook her head. "I'm embarrassing? You should see yourself rock out in here when you think no one is looking. You don't know how to use the tiptronics and carelessly throw food around. And don't think I don't realize how many times you've farted on my seat!"

I had to continue, I had to get it all out. "Your gas mileage is appalling. You think I didn't know? And your lug nuts don't match. What's that about? Oh, and how many times have I had to deal with your radiator? You get so crazy sometimes!"

Then, she turned on me. "Oh, yeah? Well what about when you're little brother dumped a blue slurpee in my backseat that you never even tried to clean? You're friends smoke around me and burn me, you've left me unsafe to be robbed, Kristina threw me into a parking lot wall, her stepdad hit me and you let your little brother smack my ass! Where were you?"

"True, but those things were out of my control. If I've neglected you recently, it's because I just can't bear the thought of dealing with you," I sighed.

"Do you not love me anymore?" she cried.

"Of course not! We've been through so much together, 120,000 miles! You were my first, my only. The thought of us being apart tears at my heart. But I don't know how we can go on like this," I replied.

"Therapy maybe..." she suggested.

"I can't afford it. Between a paint job, axel adjustment, engine work and God only knows what else, I would be broke. I'm not sure it's worth it to me anymore," I looked away.

And so we sat there in silence. As much as I don't want to say goodbye, I realized that eventually I would have to move on with my life and upgrade. The thought of selling her for parts, like a common whore, was heartbreaking. I'd rather fix her up with some other nice girl looking for a car to get her along. Would I? Could I? 

We drove home with no lights, barely acknowledging the screams from people to turn them on. As I arrived home, miraculously never getting pulled over, I shut her down and told her what was in my heart.

I whispered, "I'm too old for this and I love you too much to see you suffer. When we find you a new place and I find a new car, that should be it for us. No calls, no visits, no tweets. Don't think I won't miss you and what we've had in here. I'll always love you." I stroked a piece off trash off her seat and that was it.

Am I Too Old For This...?

Do you ever wake up after an especially (and unnecessarily) long weekend and think - am I getting too old to be doing stuff like this?

Last weekend, Dev and I started out Friday night going to an 80s cover band concert. Of course we can't just go and enjoy the sweet melodies of her favorite era, oh no. Firstly, we MUST dress up as obnoxious as possible... we don't want anyone looking at us like we're losers. Next step, we meet up at a friend's apt who is pregaming before the party bus arrives (thats right, party bus). Bring on the jungle juice and jello shots! Dancing around a large, moving vehicle while screamsinging and chewing my way through a rainbow assortment of evil (jello shots) got me a wee bit nauseous, so i spent a solid 15 min on the floor of the bathroom texting everyone about how I was "gonna barf FACT". This was not a fact, however, and Dev yanked me up and elbowed our way to the stage Will Ferrell-dart scene-Old School style. The band was surprisingly good (and young!) and we enjoyed them very much. We hit the party bus again to get back to the friend's apt where an afterparty bops on. The neon was blinding and the spandex was rampant. It was glorious. Then the hottest cops you've ever seen broke up the party (and my liver silently rejoiced). Dev decided to steal someone's bed, but not me. No, I am too classy. I decided to sleep in the car... the backseat you ask? Why, that would be too logical! I recline the passenger seat past where it probably was meant to recline, turn on the butt warmer and some music, gnaw on a LUNA bar and pass out face down. (For the record, I was wearing stretchy black pleather pants, a neon yellow shirt, a side ponytail, the sweetest leather fanny pack ever, and orange hightop Converse [I know how badass those shoes are, thank you for saying so.] so I can only imagine how I looked to the neighbors walking their dogs and playing with their children in the morning.)

After she comes and taps on the window at about 9:30 am, we head back down to our apt where I continue to sleep until 12:30 pm. Then, that trick makes me go to her damn football game. After the game we return to our apt and admit to each other the mutual overwhelming urge to rent "Twighlight" and watch it before the sisters McFreaky come down that night. (Side note: we're obsessed. I'm a gay, 13-year-old boy in drag.)

We don't make it to the bar until about 1 am but pound the drinks accordingly. The sisters meet us out to basically walk us home where we stand in my kitchen girl talking and taking shots of tequila (patron, a thank you) until about 5 am. Necessary? Hell no, but it friggin' happened. I digress...

Next morning, these bitches wake my ass up at 10 am so that we can go have brunch with our gays in Weho. (In gay talk "brunch" means "get wasted during the day and watch hot men dance around in their underwear".) We drive up and begin at about noon-ish. Golden Girls is playing in the background, the mimosas keep coming, and the conversation is abundant (just like David's laughter - one of my new faves!) and before we know it we're staging a photo shoot at the bar/restaurant. Sexually harassing our adorable bar tender Ivan is on the itinerary and of course dancing like robots (sexy robots). It's about 3 pm ish... we should really start heading back.... but everyone is going to another bar! I just hate feeling left out...

After the next bar (where lil Momo showed us how to do a sweet floor slide under my legs) Dev and I head back down home. We arrive to our sweet bachelorette pad and decide we're bored. It's only 8 pm! 

We walk to Patrick Malloys and guess what - half off all bombs! A dance party with just the two of us on the floor and three bombs in, we decide maybe we've had enough. We run into her friend and his buddy, I decide I hate his buddy (he was a douche) and bitch the guy out. We come up to our apt, realize I have locked us out, accidentally break our neighbors doorbell and Dev has to break into our window. Good night.

Next morning (Monday), I wake up at like 1 pm and I feel like SHIT. Dev is at work and she must feel 10 times worse I can imagine. I am filled with a sense of embarrassment, nausea and a little bit of dread (it's a small town out here). I can barely speak b/c when I party too hard I lose my voice. Am I getting to old for this? 

After a call from the bank about "fraudulent charges on my card" (which I assume is just all the bars I hit up over the weekend) I have to go in and talk to someone. Naturally, the hottest teller to ever grace Bank of America is the guy I have to deal with. How are we supposed to fall in love and skip on the beach if he sees my account, realizes my spending habits and asks why I am not at work on a Monday? On top of that, I didn't bother to put on make-up, I sound like a 60-year-old smoker and am sweating out the weekend through my pores. He helps me out (turns out there really was fraudulent stuff) but I get the sneaking suspicion he thinks I'm a terrorist or a spy from the way he grills me about old addresses and what I do for a living. I need some green tea...

I go to a coffee shop and need to leave because I start getting that weird mouth watering sensation and I think I'm gonna barf on the weird hippie guy next to me who smells like a pot factory.

I come back into the apt, leaving the front door open to get fresh air circulating inside and go into the bathroom. False alarm. I come out into the hallway and hear a strange noise in the kitchen. What the hell... there's a damn bird in my kitchen trying to escape out the window! I start yelling at it to get out (I heard birds speak German so I know he couldn't understand me) but it refuses. I don't want to deal with this!

The bird gets more and more hysterical, as do I, so I get a broom. I think I saw them do this on an episode of "Whose the Boss?" so I'm sure it will work. After ten minutes of trying to sweep it back into the hallway and screeching everytime it gets near me, I realize I'm going to have to get the kitchen window open. I shoo the bird over to the fridge, unlatch the screen and beat it toward the window. That little fucker hesitates on the window sill, looking out at the freedom it took me 20 min to give the little idiot. Another bop with the broom and it's out. I shut the screen and put the broom down, my arm brushing my chest as I do. What is that...? It's BIRD SHIT! On my FUCKING boob! Which has now been transferred to my bracelets. A bird shit on me in my own house. Is this some bizarre warning from God?

Dev gets home a few hours later and we're talking about our days and upcoming events.
Dev: "By the way, don't forget, we're going to Vegas this weekend!"
I mull this over a moment... can I handle yet another crazy weekend full of assorted animals, colorful drinks, and dance parties?
Me: "Oh, man we're gonna get wasted!"

What the hell, I'm only 24.